St Enedoc’s

St Enodoc's Church, Trebetheric, Cornwall [Matthew Lemin]
St Enodoc’s Church, Trebetheric, Cornwall [Matthew Lemin]

One of the first novels I ever remember reading in childhood was Nine Bright Shiners by Lois Lamplugh, and I instantly recognised its dustcover on eBay recently and bought a copy.

The writings of Lois Lamplugh (1921-2013) are manifold – much fiction, especially for children, biography and books about the area of north Devon around Barnstaple where she was born.

Nine Bright Shiners was published in 1955, which means I must have read it when it was new and I was eight or nine years old.

Its main characters are a group of young people, well-mannered, energetic, forever organising picnics and lighting camp fires while on holiday from boarding school, who become intrigued by the legend of a church buried in the coastal dunes near their homes.

It’s a conventional example of its genre:  the characters are cardboard and the plot ticks along like a well-oiled clock.  The children’s parents exist only in the background, a source of food for picnics and tools to borrow.  One older gent is pivotal to the plot, and there is one necessary group of stock villains.  All of them could be sourced from Central Casting.

I enjoyed every minute of it, as I did five decades ago, when I was all for digging up the sand dunes when we went on holiday to Llandudno.  It didn’t happen, because my parents weren’t from Central Casting.

When I revisited the novel recently, I wondered if Lois Lamplugh was thinking of an actual church, over the border in Cornwall which was buried in the dunes for centuries.

Perhaps she was aware of the story of St Enedoc’s Church, which stands beside the estuary of the River Camel near Trebetherick in Cornwall.  I was taken to see it when I was a guest of Bodmin Decorative & Fine Arts Society some years ago.

For at least three hundred years, until the middle of the nineteenth century, St Enedoc’s was buried by the sand dunes that still surround it, so that the vicar and clerk – and perhaps some parishioners – had to gain entry through a hole in the roof once a year to conduct a service that guaranteed the right to collect tithes.

The building was uncovered at the instigation of a local vicar and in 1863-64 it was restored by the architect James Piers St Aubyn (1815-1895).

The family of Sir John Betjeman (1906-1984) kept a residence nearby:  the poet’s father has a memorial inside the church and Sir John himself is buried in the churchyard.  He wrote about the church in the poem ‘Sunday Afternoon Service in St Enodoc Church, Cornwall’.

There are two other poignant modern memorials at St Enedoc’s – one to the three crew-members killed in the wreck of the Maria Assumpta (1995), carved by Philip Chatfield, one of the survivors;  the other the grave of Fleur Lombard QGM (1974-1996), the first female firefighter to die on duty in peacetime Britain.  She is also commemorated by a plaque near to the supermarket where she died in Bristol.

The church and the stories are detailed at St Enodoc (greatenglishchurches.co.uk).

As good as new

National Tramway Museum, Crich, Derbyshire: London County Council 1 – “Bluebird”

It would be hard to overestimate the historical significance among British tramcars of the London County Council’s 1931 prototype double-decker which became known as Bluebird No 1.

Among a number of smaller London municipalities, the LCC was the largest tramway operator in the capital.  Their great rivals were the Underground Group, which owned three separate tramways and the mighty London General Omnibus Company. 

One of the Underground company’s tram subsidiaries, the Metropolitan Electric Tramways, built its own “Bluebird” prototype, no: 318, one of the precursors of their large-capacity Feltham design, of which 331 survives at the National Tramway Museum.

The LCC Bluebird was powerful, capable of speeds up to 30mph and fitted with air brakes.  Its interior offered standards of comfort that were rarely found in contemporary public transport vehicles.  It was handsome, in a distinctive blue livery, and might have transformed London’s street transport. There are detailed descriptions at London County Council No. 1 – National Tramway Museum and LCC 1 – Restoration Par Excellence.

It remained unique because in 1933 all London’s tramways were absorbed into the London Passenger Transport Board, which quickly resolved to replace all its street tramways with trolleybuses and motor buses.

