Farewell to a Quirk

The 0927 to Horsham draws into Ockley station, 14 May 2018.

The new timetable that descended on most of the railways of south-eastern England in late May has, alas, been in the headlines more or less ever since, not really because of any fault in the plan itself, but mainly because one of the largest railway companies involved arrived at D-day without having trained enough drivers for the new regime.  So no sooner had the bright new age dawned than it disintegrated impressively into a cascade of chaos which has only gradually been stemmed.

Of course any railway timetable, which must count among man’s most audacious attempts to impose order on this universe of turmoil, can always be scuppered by the slightest hitch.  Even at the theoretical stage, the task of designing one is tremendously complicated, especially in Britain, whose network is still among the densest in the world.  The idea of imposing upon the tangle of lines and chords and junctions a pattern of regular and reasonably frequent movement, in which no train ever conflicts with another, is enough to turn a grown man weak at the knees.  For, notwithstanding the brilliance and solidity of Victorian engineering and workmanship, a tangle really is what they are.  Our railways were never built to a central coherent plan, but by a multiplicity of companies all after slices of a multiplicity of pies, and willing to create any number of awkward layouts to that end. 

And then there is the catalogue of practical difficulties that reality itself will let loose upon the timetable the moment it is implemented.  On the one hand is the formidable traffic to be handled: in volumes far higher than a hundred and fifty years ago, covering greater distances, and with different flows and peaks.  And on the other hand are, in no particular order, damage to the permanent way, damage to rolling stock, signal failures, track circuit failures, floods, subsidence, frozen points in winter, buckled rails in summer, debris on the line, vandals on the line, leaves on the line and the wrong kind of snow (for all that the press scoffs at these last two, they are both genuine problems), lorries bashing bridges, guards left on platforms, missing drivers…  And what chaos these cannot cause may be provided in abundance, as it turns out, by the directors’ board of the railway company itself.

So the timetable planners are noble souls, going forth to solve a giant puzzle to which the Victorians, who set it, never guaranteed an answer.  The railway map spreads out like a chess-board and the trains like pieces, with their differing routes and differing calling patterns.  All-stations stoppers, outer suburban semi-fasts and inter-city expresses must all move harmoniously and regularly.  Thus a timetable becomes a daring sustained utterance of ideal order against all the forces of chaos ranged against it.  It is both a meticulous work of arithmetic and a courageous act of faith.  Dare I even call the planners poets?  After all, as the character Syme explains in this passage I have seen quoted from G. K. Chesterton’s The Man who was Thursday (a novel which I must get round to reading):

Chaos is dull; because in chaos the train might indeed go anywhere, to Baker Street or to Baghdad. But man is a magician, and his whole magic is in this, that he does say Victoria, and lo! it is Victoria.  No, take your books of mere poetry and prose; let me read a time table, with tears of pride.  Take your Byron, who commemorates the defeats of man; give me Bradshaw, who commemorates his victories.  Give me Bradshaw, I say!

The nearest equivalent to Bradshaw’s famous volume is now a 41-megabyte download from the Network Rail website, though limited editions of the print version are still published.  Some might expect such a tome to be resoundingly dull.  But I wonder whether a majority of passengers would be with Chesterton: the idea that ‘chaos is dull’ must resonate with many who have endured long waits and dwindling hopes these past few months.  Even in ordinary circumstances, any working regular timetable often masks a great deal of complexity.  Perhaps we should marvel not at the scale of disruption that sometimes occurs, but that any timetable should ever have reasonable success.  For instance, to a passenger it might seem the natural order of things that trains from a given station should depart in a given direction at the same number of minutes past each hour throughout the day — 0812, 0912, 1012 and so on — according to a ‘clock-face’ timetable.  But this is more difficult to achieve than it might seem.  Enough time must be left at each terminus to turn around to recover from any delays, for instance.  Also, the circumstances behind the scenes are not the same throughout the day: everything must be in the right place in the morning, and be left in the right place at night, and the preparations to be made on the eve of Sunday are different from those for the eve of Monday.  The timetable also has to shoulder the burden of rush-hour, in its two opposite directions, at each end of the day.  So no wonder the order is not quite universal.

