Robert Rainbow has been volunteering on the FR 1968. Here he describes the events of his early visits, and highlights just how much has changed since then.
Noting how the passing years seems to be leaving me more and more as an "elder statesman" among FR firemen (i.e. deep into middle age) I wonder if the time has come to start settiog down some memoirs from 23 years of just "one week a year" service. Certainly, there have been changes over those years, as others will testify; and not exclusively for the better (see how I'm showing my age already!).
1968 saw me at the tender age of 23 penning a hesitant letter to the then G.M. querying whether one such as myself could be of any service to the line "even" in terms of loco work. An affirmative reply had me searching for lodgings in Port (will any take footplate staff these days?), packing the old Triumph Herald and heading for the hills.
First joy was to be the daily walk in the early morning stillness across the Cob sea-wall, something I still relish on occasion, even though normally now staying at the south end. After some introductions, Blanche was presented to me via her fireman, and with another novice I was handed rags and told to "go, clean!" "You mean, just rub?" said my partner, but it soon became clearer, as degreaser, etc., began etching themselves into the grain of our hands. Perhaps I already displayed a budding talent, because even on that first session I remember pointing out to said fireman that "he" had a cracked spring hanger, but I was soon impressed by the swift ability of the Lodge to change such components, even with departure minutes away.
Over the years I find it harder to remember one of my weeks when there has not been a problem with a rostered loco that has required workshop attention (anything from a few hours to several days), from hot boxes or rods, superheater failures, oilburner problems or any sort of minor structural failure; we are, for the main, dealing with Victorian equipment after all.
So, one engine went and, while it felt a day's work was done, somehow another engine and then another also presented themselves and were suitably despatched
Boston Lodge in 1968 had an aura that it doesn't quite hit nowadays, though there'S still much to find fun in. One sadly missed institution was the old Den. The modern equivalent can really never compare! I refer of course to that room next to the main line in what more recently has been the stores building off the middle yard (look in there now and begin to wonder!). The cry of "Tea up" over the works tannoy would result in a sooty-black bare-boarded room filling with an overalled crew who sat around that gigantic old farmhouse kitchen table, neatly laid (weeks ago?) with layers of newspaper. The permanent staff mostly appeared to have designated positions, with Works Supervisor Paul Dukes presiding from an ancient wooden armchair, deftly knitted together with copper wire (I mean the chair!). Us trainee lads had to make do with the odd stool or upturned bucket at a separate location by the window, where the omnibus telephone would periodically jangle behind our shoulder, or an engineman call for a staff from the instrument mounted there. How John Halsall's little blind dog is remembered with affection too, following him all over the works.
It seems amazing that tbe busy works was then served by a single wash basin in the corner of the Den and just one loo, outside at that.
Why do odd isolated incidents stick in the mind? Take a simple case of Linda's then driver striding in half-way through lunch proclaiming stentoriously "Mr. Dukes, 'my' engine has a broken TENderspring", followed by what seems like a good twenty seconds of highly pregnant pause from the hushed and, frankly, irritated assembly, which terminated by a mono-syllabic "Yeah" from the said Dukes. The driver, apparently satisfied turned on his heels and marched out. He can hardly have been away from earshot before Bob, Paul's right-hand man, curtly asked "He knows where the jacks are, doesn't he?"
Another slightly more regular occurrence of those years would happen at night often I recall around 2 a.m. I had taken to staying at what in more polite moments is known as the "Boston Lodge Halt Room" and here one sleeps with one's head literally five feet from the nearest running rail of the F.R. "main", though two of those feet are solid slate. But it started as a dull rumble and quite rapidly crescendo'd as up to a dozen wagons jangled their way up the line, propelled on their way by the clanking Moelwyn, which was being used again as personal transport by a well-known member of the "lowerarchy", just taking some work home with him.
Those early summers were, I vividly recall, marked by various non-railway activities after the newly cleaned locos had left. One was building work; clearing and amassing stone to build up a collapsed part of the old iron-foundry (more recently the Machine Shop extension), laying our own "temporary way" of rails on their sides to push loaded wagons along. Another was Paul Dukes' annual drain hunt This seemed to go on for decades before most of the waterways under the old Works were rediscovered. It involved real detective work as well as a lot of spot digging, on occasion dangerously deep, which was often unrewarded by any find. Of course cleaning and sweeping up nice dry ash from the loco pits and banking up the fire in the old "smokey stove" to dry sand we had barrowed up from the beach were other institutions.
Came the day in that first fortnight when the magic words sounded in my ears: "Go and light up Linda- spare engine". Oh Joy! This is why we came. (Dear Reader and latter-day fire raiser, please bear in mind that in those days your firebox failed to have that little central device sitting up on its heels and a lot of air-tubes below; these were REAL fireboxes with FIREBARS and NICE ash in them!)
I duly followed procedure, and after rolling the engine out with the pinchbar and handbrake ran out the tubes as today. I then used the long, steel-handled fire-cleaning shovel to remove the old ash before laying a nice layer of small coals across the grate, leaving a central hole in which were placed the firewood which each night was left to dry against the firebox back-plate. A degreaser-soaked rag, the only thing in common with contemporary fire-lighting, was then used to ignite a few sticks on the shovel, and once burning well, the lot was placed on the pile.