No: 1’s distinctive livery, part of an energetic publicity campaign to encourage passenger ridership, was replaced by the London Transport red and cream livery and during and after the war its non-standard specification meant it was little used.

When the LPTB sold the bulk of its fleet of Feltham trams to Leeds Corporation in 1951, Bluebird was included in the deal as a make-weight to replace two trams destroyed in a depot fire.  In Leeds it was given the fleet number 301.

In 1957 Leeds City Council donated it to the British Transport Museum in London, which passed it on to the Tramway Museum at Crich, where it was repainted in London Transport livery.

I wrote a blog-article about Bluebird No 1 in 2015 [Bluebird no 1 | Mike Higginbottom Interesting Times] when it became apparent that its bodywork was deteriorating.

The subsequent protracted and expensive restoration is a fine achievement and an object-lesson in the principle that preservation of vehicles, like buildings and gardens, is a continuing process.

A sumptuous book, edited by Lynn Wagstaff, Bluebird Reborn: The History and Restoration of LCC No. 1 [Bluebird Reborn: The History & Restoration of LCC No. 1 (LRTA) – Platform 5] (LRTA 2023) gives a detailed account of the difficulties and dilemmas that beset returning a historic tramcar to its original condition.

Bluebird No 1 returned to service in September 2024 and gives visitors a chance to experience as new, a vehicle that’s nearly a century old.

That’s because, though as much as possible of the original has been incorporated in the restoration, it’s been stripped back to its component parts and built again.

Most of the trams in the operating fleet at Crich and other working transport museums have been substantially renewed, primarily to restore their appearance at a specific historic period, but also so they can safely carry passengers and provide enjoyment for decades to come.   After all, the Flying Scotsman has had numerous modifications to its design, as well as eighteen different boilers, since it was built in 1923. 

The alternative, as with Leeds 602 at Crich and Mallard in the National Railway Museum collection, is conservation rather than preservation, so museum pieces become relics rather than exhibits.

If we want to feel, see and hear what it’s like to ride in a 1932 modern tramcar, or a vintage car, bus or railway carriage, we can’t afford to be squeamish about provenance.  Otherwise we’d be looking at a collection of garden sheds, chicken houses and cricket pavilions.

Coronet filling station

Coronet filling station, Effingham Road, Attercliffe, Sheffield

There are enthusiasts for every imaginable aspect of history.  Some fields of interest are less penetrable than others:  if you want to know about most sports there’s no shortage of sources for arcane data, and the same is true of transport by air, land and sea.

I discovered recently that there are people who collect material on petrol filling stations:  Old Garages and Filling Stations – Sheffield History, Memories & Ex-Pats – Sheffield Forum.

A little-known and remarkable example that attracted my attention is the former Coronet Filling Station on Effingham Road, between the canal and the River Don in the Lower Don Valley, of which there is a superb photograph dating presumably from the early 1950s when the site first opened.

The only online image of this picture – Coronet Petrol Station – Sheffield History Chat – Sheffield History – Sheffield Memories – appears to be from Kathryn A Morrison & John Minnis, Carscapes – The Motor Car, Architecture and Landscape in England (Yale University Press/Paul Mellon Centre for Studies in British Art 2012).

Effingham Road acted (and still acts) as a relief road from Attercliffe to the city-centre, in the 1950s giving direct access to Victoria Station;  nowadays, as the B6071, it’s still useful to reach Sheffield Parkway en route to the M1 southbound. 

The location was ideal for a petrol station but, as one of the posts in the accompanying thread points out, the footprint of the site was crammed between the road and the Sheffield Canal. 

The need to spread the fourteen pumps and their associated tanks laterally, however, gave the architect a pretext for a spacious, eye-catching modern design.

Very few new buildings appeared in the East End in the fifteen years after the war and those that had survived the Blitz were grubby, blackened by atmospheric pollution and dated.  The Coronet filling station was by comparison glamorous – and glamour was in short supply in 1950s Attercliffe.