Yet once the timetablers have suppressed most of the chaos, I find I am quite fond of any quirks that are left, providing I am not actually caught out by them.  The old timetable had quite a few variations that were interesting to those of us to whom, I suppose, these things are interesting.  Some were adjustments made to cope with rush-hour traffic; others were stop-gaps to ease miscalculations in the timetable itself.  Still others were Parliamentary trains, one of the token services run perhaps once a day or once a week to prove to the satisfaction of the law, but of very few passengers, that a line or station is still open for business, and thereby to avoid the palaver of applying to close it (There are enough of these to justify the compilation of this list of Passenger Services over Unusual Lines; see also my write-up of an adventure to Shippea Hill, the station that is hardly a station by a hill that is hardly a hill).  Other quirks seemed to exist for reasons no longer discernible, lost in the mists of time, for traditions last long on the railways.  The new regime’s planners, though, have striven to simplify things, adjusting irregularities and ironing out the oddities of the old order, and their achievement is impressive.  But some of the old timings will not pass unmourned; at least, not by those of us who mourn these things.

One quirk that we have lost involved the line that runs southwards from Dorking in Surrey to Horsham in West Sussex, an odd stretch of railway, because, although it was built as a double-track main line (and retains a line speed of 75mph), it is rather a backwater.  Perhaps it is because it does not aim squarely at a terminus as it nears London, but appears to dissolve into the various intertwining strands and loops in the suburbs.  These are now too congested with local traffic to accommodate many non-stop trains, and there are no facilities left for fast trains to overtake slow.  The map below shows how the route becomes ensnared in the confusion of South London.  Gone are the days when coastal expresses ran this way to and from London: the fastest trains from Horsham to Victoria now use the route to the east via Gatwick and East Croydon.  Holmwood, Ockley and Warnham, the three euphonically-named intermediate stations on the stretch between Horsham and Dorking, have only an hourly service in each direction, and all trains stop at all stations.  My complaint is not of dullness, as we have established! — rather, the disappointment lies in the failure to exploit railway infrastructure to the full.  What is a main line for, if you do not send trains down it at top speed?


A tangle really is what they are.  (Click to enlarge; the Dorking-Horsham line is in the lower left-hand corner)

Yet under the old timetable the line was allowed, once a weekday, to reclaim its former glory.  For the unassuming 0756 from London Victoria, having extricated itself from the tangle of South London lines and trundled unhurriedly through outer suburbia in accordance with its designation as secondary passenger service 2E12, was transformed, on its arrival at Dorking just before nine, into the Horsham Flyer, the Wealdman, the Sussexpress, unique in being timetabled to run fast from Dorking to Horsham, non-stop through Holmwood, Ockley and Warnham.  It was not quite clear for whose benefit this dash was made, away from London in the morning peak and rather on the late side for rush hour anyway.  Most likely not for the passengers’: it may well have been for operational ease, to avoid the need for guards who were still needed to oversee stops on this line, or perhaps simply to reach Horsham in time to form an ordinary stopping service back.

Still, it was there to be travelled on by any passengers who wanted it.  It also produced a fluke in the ticketing system.  For those approaching from the north and wanting Ockley or Warnham stations at that time in the morning, it was quicker to take this train to Horsham, be carried straight past the desired station, and then double back with the returning London service, than to wait for the next direct ‘down’ train — and, just this once per day, an easement made this doubling-back perfectly valid on ordinary tickets to these stations.  What more remained for me to do, then, than to concoct some pressing need to arrive at Ockley station at 9.20 in the morning, before the arrival of the direct train seven minutes later, and thus give myself an excuse to try it out?

For months after I discovered it, this drifted around pleasantly in my thoughts as a nice idea to do some day, along with the knowledge that Leith Hill, the highest point in south-east England, stands nearby.  But the advent of an all-standardising, quirk-free new timetable, under which I found this oddity was to be abolished, concentrated my mind.  Yes, definite action was suddenly necessary: there was now a deadline before which a walk from Ockley station to Holmwood station via Leith Hill was absolutely required to take place.  And might 9.27 a.m. not be a little on the late side to set off on this walk?  Indeed, would not a slightly earlier time, such as 9.20, be more or less perfect?