Today's FR steam-raising is a noisy affair of compressor and powerful blower and burner noises. In 1968 such undreamed-of things had yet to replace the dead silence of a newly-lit engine, as every few minutes the embryo fire was checked and tended, until a layer of coal was well alight and we could think more about working on cleaning. By the time today's already warm engine is ready to leave shed, the 1968 Linda was just starting to whisper at the blower. A little more round the firebox that first day proved rather extravagant, for when our driver (names are omitted to protect the innocent, and others) appeared, he was able to exclaim: "B....y h..l Bob, where are you going, Blaenau with thirteen on", (gentle reader, remember that the "head of steel" had even then only just reached Dduallt).
Anyway, enough of details like: "How do you make an injector start?"; "How often do you fire?" (the answer, I seem to recall, was about once every half mile, but it all depended on when that nice grey haze, like a well-adjusted "oiler" which replaced the fresh firing's dark smoke after a minute or two, had totally disappeared, leaving a totally incandescent firebed.)
My first footplate trip up the line amazed me. I had heard of engines being fired hard, but I had never imagined a fire right up to the fire-hole on a narrow gauge loco, let alone the Alco which on my next visit necessitated a fire, in its very shallow box, which literally came half way up the fire-hole! You had to work the shovel up-hill to get adequate coal in, and now and then a smouldering and blistering lump would fall back out. You think Mountaineer steams badly now? You should have tried her then! I recall it as normaI to run into Tan-y-Bwlch with nothing in that very awkward "Klinger" water-gauge.
In one sense, firirng was a little more relaxed, in that unlike oil-firing the driver could play games with his controls without it affecting the firing, but each time she was ready or fuel, it became a team effort; with tbe driver working the fire-door via a chain to prevent undue cooling of the boiler between shovels. It was a case of placing shovels-full (or rather half-full to retain control) onto the fire-bed so that the shovel came out upside down. One front left; one front right; one back left (angle your handle SHARP left to hit the very corner); one sharp back right; one centre back, and every fifth or sixth firing, one centre-front, maintaining a saucer-shaped fire, tilted forwards to clear the chattering tube bank, which did not then wear an arch. But remember that to avoid losing steam when she needed firing, all this had to take place at the double. The amount of coal moved wasn't large, but it was quite hard work because of the speed needed when you did fire.
Practice with the injector soon developed the routine we know so well today, keeping steam within a few pounds of the 160p.s.i. blow-off. At least with the old Ramsbttom safety valves one could hear them start to bounce a bit as l60 was approached, unlike today's industrial "pop" valves, which one approaches at one's peril, losing too much steam, very fast.
Other duties soon became reflex: spending every spare second scanning the road ahead for possible obstruction, men or just as often sheep on the line, etc. Also, the need to look FORWARDS for dangerous rockfaces before leaning out for the regular checks of the following train or if the injector was playing up. The best locations to get a good view down the train were learned with time, and of course by learning from others.
Relationships with one's "lord and master", the other side of the footplate, were I recall, more fraught than today; the general rule appearing to be that every trainee had to be treated as a fool who should have known everything before he started. I, among others, lived in fear of many drivers!
Undoubtedly the worst job of all was fire-cleaning at Port between trains, sweating for a quarter of an hour in the very face of the firebox, having already worbed for 3/4 of a day. One knew that there would be trouble on one's second or third trip if there was much clinker in the fire. Cleaning involved putting a little coal on one side of the low fire to keep it alight, then moving the other half of the fire onto it. It revealed a solid layer of clinker blanketing the firebars, which had hardened since the last up tip. This had to be broken up with the fire irons and shovelled out. Once done, the fire could be moved back across and the clinker lifted from the second half. But more than once was the time I nearly lost the whole fire, resulting in a long "blow" to build up the new fire, with the risk of late running and more "mouth" from the driver. The new fire would take about twenty minutes of careful building up, with use of the blower, before it was thick enough and burnt-through enough to keep a full train going. The injector would keep steam pressure under control at the same time, so that one left with a full glass. On starting away this would fall rapidly until the fire was drawing well.
The day's end is relatively relaxed these days; one is away home less than an hour after running back into Port. In those days of yore, arrival back at the Lodge signalled time to coal-up ready for the next day. After a hard day up the line, my very fresh muscles were not always up to filling Blanche's capacious tender, and the driver would at times help. But at least it was dry dirt; none of the oily mess of today! And how, after that very first time of firing unaided, I looked back in pride at having maintained steam for a whole round trip. I was lodging in Dora Street and it gave a fine view right up the valley we'd been running along. My final memory is of that other coal-firing job: emptying BR 16-ton mineral wagons into FR ones at the Minffordd Yard chutes. Somehow it was a job I especially liked, despite being the dirties of all, working in a confined space swirling with coal dust, my "greasetop", a genuine one not a plastic-top, still bears the stains round the head-band. I recall that one 16-tonner took 5 man-hours of very easy downhill shovelling to empty, on occasion single-handed. This was O.K. until you had to move FR bogie wagons, fully loaded, by running an empty one into the full one to make it go.
Happy days; days of memories; day which like all good memories were on a steep part of the learning curve. I'd love them to come back in their fullness, but that wouldn't be progress or real growth. Let's live in the present, but let us never forget that it is history which is the "raison d'etre" of our little line's present existence. Long may it be so!
This article was originally published in the Gloucester Group magazine, and subsequently appeared in the Heritage Group magazine.
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