A journey by train.

The journey about to start was punctuated by a discussion. Could one buy a ticket on the other side of the track ? 
I don't think you can, I can, but what if you can't, I can well I think I can, if you can't you will have to carry your bags around to the front, if I must I will, but why chance it if you can go to the front first, but I'm sure I can. Luckily there was plenty of time to digest the what ifs and a text messages to say "she could", were a reminder not to argue
Plunking the gear down and casting around the carriage one settles down for a short trip into London, a change of trains for Swansea and a lengthy trip home. The trains, during the off peak period are a really pleasant way to get around. There are many countries where its a tour de force to compete with ones fellow passengers in cramped compartments, without AC, the only ventilation through the open window which, in the old days, used to bring in the grit from the smoke trailing out of the steam engine.
The miles slide by, clickety clack the fields and hedgerows, the small holdings and towns clickety clack, clickety clack.
The Severn Tunnel takes you into Wales and then by a twisting route to Cardiff. Land of my fathers and the thrill of hearing them singing their anthem on an international rugby day.  


The diesel/electric lacks the kudos of the steam train. The age of steam and these magnificent, mechanically beautiful engines was something which went right to the core of every lad who walked down the platform and gazed up at the drivers platform. The driver with his wiping rag, leaning out of his cab, the stoker bending down face glowing with the fire door open, throwing coal into the boiler. Steam and a peculiar smell, a mixture of hot vapour and oil poured out of the stuffing box and every other orifice through polished copper pipes. The steam, raised in the boiler, thrusts the pistons forward, which connected through push rods and eccentric links to the wheels and made them turn. 
The sound of a high speed steam train rushing through a valley, in the evening with sparks escaping out of the funnel the smoke trailing behind.  If you were lucky, the driver would toot the whistle and we would wave, a momentary bond established which made us feel special as we cycled home.