I love trains, especially when they run as scheduled. Outside of France this is a reasonably common occurrence. And of all train types I love coal-powered steam ones the best. The noisier and smellier the better. I attribute this strange affliction to having grown up just across the tracks from a train station. As we sat at the Cheltenham Racecourse station waiting for the 10 o’clock heritage steam train to the Cotswolds I lapsed into ‘nostalgic old-timer’ mode. ‘Back in my day,’ I said, ‘I took a steam train to work every day for 30 cents.’ Despite Maureen’s eyeroll it was true. I was known as the guy who was always sprinting for the train at the last possible second, often leaping onto it while it was moving. One day I shocked the stationmaster by making it to the platform. His exact words were, ‘shit, Wayne’s here. Is that the time?’ as he rang the station bell frantically.
Cheltenham was a stepping stone between London and Birmingham, with no great ambitions for the stay, mainly a bit of downtime and a chance to experience the above train. We bought a ticket to the picturesque Cotswold town of Winchcombe, just 25 minutes up the line. On the way we were in a first class carriage along with a smattering of other passengers, and on the way back we were in a first class compartment carriage with the corridor on one side, of the type favoured in murder plotlines and Harry Potter.
The train is operated by enthusiastic volunteers in smart uniforms, who love waving flags, blowing whistles, and chatting with the passengers. The day had a festive air heightened by a procession of rolling green hills and picture-perfect cottages of honey-coloured Cotswold stone. Winchcombe was a pleasant 20-minute walk from the station albeit in searing heat, but we enjoyed wandering around the quaint village with enough time for a decent lunch and a coffee.
The station is within the Cheltenham racecourse complex, home of the epic Cheltenham Gold Cup steeplechase, the world’s most prestigious steeplechase race. The course is huge, looking about twice the size of Riccarton.
That night we dined on some average fare at a Wetherspoon pub, notable mainly for my buying the cheapest half pint of beer since Queen Victoria was on the throne (one penny – long story but legit).
On the last day I took a bus to Leckhampton Hill in search of the legendary Cotswold Way, a 100-mile footpath that runs from Chipping Campden to Bath. The hill was steeper than I expected but the lower trails were attractive, leafy and well shaded. After about 40 minutes I reached the summit to be greeted by a well-formed trail of crushed Cotswold limestone. A sign confirmed that I had found the Cotswold Way. I ran a section for mainly ceremonial purposes, a bit like the cyclists riding into Paris on the final day of the Tour de France.
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