A guest contributor to the Sheffield History Forum, ericsson, reported his family connection with the Coronet:

My dad, Eric Shaw ran this petrol station in the very early 1950s just before I started at Whitby Road Infant School. My dad was 90 years of age on Jan 24th 2015. I’m 65 now and was born Dec 21st 1949. The name changed to Effingham Road Filling Station when my dad had it. NB the wall behind is the canal wall! We then moved on to Staniforth Road Service Station, which is still a mainly vacant lot, but eventually moved on to Abbeydale Road Filling Station, now a Tesco station. That’s progress for you.

According to two contributors to the Sheffield Forum website, Simon Tow and coffeebean, the site changed hands in 1963 and the company that owned it was wound up in 1966.  [Coronet filling station – Sheffield History, Memories & Ex-Pats – Sheffield Forum]

Recently most of the clutter of a scrap business has been removed, making it easier to recognise the visual impact of the Coronet.

In fact, most of this structure remains and could be restored if anyone thought of a compatible, appropriate use for the site. 

Attractive though it was in its heyday, it’s almost inevitable that this brave piece of 1950s design will disappear. 

Non-Pots

Former Attercliffe Non-Political Club, Attercliffe, Sheffield (2023)

Citu, the company responsible for the Waterside development which plans to transform Attercliffe after decades of decline, is respectful of the historic heritage of the area [FIRST LOOK: Attercliffe Waterside – Citu], yet some landmarks inevitably have to be sacrificed.

The Attercliffe Non-Political Club built a particularly distinctive landmark at the junction of Effingham Road and Attercliffe Road, an eye-catcher on the approach to town from the bottom of Staniforth Road, but it’s gone.

The working-class Attercliffe community supported a range of distinctive working-men’s clubs from its Victorian heyday to the end of the twentieth century and a while after.  A politically committed workman in Attercliffe, Carbrook or Darnall had a choice of joining the Radical, the Liberal or the Conservative WMCs:  the Conservatives, prompted by Disraeli, cast themselves as the friends of the working man in opposition to the business-oriented Liberals. 

I won’t speculate why Attercliffe never had a Labour Club, but it certainly supported a thriving Non-Political Club, the “Non-Pots”, for those whose honest priority was drinking cheap beer and having a good time.

The history of these eminent organisations is patchily recorded.  The Carbrook Conservative WMC has left records dating back to 1880.  The Attercliffe Liberal Club opened in 1882, and I’ve tracked the Radical Club back at least to 1888.  The Attercliffe Non-Political Club doesn’t appear in the street directories until 1913, but it may have operated earlier elsewhere.

The Attercliffe Liberal Club carried on until Covid and closed in 2020.  The non-partisan Darnall Victory Club, founded after the First World War, closed in 2022.

The Non-Pots building was at 450 Attercliffe Road from 1913 to 1920, and from 1921 it moved round the corner to 429 Effingham Road.  The damage that building sustained in the Blitz wasn’t fully reinstated until 1950.

There are no further planning applications involving the Attercliffe Non-Political Club in Sheffield Archives after 1959, so I’m at a loss to know when the distinctive grey brick corner building with its copper roof actually opened.  Graham C, a contributor to the Sheffield History forum, suggests that the concert room moved downstairs after 1966. 

After the Non-Pots club closed, the building became a gay club, “Rockies”, and then the “Dancing Dollar”.  Latterly it was a bathroom showroom until its demise in 2025.

The history forums are very useful for recording the Non-Pots’ place in late twentieth-century show-business history.

The club was an early supporter of Charlie Williams (1927-2006), the ex-Barnsley professional footballer who paved the way for black comedians to be accepted by British audiences.  Charlie continued to show up at the “Non-Pots” even when he was appearing in The Comedians at the London Palladium, and Graham C records that on nights when Charlie returned to Attercliffe members who couldn’t get served at the crowded club bar would bring beer in from the Sportsman Inn up the road.