So on the fourteenth of May, in the last week of the old timetable, I too had cause to extricate myself from South London so that I could number myself among the last beneficiaries of the the Unmitigated England Express.  It was a still-golden morning flooded with still-welcome sunshine, long before drought was to drain England of all her colour.  All down the line the train had been emptying, and there were only a handful of us left aboard as we drew unostentatiously out of Dorking, round the corner and into Betchworth tunnel.  Through the darkness we accelerated, bursting out into unsuburbanised Surrey, past trees aflash with fresh May foliage, past stiff haughty pines, past the working farms and all that space in the fields beyond.  And continued to accelerate, leaving behind us the chalk cliffs of the North Downs, and bringing the shadowier evergreen of the Greensand Ridge, with its culmination in the summit of Leith Hill, into view on the right.  Straight through Holmwood, the ride becoming a bit rough, and gaining speed until at least Ockley, after which a stretch of jointed track lay in wait with its ambush of nostalgia.  (To run over jointed track at 75mph is to recall old England to life).  Warnham, warm in the sun, with one lone gentleman on the platform, was gone as soon as it was glimpsed.  The distance to Horsham, 13 miles and 30 chains, was covered in just over fifteen minutes — an average speed of about 53mph.  Not bad, it must be said, for suburban stock designed to pootle around South London all day.

At Horsham I stepped nonchalantly onto the platform and then just as nonchalantly boarded again, and presently the train set off back towards London again, possibly with its own air of nonchalance.  No high speeds but business as usual between there and Ockley, where I alighted.  I noted not without smugness that I had indeed arrived a crucial three minutes earlier than the next down train, and therefore that the detour via Horsham and the Unmitigated England Express had been entirely and unquestionably worth the effort.  The nearby A24 made its presence felt, but I lingered for a while to admire the handsome station building, before then setting off on my walk.

The time I had gained by doubling back via Horsham was immediately wasted faffing around in a half-field-half-scrapyard beside the dual carriageway where nature had been allowed or possibly encouraged to obfuscate the footpath.  So it was the long way round that I came to Capel village (here, as so often with British railways, the station is not named after the nearest significant settlement), and rested in the parish church.

St John the Baptist’s Church, Capel, Surrey.

Setting off westwards from the village I found myself in that sort of England which, not unlike a railway timetable, impossibly survives and even thrives in spite of all that threatens it.  The atmosphere was encroached upon but not shattered by the intrusions of the A24 and A29, nor by the procession of aeroplanes in the bright south descending towards Gatwick.  I met someone only once (a man building a roof in the blazing sun) and lost my way only twice (a GPS reader would have saved me a lot of trouble and spoilt all the fun) in the five or six miles before I reached Leith Hill Place, where stands the childhood home of Ralph Vaughan Williams.

Leith Hill Place

Leith Hill itself is understandably well-known and even on a weekday there were plenty of people at the top.  From its summit on a clear day London can be seen to the north, and the sea glimpsed through Shoreham Gap in the south.  The enjoyable story of the tower at the top is that it was built (or had built!) in 1765 by Richard Hull, an earlier resident of Leith Hill Place, in order to bring the hill, whose natural summit is 965 feet high, to an elevation of a thousand feet.  The tower is looked after by only the fourth keeper since the mid-nineteenth-century, who sells elderflower lemonade from a hatch in the ground floor of the tower.  There are other refreshments for sale as well, but it is the elderflower lemonade I remember.

Leith Hill Place from just below the summit of Leith Hill.  The Weald and South Downs in the distance.

Then down from the summit via Coldharbour village (whose apparently incongruous name probably comes from the French col d’arbour, a wooded hill), back to Holmwood for the London train, and home.  It was almost as if the main point of the exercise had not been to justify the exploitation of an obscure piece of railway operation for the sake of curiosity.

This is something else that railways do.  Their rules and patterns and occasional oddities add spice to the whole idea of planning a jaunt like this, and turn the whole country into a kind of puzzle or board game, though not always in a frivolous way.  Roads have no timetables, so they have no timetable quirks.  I am sure my trip was more enjoyable for all that meticulously-planned messing about in trains.

