A thoroughly whimsical sequence of thoughts here: but concerning especially, enthusiasts with a fondness for highly-rural light railways: does anyone besides myself ever have fleeting moments of wondering whether he is one of a small bunch of totally crazy people living, as regards this aspect of life, in a fantasy world?
Im the only person in my family to have been significantly bitten by the railway bug and in particular, by its branch-and-light-railway-loving sub-set and have received for this, a good deal of stick (mostly affectionate, sometimes exasperated) from other family members. Additionally, the widespread perception among the general populace that train-spotters are weird / immature / not properly functional / not quite right in the head. I have at times and Im sure I cant be the only one in this pondered on whether railway-mania is a personality defect, and a childish thing which I ought long since to have put away; indeed whether, with this thing so prominent in my life, I am completely sane. (Usually, such thoughts are entertained just briefly; replaced by the reflection that there are preoccupations objectively at least as idiotic, which are indulged in by millions of people: only -- if its a thing which millions of folk love, that gets it the public seal of approval.)
As something of a lover of what-ifs in general: I occasionally get into a train of thought which suggests that just perhaps, these weird little railways which vanished long ago and which I hanker after never existed at all; that the whole thing about them is fantasy, spun from whole cloth by generations of nutcases like me (many of them respected published names in the railway-enthusiast world). That the written and printed descriptions of these lines, are in fact imaginative fiction dreamed up by folk talented that way; the photographs and sometimes cine films such stuff can be very convincingly faked, by people with those sort of skills. These lines, shown on old maps for the publics general use: members of our brotherhood of lunatics who were nonetheless functioning in other aspects of life, and achieved positions of power and influence, used that power and influence to get maps falsified, to show these railways which never in fact existed. (If one is inclined toward the lure of conspiracy theories, it comes to be little or no problem to explain anything and everything away.)
Ill emphasise that I have only brief moments of entertaining this particular fancy: nonetheless, I tend because of it sometimes to feel disproportionately pleased at getting independent corroboration, from a totally non-railway-centric source, that such and such a former light-railway venue, not experienced by one at first-hand, truly does exist: vindication that one is not, in fact, spending much of ones time in a mad dream-world. I discovered that the home town of a university friend of mine, was Bishops Castle: felt just a little pleased and reassured, to have it thus confirmed that there was indeed, near the Welsh border, a small town of that name once served by a ramshackle light railway inhabited by real people leading normal lives. Similarly: theres a village in Brittany which was at one time a junction on the Côtes du Nord metre-gauge light railway system, last line of which was abandoned more than sixty years ago. Reading a book about French Resistance activity in World War II, I took absurd pleasure in seeing a passing mention in connection with the books theme no railway relevance at all of that village, named with its name.
And, reading Bill Brysons book A Walk in the Woods, about his experiences on the Appalachian Trail (as often for me with this author, fluctuating between being entertained, and wanting to throw the tome violently against the opposite wall, in sheer annoyance): it delighted me to read about his spending a night at a B & B in the village of Monson in the state of Maine the last civilised spot on the Trail heading northward, before plunging into its final hundred miles of howling wilderness. Monson was once the terminus of a short 2ft gauge railway, from a not-far-off standard-gauge junction; in point of fact, the last survivor (abandoned 1944) of Maines one-time bunch of delectable 2ft gauge lines. Bryson per the book, has never heard of the railway; he just describes Monson as above in my weird scheme of things, reassurance that these places in fact are and were real, independent of the light-railway dimension.
Has anyone else ever had the slightest twinges of feeling this way, about this issue or am I uniquely nuts?
Im the only person in my family to have been significantly bitten by the railway bug and in particular, by its branch-and-light-railway-loving sub-set and have received for this, a good deal of stick (mostly affectionate, sometimes exasperated) from other family members. Additionally, the widespread perception among the general populace that train-spotters are weird / immature / not properly functional / not quite right in the head. I have at times and Im sure I cant be the only one in this pondered on whether railway-mania is a personality defect, and a childish thing which I ought long since to have put away; indeed whether, with this thing so prominent in my life, I am completely sane. (Usually, such thoughts are entertained just briefly; replaced by the reflection that there are preoccupations objectively at least as idiotic, which are indulged in by millions of people: only -- if its a thing which millions of folk love, that gets it the public seal of approval.)
As something of a lover of what-ifs in general: I occasionally get into a train of thought which suggests that just perhaps, these weird little railways which vanished long ago and which I hanker after never existed at all; that the whole thing about them is fantasy, spun from whole cloth by generations of nutcases like me (many of them respected published names in the railway-enthusiast world). That the written and printed descriptions of these lines, are in fact imaginative fiction dreamed up by folk talented that way; the photographs and sometimes cine films such stuff can be very convincingly faked, by people with those sort of skills. These lines, shown on old maps for the publics general use: members of our brotherhood of lunatics who were nonetheless functioning in other aspects of life, and achieved positions of power and influence, used that power and influence to get maps falsified, to show these railways which never in fact existed. (If one is inclined toward the lure of conspiracy theories, it comes to be little or no problem to explain anything and everything away.)
Ill emphasise that I have only brief moments of entertaining this particular fancy: nonetheless, I tend because of it sometimes to feel disproportionately pleased at getting independent corroboration, from a totally non-railway-centric source, that such and such a former light-railway venue, not experienced by one at first-hand, truly does exist: vindication that one is not, in fact, spending much of ones time in a mad dream-world. I discovered that the home town of a university friend of mine, was Bishops Castle: felt just a little pleased and reassured, to have it thus confirmed that there was indeed, near the Welsh border, a small town of that name once served by a ramshackle light railway inhabited by real people leading normal lives. Similarly: theres a village in Brittany which was at one time a junction on the Côtes du Nord metre-gauge light railway system, last line of which was abandoned more than sixty years ago. Reading a book about French Resistance activity in World War II, I took absurd pleasure in seeing a passing mention in connection with the books theme no railway relevance at all of that village, named with its name.
And, reading Bill Brysons book A Walk in the Woods, about his experiences on the Appalachian Trail (as often for me with this author, fluctuating between being entertained, and wanting to throw the tome violently against the opposite wall, in sheer annoyance): it delighted me to read about his spending a night at a B & B in the village of Monson in the state of Maine the last civilised spot on the Trail heading northward, before plunging into its final hundred miles of howling wilderness. Monson was once the terminus of a short 2ft gauge railway, from a not-far-off standard-gauge junction; in point of fact, the last survivor (abandoned 1944) of Maines one-time bunch of delectable 2ft gauge lines. Bryson per the book, has never heard of the railway; he just describes Monson as above in my weird scheme of things, reassurance that these places in fact are and were real, independent of the light-railway dimension.
Has anyone else ever had the slightest twinges of feeling this way, about this issue or am I uniquely nuts?
. (That would require a rather bigger conspiracy though, given the number of people, including my parents and other relatives, who claim to have travelled on such lines).
