Thanks 47403 - I am encouraged! Some time ago I wrote this story:
POPPING DOWN TO TOD
This story was told to me by the signalman at Portsmouth level crossing box which is on the Calder Valley to Rose Grove (Burnley) line. There is still a level crossing there, but no signal box – lifting barriers have replaced the white painted gates, at TV camera surveys the scene, and the crossing is remotely controlled from Preston. This line is part of a cross-pennine route now known as the Copy Pit route, from Bradford and Leeds to Preston, and was once heavily used by loose-coupled trains of wagons bringing coal from the Yorkshire coalfield to the factories and cotton mills of Lancashire. Some of this coal traffic left the comparatively gentle Calder Valley line a half-mile short of Todmorden station to veer off to the north climbing through an intersecting valley and almost immediately engine men encountered the start of a steep climb for some 5 miles to the summit at Windy Bridge, under the eye of the Copy Pit signal box. From there the line descends more gently five miles to Gannow junction, on the west side of the town of Burnley. And as loaded trains moved west, an equivalent flow of empties had to be moved back east, and with easier gradient eastbound and no cargo to carry they tended to be a little longer than the loaded west-bounds.
At the time of this story Copy Pit signal box at Windy Bridge controlled entry to lay-by lines on the start of the down-hill on both the Lancs. and Yorkshire sides of the summit, their purpose to turn aside the slow moving goods trains to allow scheduled passenger services to overtake. Whilst in these ‘relief’ roads, as the lay-bys were called, the guard could step down from the brake-van to pin down by hand at least some wagon brakes to help to control the descent. For trains travelling in the Yorkshire direction a splendid home and distant semaphore signal stood just by the arch of the bridge, with a junction arm indicating access to the long lay-by road, the points being on the other, down-hill, side of the bridge. It is indeed a wild and windy spot, as the local passenger train crests the rise the exhaust beat of the engine slackens, and the traveller would sees that the fields an pastures of the lower valley have given way to a wilder landscape of high bare moorland sky lines. On a sunny summer afternoon there is a splendid view from the bridge, the moors sweeping down on both sides, the three lines of rails curving gracefully away on the start of the steep descent to Todmorden. With following faster traffic, goods trains would creep into the lay-by line at this point, whereas passenger trains cresting the rise would shut off steam and clatter down the bank at a spanking pace.
This east-bound lay-by has long-since been removed, but it was a mile and a half long, and re-joined the main running line just short of a level crossing at the urban out-post of Portsmouth, the trap-points leading to a rusty buffer stop right against the very fence of the intersecting roadway. All of this lay just under the windows of Portsmouth crossing signal box, the next one down from Copy Pit.
My story-teller had worked this and neighbouring signal boxes for many years, and lived nearby. Let us call him Ben Greenfield. It was one of those calm, rather mild autumn evenings, a gentle drizzle falling, prematurely dark and with poor visibility. Greenfield clumped over the wet boards and climbed the wooden steps, to report in for the evening shift. His colleague, hearing him coming up the steps, had clocked off, and passed him on the staging saying he had accepted a goods train of empties “on the relief” - that is to say coming down the long lay-by. Greenfield entered the cabin and glanced at the block instruments, recorded his arrival in the register, then almost at once the block bell sounded - Copy was offering the evening passenger train from Blackpool to Todmorden. He rang back, accepting it, and without delay offered it forward to Stansfield Hall where it was in turn promptly accepted. He turned to his levers and pulled off for the main, and by so doing energised an electrical circuit which pulled off to ‘clear’ his distant signal resident on that ‘home’ signal post of Copy, a mile and a half away at the summit. The double green lights thus displayed there gave the driver of the on-coming “fast” the knowledge that the ‘block’ ahead was clear. So now Greenfield had a slow moving train of empties coming down the relief, and a clear road under green lights for the passenger on the main. It was pitch dark on the lines, save for the glimmer of the signal lamps and their dim images reflected on the wet rail. All was quiet, with no sounds except for the drip of the rain on the window-ledge. He wrote up his log, made up his fire, then stepped out onto the staging to re-fill the coal bucket. Then he heard it - the goods was “popping” - short pops of the whistle every few seconds - the signal that engine men used to announce they were running away! Even though it would be moving only very slowly the goods was now out of control - the engine crew could not stop. The drizzle had wetted the rail, the brakes wouldn’t hold, lubricated with water replenished from the rail by the turning wheels. Greenfield peered through the murk up the line - nothing to see, but the view there is obscured by the arches of an overbridge at Mill Dam, a quater mile away. Where was he then? More to the point, where was the passenger train? He strode inside, reached for the phone and pressed the key - “Arthur, where’s the fast?” A pause - then “Just gone by, Ben”. Too late to stop it then, running down the bank at speed, on time and under green signals. It all depends where the goods is - Greenfield went outside again and saw with dismay the lights and bulk of the 8F goods engine emerging from Mill Dam arches - that’s close, very close, but moving at walking pace, the steam hanging about the boiler mixing with the drizzle of rain and still popping its whistle and heading for the buffers. He had about a minute and a half he reckoned, and in imagination saw the big engine sprawling slowly across the roadway, the mangled buffer stops punched clear away, empty featherweight wagons piling up behind and spilling over onto the roadway, onto the running line, and the on-coming passenger train ploughing into the wreckage at fifty miles an hour. He turned to his block instruments - what could he do? He reached for his hand-lamp, but just then the passenger train burst through the middle Mill Dam arch, a line of lighted windows with an energetic tank engine at the head. It was indeed doing fifty miles an hour and covered the quarter-mile in twenty or so of those valuable seconds, sweeping cheerfully by the box and away down the hill and round the curve, red tail-lamp flickering away to nothingness. Strewth! – now he must move quickly - Greenfield threw back the levers - Distant ON, then Home signal ON to release the interlocking, then moving along the frame a step or so hauled over the levers - Relief trap points Opened to Main, Relief exit starter OFF. And a quarter minute later the big dirty steamy engine solemnly squealed out onto the Main, the snake of empties following obediently. Greenfield couldn’t see the crew - too dark, but only they and he would know. The wagons filed slowly past - dum-dum, dum-dum. It was over, the crew had 5 miles now to get control, and if they didn’t manage it in that, they would on the relative flat of Calder Valley. But he mustn’t forget his duties - he now gave “Train Running Away on the Right Line” signal to Stansfield Hall box down in Todmorden, then picked up the phone - Alan Knowles on duty. “He’s just passing here Alan, greasy wet rail probably”. Knowles answered, “Yep! - thanks Ben. Yes, we’ll manage I expect.” Only now did Greenfield’s knees seem suddenly to be made of jelly, and the signal box to seem to tilt slightly to and fro, and why was it so hot and stuffy? He went out onto the staging into the drizzle, holding onto the railing, listened to the silence, breathed deep the moorland air. Then the westbound signal gong sounded, offering yet another coal train up from Tod. He went in - crisis over, and rang back “accepted”, and turned once again to his levers.
Robert Blackburn
May 2007
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