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The World Cup and England

Well, it was fun while it lasted, England’s uncharacteristically long run in this year’s football World Cup!  And many congratulations to France for their victory.  Of course, I am a complete lightweight really: I don’t usually follow the leagues, don’t know the players, and can’t call myself a dedicated supporter of any team.  I also admit that in ‘ordinary time’ I am put off by many of the trappings that seem to go with modern football: the colossal sums of money that change hands, along with the poor losers and egos and silly haircuts and showing off.  And it is always disappointing that the teams are seldom made up from residents or natives of the towns their teams represent, so it is sometimes difficult to see in the major clubs anything more than big businesses.  But the World Cup… when the World Cup comes round, I find myself being drawn in…

Perhaps it is because the names of the countries do mean something and, however modestly, their teams represent their people, or because the World Cup provides an arena for a natural friendly rivalry between nations, all competing for the harmless prize of an excuse for a celebration.  Part-timers like me are reminded that the tapering grid of fixtures, the ladder to the trophy, can be dressed with all the devices of narrative — the heroes, the villains, the allies, the antagonists, the climaxes and anticlimaxes, the chances and near misses and the deus ex machina and history made or repeating itself — and we learn again that well-played football really can be a beautiful sight.

And at home in England, too, the air changes.  Out come the flags, for a start: there is something I have always loved about flags and banners and coats of arms, and it is cheering to see the cross of St George fluttering optimistically from the roof of many a hatchback, or undulating with dignity from first-floor double-glazing, or draped across the entire flank of a Transit van.  This year’s England team have also seemed a likeable bunch, at least on the pitch, and Gareth Southgate a very decent manager.  It must have been just before the Panama game in the group stages (6-1 to England!) that the pull really became irresistible: perhaps England were not going to do too badly and I really was going to have to pay attention.

This July has been particularly dry and hot; parts of England have now gone without rain for five or six weeks.  We are in a perpetual summer like Narnia’s winter: the days are almost unfailingly bright and hot, and the sun high and relentless.  The green blade has been baked to the colour of parchment and the parks are beige in their desiccation.  It has been as if the weather were holding its breath; the unusually good progress of the football team abroad coincided with a heightened summeriness at home.  So as the fleet-footed men went further and further on, surging to victory over Panama, surviving a penalty shoot-out against Columbia, defeating even Sweden outright, the sense of a season extraordinary twice over, of unbroken sun and nearly unbroken success at football, gathered until, by the semi-final, it was almost as intense as the ripe heat.  A colleague from work reported deserted stations and quiet streets in London at seven in the evening on a weekday.  This is the sort of othertimeliness we now tend to have only at Christmas and New Year.

Alas, it was not to last.  But yes, this rare spell of togetherness had not been unpleasant, I reflected, as I watched Gareth Southgate moving like a priest among his men after the defeat to Croatia, ministering to them in their suffering.  I am used to the margins when it comes to national feeling in Britain, as a Mass-goer, Brexit ditherer, lover of metrical verse, monarchist, Gothic-Revival-Revivalist and so on (which is not to complain or feel sorry for myself: nobody forced me to hold these positions and this is the path that I have to take).  So, when some popular tide of feeling rises in Britain that is hopeful and well-meaning, a movement that is not a confection of the media and in which I can participate with a clear conscience, well, it is rare enough to be worth savouring.  A tension is eased; there might even be a sensation of relief.  Perhaps a longing for togetherness without a clear source of it, and an aversion to isolation, explain why there are so many bandwagons trundling around these days.

It is just a shame that we seem not to be able to unite ourselves around anything more substantial than football.  That is not to say that football is insubtantial: both professional and amateur football produces a certain amount of genuine camaraderie and local feeling that it would be wrong to overlook.  And there is an extent to which it is more than a matter of life and death.  But human beings need really quite substantial bonds to keep them in harmonious neighbourliness.  Is support for the football team really the most that England has in common?  Some are fairly sure we all know what we are against, but what are we for?  What shall we build for the next generation?  I don’t ask this question in hope of a grand answer, with the world stage in mind, but am thinking more of the smallness, the localness, the details of public life.  If football really had come home on Sunday, to what sort of place would it have been welcomed?