The Royal Duchy steam train passed through Dawlish at eleven-thirty yesterday morning. Mary and Stuart were still with us at that point and our terrace was quite occupied; therefore, I decided to take my shots from our garden on the sea-side, which is just above the the sea wall and railway line. No problem – I heard the whistle and ran downstairs; I had my Canon SRL at the ready on multiple shot mode (a bit quicker than my aged little mobile phone camera, which needs time to think and process).
Later on we thought we’d take some shots of the train returning in the evening.
“The timetable says that the train is due at Dawlish Warren at seven-thirty,” began Chris, “so it should pass by our house five minutes earlier.”
That was at about ten past seven. Chris and I had plenty of time to get out our cameras, change lenses, have a cup of tea, chat, go to the loo… At twenty past seven we were in position, waiting, just in case the train was to come early. Down by the sea wall and on the railway bridge below other folk were also prepared; we all waited patiently; a man and his grandson fishing from the breakwater were the only people who seemed to be oblivious of the impending excitement.
“The steam trains can also be late,” said Chris very astutely at half-past seven.
“But not too late,” I suggested, hoping for a positive response.
“Well, not necessarily,” Chris answered, “It might have to wait for other trains to pass through first.”
“I’m getting hungry,” I said five minutes or so later, “And it’s getting chilly out here”. I rubbed my arms.
Chris and Roland perked up at the thought of my making dinner – they, too, were tiring of waiting and they rubbed their arms too.
“If we were inside, wouldn’t we hear the whistle as it comes through, Chris?” asked Roland hopefully.
“What do you think, Chris?” I asked, equally as hopefully as Roland.
“Yes,” Chris pondered, “I think we would.” (Which was very hopeful indeed on Chris’s part because he is a tad deaf, as you may remember.)
So we three departed the cold terrace for the warm inside; the men went into the lounge room and I went into the kitchen; the men had left the French doors open so that we could hear the whistle. I was just getting the chicken breasts out of the fridge when the men called:
“It’s here Sally!”
And then I heard it too…as it whistled past our house!
