ON TRACK

From time to time I enjoy pulling out a map and studying it carefully.  Any map, and it doesn’t have to be one of the area in which I am studying.  I can look at the details of the Isle of Skye or the (now mainly cleared) minefields of the Falkland Islands from my Long Island home.  You may gather I have a broad collection of maps.  Most of them are British Ordnance Survey, still the finest map-makers in the world, and some are of the same areas but of different vintages.  It’s fascinating, for example, to compare a part of North Cornwall mapped in 1965 with its 1998 survey, and see how much has changed.

The other day I opened a fairly recent map of Worcester and the Malverns (OS Landranger map 150,) my old county and stomping ground, and for the first time noticed a disused railway connecting the Malverns with the riverside town of Upton upon Severn and beyond.  Despite having grown up a mere ten miles from there I had no idea that this six-mile-long line had ever existed, but as it was closed in 1952 and the tracks long since removed perhaps I may be forgiven.

Built in 1860 it plied its way between Malvern Hills (later known as Malvern Wells) and the new station at Upton, crossed the River Severn, and connected to the main line at Ashchurch.  To quote from the pages of the Upton Local History website:

Upton was provided with fairly substantial station buildings, pleasantly constructed in a warmish shade of red brick, with slate roofing. The main structure, situated on the northerly (down) plat- form, was a superb example of Victorian architecture, displaying a considerable array of decorative devices; these included ornate chimney stacks, string courses and diamond inset patterns carried out in contrasting yellow brick, and herringbone-style barge boards on the gable ends. A two story station master's house was provided at the Malvern end of the building, with the adjoining, central part of the structure accommodating the booking office and hall; the easterly portion housed the station master's office, waiting rooms, and lavatories. A fine wrought iron canopy graced the central section on the platform elevation.

It must have been a delightful line to travel.  On either side lush fields, with the grand sight of Hanley Hall to the north.  In the middle distance the spire of St Gabriel’s church at Hanley Swan, and the stubby tower of St Mary’s church at Hanley Castle would remind the travelling soul of the presence of the Church in every community.  Then the pleasing station at Upton would soon come into view. Sadly nothing now remains of Upton station.  The 1960s belief in demolishing anything old removed all traces of the buildings and platforms.

The local records list the station staff of 1921, all no doubt under the stern gaze and whistle of Mr Johnson the Stationmaster.  Among them is a young man by the name of Sam Crump, who was the station lorry-driver.  In later life his widowed wife used to run a small and extremely haphazard grocery shop on the Droitwich Road, Worcester, opposite the parish church of St Stephen where my father was the vicar.  I have two distinct memories of this shop, demolished in 1970 to make way for a garish Texaco filling station:  It was a place where, when known children would come to buy cigarettes for a parent those smokes would be wrapped in newspaper!  And the place out of which I stepped two days before Christmas 1967, and was hit by a car, breaking my upper leg.  A painful Christmas, but oh, so many presents and good wishes!

The next time I am in that area I am determined to pull on boots, take up the same map, and trudge to line as far as the river.  Not only can I then look north-east to the 12^th century tower of St Mary’s, Ripple, where my father served an inter-regnum in the 1980s, but I can also enjoy a ploughman’s lunch and a decent pint of beer in the Swan Hotel.  Or maybe the Star?  Or the Talbot Head.

A Manicured Town?

It goes without saying that first impressions can be fleeting, and eventually very disappointing. So it was with Taunton, Massachusetts. My glances to left and right, occasionally looking forward in the traffic so as not to rear-end the car ahead, convinced me that there was more to this town than first met the eye, and that I should try and stop to explore when next passing through. How wrong could I be, and how could this town deceive me?

Taunton. The county seat of Bristol County. A town since 1639, settled not surprisingly by colonists from Taunton, England. (Hence nearby Bridgewater). Its wealth came from numerous silversmiths who made the town their home, and from ship building on the Taunton River. The famous Taunton ships were bought by customers all over North America and Europe, and the trade thrived until 1823, when someone thoughtlessly built a dam downstream at King’s Bridge and so unwittingly (or not?) put a stop to it all. Unbelievable, but true!

Driving south on Route 44 with plenty of time to spare the perfect parking space was right opposite the First Parish church on Church Green. The usual quarter meter machine. Twenty five cents bought me an hour’s parking. The grand church building with solid stone tower belonged more in the Anglican tradition but has actually been home to the Universalist Unitarian community since the mid 18th century. Their third home, and the seat of local government until later that century. So much for the revered separation of Church and State. But it wouldn’t have mattered then. Apparently in those days that only applied to Roman Catholics, Jews and members of the Church of England. If I had lived then I would have been in good, and repressed company.