A younger performer who served his show-business apprenticeship at the “Non-Pots” and other places was Paul O’Grady (1955-2023).  He told Paulette Edwards on BBC Radio Sheffield, “I used to love working there. I used to do two Sundays a month in Rockies.”  The fact that Lily Savage came to Attercliffe needs to be commemorated, otherwise the next generation might not believe it.

Whatever structure arises at the corner of Attercliffe Road and Effingham Road, I hope it carries blue plaques to honour two fine performers who were held in deep affection by the people who lived in Attercliffe before – and indeed after – the terraced houses were swept away.

Brisbane’s cathedrals

St Stephen’s Old Cathedral, Brisbane, Queensland, Australia
St Stephen’s Roman Catholic Cathedral, Brisbane, Queensland, Australia
St John’s Cathedral, Brisbane, Queensland, Australia

Brisbane, like all the major cities of Australia, generated two major Christian communities – Anglican and Roman Catholic – from its earliest days. 

It began as a convict settlement in 1824.  Settlers arrived in the 1830s, and the site was declared free in 1842.  Queensland was separated from the colony of New South Wales in 1859, with its capital only a few miles north of the border, by which time the Catholic Archdiocese and the Anglican Diocese, both of Brisbane, were established.

The Catholics quickly raised what is now Old St Stephen’s Chapel, a simple stone cell designed from afar by the great pioneer of the English Gothic Revival, Augustus Welby Northmore Pugin (1812-1852), consecrated in 1850.  It was formally designated Brisbane Cathedral in 1863, the year that the foundation stone of its intended successor, also St Stephen’s, was laid. 

The British-born Benjamin Backhouse’s planned grand cathedral proceeded no further than its foundations, and Backhouse’s associate, Richard George Suter, designed a simpler nave which was consecrated in 1874.  Nothing more was built until after the First World War.

Meanwhile, the Anglicans had opened St John’s Pro-Cathedral in 1854, but hastened slowly to start their cathedral.

The British architect John Loughborough Pearson (1817-1897) began work on St John’s Cathedral, for a site bordered by George, Elizabeth and William Streets in 1885.  He had been commissioned to design Truro Cathedral in Cornwall, which was begun in 1880 and took thirty years to build.  Pearson’s plans for Brisbane were approved by 1889, but work had yet to start at the time of his death.

His son, Frank Loughborough Pearson (1864–1947) was appointed to revise his father’s plans, but the intended site was taken over by the state government and Frank Pearson had to further revise the design for the eventual site on Ann Street.  Phase 1, the east end and first bay of the nave, was completed in 1910, after which work stopped for over half a century.

Meanwhile the Catholic Archbishop James Duhig (1871-1965), characterised by his church-building projects as “Duhig the Builder”, proposed a grandiose Baroque Cathedral of the Holy Name, designed by the Sydney practice of Hennessy & Hennessy for a different site to St Stephen’s.  Their 1925 drawings depict a showy version of the London St Paul’s Cathedral, intended to be the largest sacred building in the British Commonwealth.

Construction started, to a toned-down design, in 1927 and eight years later Archbishop Duhig consecrated the main altar of the crypt.  After that nothing else was built.  The architect Jack Hennessy successfully sued the Archidiocese for unpaid fees in 1949-50, and the site was sold in 1985 to property developers who erected Cathedral Place in place of the cathedral.  A heritage-listed retaining wall is all that remains.

The Anglicans hardly had better luck for decades, even after Field-Marshal Viscount Montgomery of Alamein laid the foundation stone for Phase 2 of St John’s in 1947.  That project, for two further nave bays, was eventually built in 1965-69, and the final Phase 3, two more nave bays, a porch, the west front and three towers and two spires was completed in 1989-2009.

Later, at the very end of the twentieth century, the earliest surviving church building in Brisbane, Old St Stephen’s, was rededicated.  It contains a shrine to Australia’s first Catholic saint, St Mary McKillop (1842-1909).

