The refurbishment continues of the building recently named as one of the 10 worst railway stations in Britain. A mundane shot to mark a day with a good number. As well as being day 777 of the blog it is also 22 years to the day since I moved to Yorkshire.
And there it is coming in, right on time — behind the head of the woman stood second left. A glorious day today, a perfect late summer’s day, I nearly posted something about this year’s Conservative Party Conference in Manchester, but I decided I wasn’t that angry.
Blackburn is where I have to change trains when going to see my parents and/or sister. But it’s a surprisingly photogenic place. On a sunny day the light hits it perfectly. Today’s picture is like a proof of that concept — if the light can make an empty plastic bag look this attractive, then we’re talking something special.
My, this seems a long time ago now… and even after five days, having travelled to another continent in the mean time, the interminable delay we suffered at Blackburn on the way home still drags out like an ocean of time.
Joe had spent the weekend at my parents’ while we were in Hamburg, so I went to pick him up today. I could have hired a car and driven in two hours, but I took my time, went by train and savoured the day. I’m on holiday, who wants to drive.
Incidentally, this line is a rare example of one that was reopened (in 1995) after the infamous “Beeching axe” originally fell on it in the 1960s. The reopening happened under a Tory government too. Probably because it was a marginal seat, or maybe the party was still run by sane people at the time. Anyway; what you see here are the tracks extending out over a high viaduct over the River Hodder.
And so, after one more morning of definite, but rather vague and low-level, looking back — it’s probably some mid-life crisis or something — we all left my old stamping ground for points more northern and, to tell the honest truth, far more interesting. It’s been nice to go back, confirm the continuing existence of places remembered, but there’s no need to come back again.
One of the criteria for choosing which pictures get onto this blog is whether one encapsulates the day on which it was taken. That is not true of this photo. I had a busy day today, visited my parents and then had a Saturday night out with Clare, in Blackpool – and one could do an entire photo essay on the subject of ‘a Saturday night in Blackpool’ (though I think it might be a job more fitting for a war correspondent than a humble amateur like myself). There was great light today, a beautiful high summer’s day, and I took plenty of photos I was happy with.
Nevertheless, this wins. If the art of photography is not about capturing moments, those coincidences of place and time which raise any experience above the mundane and everyday, then I feel happy with what I’ve done here. This place could not be less exotic really, just a tunnel I pass through at least two or three times a week when I am here in town. But this morning I loved the way the light was spilling down the steps and giving it a warm feeling. This photo is exactly what I wanted it to be when I took it, and that happens only occasionally.
Went to Newcastle today for a training course. Spent 90% of my time there (including lunch) sat in a computer cluster on said course, 7% of it getting myself to and from Newcastle station through the drizzle, 2% of it in this bar at the station and 1% on the toilet. I think this was the best subject matter. The guy bending down gives it some interest I think.
Manchester Victoria station is like the down-and-out elder sister (*) of the brash, terribly metropolitan and far better-off sibling, Piccadilly. A backwater in transport terms already, it was further whacked by the IRA bomb which went off nearby in June 1996, and the roof has leaked, as far as I know, ever since. A couple of years ago it appeared on the list of ’10 Worst Railway Stations in Britain’, an accolade that all of us who use it heartily endorsed, I am sure. Still, at least now they seem to be putting a bit of effort into it. It only took 17 years, but let’s hope it helps the old thing.
(*) Well, it does have a girl’s name.
Here is my luggage awaiting what amounted to the second leg of my 9,000-mile journey home: the train journey from Circular Quay station to Sydney airport. Circular Quay must have one of the best views of any railway station in the world — accepting stiff competition from Durham in the north-east of England (look it up…) – so you’d think they might clean the windows now and again.
Being 42 