Main Street was but a few steps away, and it was there, within the first twenty of those, that my impressions of this town began to dive. After the fifth nail salon. (Five! Why does any town need five nail salons?) Another closed store, a good variety of lawyers’ offices, there were only store-front churches to attract any casual interest. A small All Gospel Church marked one end of the street, while the “Church at the Crossroads” dominated mid-town. The etched inscription on the huge window glass announced, “All power in heaven and earth has been given to me.” It was ‘signed’ Christ the King. Peering through the firmly locked doors (well, it was a Thursday morning) the lobby appeared to hold a number of circles of plastic chairs – each group surrounding a small coffee table on which were leaflets and books. The whole place had the aura and image of a cheap funeral parlour, which was only enhanced by the vases and bowls of plastic flowers everywhere.

I was in search of a little ‘something’ for it had been a while since breakfast coffee and roll, but nothing was open. Two cafes displayed CLOSED signs in their windows and looked as if they hadn’t opened in a while. There was a rather grimy delicatessen on a street corner, but the sight of a man sitting on a bench smoking and eating a bagel suggested that I look elsewhere for my snack.

On the way back to the car, somewhat annoyed that I had only used up half of my extremely cheap parking fee, I made a mental note to find out if there was any connection between Taunton and tuxedos. The reason? There were three places to buy or rent dinner jackets within the same block. Surely if one was tempted to buy one here, there was nowhere on this street to wear it.

It was time to leave town. Head on south back to the Interstate, another State, and the ferry back to Long Island. My parting image and memory of Taunton is of a young woman sitting with her two toddlers on the sidewalk smoking a cigarette. She looked sad, tired and more than a little weathered. But at least her nails were perfect.

BANK DREAMS: or WHERE WOULD I WISH TO CATCH A FISH?

It is the first week of March and despite the sunshine of the last couple of days it is clear that winter hasn’t finished with us yet.  The weather forecast for the next two days is pretty grim with inches of wet and heavy snow expected overnight, and high winds to push the drifts about into the most inconvenient places.  And it’s cold.  Still quite chilly, and the local ponds look grey and lifeless.  And every morning I walk out through the garage and give a perfunctory nod at the fishing rods resting on the wall-rack.  Hence the angling question in the title.  This is the time of year in this part of the world where frustration with the weather gnaws away at the desire to go fishing.  Freshwater fishing, my passion and joy, has to wait for at least another month and those few extra degrees of temperature to wake up the fish that are still sleeping deeply in all senses of the word.

So like countless others at the close of winter I fall back on a handful of distractions.  Reading about angling, preparing for angling (cleaning and restoring rods, reels and other paraphernalia) and thinking about angling.  And it is the latter that prompts these words.

Where would I wish to catch a fish?  That’s a question that all (be honest) anglers ask at many times in their lives.  If I could answer that question, and then be beamed away a la Star Trek transporter to a destination of my choosing, rod and tackle in hand, where would that place be?  I suppose it would depend on the type of quarry.  If I was after salmon I would choose, not Alaska but the wilds of the Kola Peninsula in Russia.  If I desired brown trout it would be the fast and challenging chalk streams of southern England.  The small Appalachian brook trout with its flashing rainbow leap?  The high-altitude rivers and streams to the north of Cashiers, North Carolina.  Pike?  The four-thousand year old lake at Slapton, Devon, England.  And so on.

With the exception of Russia I have visited all of these places, together with countless others.  I have caught fish also.  In most instances I have returned my catch alive, but in others I have brought it home or occasionally cooked it on the bank, well prepared with a filleting knife, a small skillet and a flask of wine.

Yet there is one place, and one place only that I keep thinking about, and to which I would love to return.  It is not mentioned in any guide book or sporting journal, nor featured in any expensive angling charter brochures.  God forbid.  It lies some three miles east of the town of Taunton in Somerset, England, on the Taunton-Bridgewater canal, and is a place called Charlton Bridge.  Surrounded by farms and farmland it is a shallow stretch of the canal some hundred metres long, clear in places, weedy in parts – and locally renowned for being a place where roach and tench may be landed “at an ‘andsome size” (as they say in those parts.)

When Assistant Curate at St Mary Magdalene, Taunton, a quarter of a century ago, I would fish this water at least once a month, determined to gently catch and release one of these prize specimens.  In three years, through summers, autumns and winters, despite catching fish everywhere else in the county, I never so much as had a timid bite at Charlton.  And so I can think of that narrow country bridge, and dream of a revisit.  Just one more cast might …