Brisbane has two fine cathedrals, each the result of redesigns and changes of site, and – like the federal capital Canberra – a cathedral-that-never-was.

God moves in a mysterious way
His wonders to perform…

He treasures up His bright designs,
and works His sov’reign will.

[William Cowper, 1731-1800]

Brisbane’s Old Windmill

The Old Windmill, Brisbane, Queensland, Australia

What can you do with an old windmill?  Let me count the ways.

The Old Windmill is the oldest building in Brisbane, which is now the capital of the Australian state of Queensland, but began as the Moreton Bay Penal Settlement, a remote and inaccessible convict punishment facility akin to Port Arthur (1833) in Tasmania.  The town and its river were named after the governor of New South Wales, Sir Thomas Brisbane (1773-1860).

The tower was constructed in 1828, when after three years’ development the settlement was growing more wheat than could be ground by hand.  The first proposal was to use a treadmill to drive the millstones, enforcing prisoners to work either as a routine task or a punishment for indiscipline.  Supplementing man-power with wind-power provided greater capacity and flexibility.

Brisbane was opened to free settlers in 1839 and the convict settlement closed down three years later.  The Windmill continued in use until 1845, and in the following years the grinding machinery and the treadmill were dismantled.

However, a 52-foot brick and stone tower on the top of Spring Hill overlooking the town was useful for all manner of purposes, some of them unimaginable in the middle of the nineteenth century.

  • As a prominent landmark it had already been utilised for surveying and allocating land to incoming settlers since 1839.
  • In 1841 it was used as a gallows for the execution of two Indigenous men accused of murdering a surveyor.
  • Its picturesque views made it a popular informal resort after it became disused.
  • As the port of Brisbane developed it proved invaluable as a semaphore signalling station connected to the electric telegraph, and was fitted out as a public observatory with a time-ball in 1861.  In 1866 the time-ball was replaced by a time-gun to serve locations outside line-of-sight.
  • The following year the Windmill became the first location of the Queensland Museum.
  • Experimental radio transmissions were carried out at the Windmill from 1921 onwards.
  • The first television broadcast in Queensland was a demonstration from the Windmill in 1934.
  • From the end of the Second World War to the present-day Brisbane City Council has developed the Old Windmill and its surroundings as a tourist site.

Counting its original use to grind corn, that’s nine different applications of a redundant historic building to useful purposes.

Norman Shaw in Yorkshire

St Margaret’s Church, Ilkley, West Yorkshire

The market town of Ilkley, West Yorkshire, which attracted increasing numbers of visitors to its hydros from the 1850s, quickly gained in size from the mid-1860s after the trustees of the Middelton [sic] estate began to release land for development and the Midland and North Eastern railways constructed a network of lines from Leeds and Bradford.

To supplement the limited capacity of the medieval All Saints’ parish church, a “tin church” was opened north of the town centre in 1874, offering a style of worship which caused a considerable sensation when the choir appeared in surplices to the wonderment of local worshippers.  Apparently, the organising committee would have liked to introduce cassocks, but thought it would going a bit too far.

The project to replace the tin church with a suitable stone edifice brought the rising star of his generation of British architects, Richard Norman Shaw (1831-1912) to the town.

The incoming population were characterised by the first vicar, Rev William Danks:

The majority of tourists are of the poorer sort, and cannot help us much.  The richer ones are almost entirely Bradford Nonconformists.

Norman Shaw’s biographer, Andrew Saint, neatly pinpoints the clientele of the High Anglican St Margaret’s – “a stream of consumptive visitors attending the Hydro, coughing the coal dust out of their chests into the clear moorland air, and thanking their maker with alacrity that they were still alive to do so”.

The original 1874 estimate of £5,000 was swamped by a final expenditure of £15,000, as Shaw persuaded the trustees to increase the seating capacity from six hundred to a thousand worshippers

In the course of the building programme the intended low central tower was abandoned because of the “slippery, spongy sort of ground” which caused the nave piers to settle in early 1879, and a chancel, not included in the original budget, was added. 

Shaw used the sloping site to tuck the heating chambers and vestries beneath the chancel, and created a sense of architectural balance by making the low-pitched nave and chancel roofs equal in height, and providing equivalent ten-light east and west windows with elaborate Perpendicular tracery.

St Margaret’s was consecrated by the Bishop of Ripon on September 10th 1879.  Its choral communion was the first heard in the district.

Shaw was astute both in financial management and quality control.  He respected William Morris as an artist but wouldn’t do business with him:

Morris is no good.  His work is sometimes splendid (not always), but he is so full of cranks and general stubbornness that it is nearly impossible to do anything like what is called “business” with him.  Being an advanced socialist he cannot do with much less than from 100% to 250% clear profit in his work, and so his work is dear!!!

The interior decoration was done by Shaw’s business associate, John Aldam Heaton (1828-97), a stuff merchant who became a professional designer, first of textiles and later of interiors and furniture.   Formerly of Harden Grange, Bingley, he was a member of William Morris’ circle and a friend of Dante Gabriel Rossetti, who painted a portrait of Heaton’s wife, Ellen.  In 1876 John Aldam Heaton installed himself in a studio above Richard Norman Shaw’s Bloomsbury office.

Richard Norman Shaw made further additions to the interior of St Margaret’s in the years following:  his font of 1879 was given a canopy in 1911;  he also designed the pulpit (1881) and the centre of the screen (1898-9). 

He had reason to be grateful of his Ilkley commission:  the design was his ticket of admission to full membership of the Royal Academy.

And the town of Ilkley is enhanced by the work of two nationally celebrated architects within a mile of each other – St Margaret’s Church by Norman Shaw and the villa Heathcote by Sir Edwin Lutyens.

A Walk Round Attercliffe

Britannia Inn, Worksop Road, Attercliffe Sheffield (2010)

I’ve led A Walk Round Attercliffe every year since 2017, only missing 2020 because of the pandemic lockdown.

These walks are part of the Heritage Open Days event programme and take place on a September weekday, usually Friday, including visits to St Charles Borromeo Roman Catholic Church, the former Sheffield & Hallamshire Bank (now a running shop) and the Zion Graveyard.

As a result, each year there’s a substantial waiting-list.  For health-and-safety reasons these walks are limited to 25 participants, and in 2025 I had a waiting list of fifty disappointed people.  I run only one Heritage Open Days Walk Round Attercliffe a year because I need to maintain goodwill with the sites that open up for us specially.

It’s become obvious that I should devise a version of the walk suitable for Sunday afternoons, and because the church and the running shop are unavailable, I include a visit to the Zion Graveyard and a comfort stop, with hot and cold drinks and cake available, at the Don Valley Hotel, formerly the Coach & Horses pub, opened in 1901.

The pilot Sunday-afternoon Walk Round Attercliffe was fully booked and took place on April 26th 2026.  There was yet another waiting list, so I’ve arranged a follow-up tour on Sunday June 7th 2026, starting at 2.00pm at the Attercliffe tram stop.  Wheelchair users are very welcome to join. There’s an accessible entrance to the Zion Graveyard.

I grew up in Attercliffe in the 1950s, and I understand why there’s such a level of interest in the memory of the grimy community that surrounded the steel works.  There are plenty of people still alive who were brought up in the terraced houses and went to the huge Victorian board schools, and the following generations who’ve heard the ancestral stories are curious to understand the profound changes that continue to take place.

The Lower Don Valley was the powerhouse of Sheffield’s heavy steel industry and Attercliffe was where its workers lived.  Though many buildings have disappeared what remains is a fascinating insight into the life of a once-thriving community, and there are countless stories located in the Valley, from the inventor Benjamin Huntsman to the comedian Charlie Williams.

If you’d like to join a Walk Round Attercliffe, please book at A Walk Round Attercliffe Tickets, Sunday, June 7  •  2 PM – 4:30 PM | Eventbrite.

High Speed None

Marylebone Station, London (2015)

Sir Edward Watkin (1819-1901) was a visionary as well as a highly successful Manchester businessman.  He was involved in at least ten railway companies, and was chairman of the Manchester, Sheffield & Lincolnshire Railway which, as its title implies, ran cross-country from Lancashire to the south bank of the Humber.

Its east-west main line limited its importance and earning-capacity.  The Midland Railway had turned itself from a provincial operator to a national main line by building extensions from Derby to London, Manchester and Carlisle in the 1860s and 1870s.  Watkin determined to do much more than that, and had the opportunity to make his ideas practical.

As well as the MS&LR, Watkin was a director of the Metropolitan Railway, which reached out from central London to the north-eastern suburbs that eventually became known as Metroland, the East London Railway which controlled the vital cross-river tunnel that Marc and Isambard Brunel had built between 1825 and 1843, the South Eastern Railway which connected London with Folkestone and Dover and – crucially – the Submarine Continental Railway, promoted in 1881 with £250,000 to build the Channel Tunnel.  If the Channel Tunnel project had proceeded, Watkin was ready to assist it as a director of the Chemins de fer du Nord company, which connected Calais and Dunkirk with Paris.

To stitch together these separate but connected lines, Watkin resolved to link the MS&LR with the Metropolitan Railway on the outskirts of London.  He obtained Parliamentary approval for 94 miles of high-speed track from Annesley Junction in Nottinghamshire, via Nottingham, Loughborough, Leicester and Rugby, and renamed the MS&LR the Great Central Railway.

This undertaking involved engineering construction of the highest contemporary standards.  There was only one level crossing on the whole of the new extension.  The maximum gradients were 1 in 130 between Annesley and Nottingham, and 1 in 176 south of Nottingham, and no curve was sharper than a one-mile radius. 

All the stations were built on island platforms within a formation wide enough for future quadrupling of tracks, and the Marylebone terminus included spare land for additional platforms. 

Overbridges and tunnels were designed to accept continental rolling stock, and station-platform copings were removable to allow through running of continental trains if the Victorian Channel Tunnel had ever been built.

The approach to its London terminus at Marylebone was fraught with controversy because the covered-way tunnel had to clip the purlieus of Lord’s cricket ground.  The company dug up the Lord’s Nursery Ground and reinstated it on top of the cut-and-cover cutting.

The London Extension was built at a cost of £11,500,000 and opened to traffic in 1899, five years after Sir Edward suffered a stroke which restricted his business activities.  The Great Central was well served by its managers and engineers until it was absorbed into the London & North Eastern Railway in 1922, but it never rivalled its competitors as a London main line.  Its selling points to passengers were speed – three hours non-stop between London and Sheffield – and luxury, indicated by the publicity strap-line “Rapid Travel in Luxury”.  It also made money from coal traffic.

After nationalisation in 1948 the Great Central gradually became surplus to requirements.  Express services between Marylebone and Manchester were withdrawn in 1961;  ordinary passenger services were finally discontinued in January 1970.  Electrically-hauled goods trains between Sheffield, Wath and Manchester finally ended in 1981 and the tracks over Woodhead were lifted. 

Though passenger services continue to run east of Manchester, over stretches of the MS&L east of Sheffield and on the approaches to Marylebone, most of the Great Central route is derelict or redeveloped. 

Does all this sound familiar?  High-speed rail from Manchester to Paris?  A race-track of a railway running through open countryside?  Over-ambitious redevelopment to make space for a London terminus?

The conversation about High Speed Two dates back to 2009.  The arguments about its value have over-emphasised the desirability of shaving journey-times on its route, ignoring the potential benefit of relieving overcrowding on existing Victorian railway routes. A May 2026 report supports this view: HS2 failings blamed on high-speed focus and political pressure – BBC News. (There are, of course, other issues, not least the amount of taxpayers’ money that has gone down the pan.)

Perhaps it would have been more useful to have safeguarded the Great Central trackbed in the 1960s, so that it could be revived as a diversionary route relieving the East and West Coast main lines with fast, but not very fast, passenger and freight services.

Just saying…

Shinkansen

Shinkansen at Kyoto Higashishiokoji [© Simon Hollis]

You don’t have stay long in Japan – I was there for just over a week – to appreciate the advantage of having a high-speed rail network that isn’t tied to nineteenth-century civil engineering.

The first railway in Japan opened in 1872 between Tokyo and Yokohama.  In response to the mountainous terrain across the archipelago the standard railway gauge was set at 3ft 6in which reduced construction costs but limited maximum speeds.

The shinkansen, which English speakers call the bullet train, was instrumental in Japan’s recovery after the widespread destruction at the end of the Second World War. 

There was every incentive after 1945 to provide a completely new network serving major towns and cities with 4ft 8½in-gauge rolling stock capable of speeds up to 200mph on separate tracks independent of freight and stopping passenger trains.  Narrow-gauge services are restricted to a top speed of 90mph at most, usually 81mph.

Shinkansen trains run as eight- or sixteen-car units, much of which is reserved seating with lots of legroom.  There are smoking rooms in some carriages and a multiplicity of lavatories, including urinals for gents.  Travelling at up to 200mph has a fast-forward effect on the view of the scenery as the high-speed route slices through the landscape in a series of tunnels and bridges. 

The Shinkansen is easy to get used to.  Stand on the platform where the carriage is going to draw up.  Drop the luggage behind the seats at the back end of the car:  I worked out that this space is created by the need to rotate the seats with every change of direction. 

At stations on the route from Tokyo to Hiroshima I twice watched platform staff pointing and waving to no-one in particular, rather like those odd people you sometimes encounter in the street.  This turns out to be perfectly normal, enshrined in the railway regulations to encourage efficiency and safety.  It’s called Pointing and Calling.  On-board train crew bow on entering and leaving each carriage.  Presumably they’re reminding themselves who is paying their wages.

My second journey, from Hiroshima to Tokyo, was so relaxing I fell asleep and woke in time to see Mount Fuji.  It really is enormous, and very beautiful.  The summit was snow-covered and it was wreathed in cloud.  I didn’t attempt to photograph it, because the colours would not have rendered well through glass and because of the foreground clutter as the train sped past.  I simply looked at it and enjoyed it.

The sandwich selection I bought from the trolley on the Osaka-Hiroshima leg of my journey put British on-train refreshments to shame – three separate fillings, a cold chicken burger with pickle, ham and cheese, and egg and mayonnaise, on delicately soft white and brown bread with the crusts cut off.  All, with coffee, for a little more than £5.

It’s all well and good playing at Japanese life while remaining functionally illiterate in the language and culture, yet though I received nothing but goodwill and good manners all week, it was a relief to return to the occidental, Anglophone world.

After a tiresome twelve-hour flight back I travelled home from Heathrow to Sheffield via Doncaster with Japanese expectations.  A Japanese stranger would wonder why the on-train crew didn’t bow to the passengers, why the train-manager set up his stall – complete with ticket-machine and mobile-phone charger – in the first-class quiet coach and then sat munching sandwiches off the trolley in front of the passengers (both of us), why it was forbidden (in 2016) to flush the lavatory when the train is standing in a station, why half the people on the station platform were inebriated at 7.30pm on a Saturday, why the taxi doors didn’t open automatically when you approach the rank, why the taxi-driver didn’t get off his backside to deal with heavy luggage and then had to ask for directions to the destination.

When eventually the taxi drew up outside my front door I paid the exact fare and made a huge performance of lugging my luggage on to the pavement, and then declared, “There you are.  I’ve twice saved you getting wet.”  And slammed the cab door. 

It’s good to be home.