I remember banging in March 29th and 30th as rest days at work, giving myself a nice long stint off as mere speculation that the world would look slightly more normal. So, when I found out that the stars had aligned and that my first day off would be the first day that non-essential travel was technically permitted, I suppose you could just call me Mystic Meg.
That all considered, I’d be lying if I said I was up fresh as a daisy come that promising Monday morning. Having finished the late shift the previous night, I had decided to indulge in some rather strong stouts (Vocation’s Imperial Kirsch is to DIE for) and so I opted for a wee dram of lying in before heading for the door at around half 10.
The bus into Newcastle was didn’t feel too different to the usual commutes throughout the now dead-and-buried lockdown. Granted, the shops still aren’t open in the same way. You don’t have the hoards running for £2 off in Primark (I say, as if I wouldn’t find myself wandering into TKMaxx after every early shift because that shirt definitely cost £85 RRP) nor do you have people descending on the pubs (as if I wasn’t sat in Revs in Cambridge the day before the November lockdown ordering two cocktails at a time a la Tier One) so three fellow passengers wasn’t much of a surprise. Newcastle itself however is slowly regaining some of its energy. The student population has been returning in dribs and drabs, finding solace in the restrictions in maybe-legal forays to Tynemouth Longsands, while others visit Boots and M&S, selling so-called non-essential items among the essentials.
I found myself in Poundland for some pens (to make notes on this, because I’m a tit who leaves the house with a notebook and no pen) which turned out to be absolutely naff and a little bit explosive, before making my way along to the rather windswept Newgate Street stop for the X10. The advent of extra-long coaches on this route necessitated the relocation of this service away from Eldon Square, though I was sadly cursed with a bog-standard bus for the trip to Middlesbrough this time. To my surprise too, even a wee while before departure, the bus was actually quite busy. Though, in actuality, busy refers to about 15 people. We picked up a singular soul at Gateshead before hitting the A19, or rather, a pile of roadworks at Testo’s Roundabout before wheezing our way to Dalton Park. God, I missed between lockdowns when someone decided to hoy National Express coaches on this route.
An entire Morrisons’ had apparently manifested itself there since my last visit as well as a British Gas protest, with someone getting off at the otherwise closed outlet centre for some reason before we proceeded to the apparently covid-infested Peterlee, where another hardly soul jumped off. In fact, the main in-demand destinations seemed to be Norton and Billingham, with Middlesbrough only being braved by the hardy few of us sticking around. My first impression though was at least some people appeared to be travelling too.
For reasons I can’t quite remember, I decided to order food on the McDonald’s App while on the bus, assuming that the 40 minutes I had between that and the train would be more than enough. Unfortunately I’d managed to make my desire for a 99p Big Mac (this blog not sponsored by Ronald McDonald) coincide with various local college students’ bizarre desire for a coke and nothing else. I ended up queuing still for 25 of those 40 minutes before sprinting down Linthorpe Road ramming fries down my throat and sitting on a bench at Middlesbrough station trying to inhale a Big Mac followed by a wrap, because fuck being healthy and/or not getting indigestion, right? I don’t think I’d actually been down here since 2014 when I recall leading an Australian woman out of the station for a bus to Nunthorpe and her giving me £5 “for a cuppa” afterwards. In hindsight, why the hell was a 15yr old the only person with knowledge of a town miles from where he actually lived?
One of the main things I was actually out to investigate today was whether the rail network had quashed the “essential travel only” message. As we found after the first lockdown (the strict boi, the OG), TOCs weren’t exactly in a rush to welcome us back, with Transport for Wales screaming about key workers only being allowed on board well into July. So, I was pleasantly surprised not to have this messaging blaring over the PA at Middlesbrough. I was even more pleasantly surprised to see a whole four carriages on the 1323 to Saltburn, with my memories of this line being the screeching of an old Pacer train bouncing around the corner and braking with such force and noise so as to leave the entire platform with a ringing in their ears, followed by an announcement from the worst automated PA on the planet declaring that the train was for “RedcarCentralRedcar, EastLongbeckMarske…and Saltburn”.
There wasn’t exactly a lot of folk waiting on the platform, with there being around half a dozen per carriage, but it was better than a few weeks prior when I seemingly had the run of a service across the Tyne Valley. The guard was pacing up and down checking that everyone was in the right coach (a couple of stations were a bit wee for a four carriage train) as we left, then it was time to be reminded of how almost Soviet this line felt.
You suddenly find yourself surrounded by a mixture of disused, mothballed and somewhat operational factories, complete with the overgrown platforms of the disused Grangetown Station, thus resembling the likes of Magnitogorsk or Norilsk. Yet, they’re juxtaposed by the distant sight of the Moors on your right, home to the either adorable sounding Newton-under-Roseberry or vulgar sounding Hole of Horcum, providing a slither of green behind the disused Tata Steel (ex-Corus) steel plant with its own dedicated British Steel Redcar station, which until being mothballed in 2020 saw four trains per day, despite access out of the site itself being at best difficult and otherwise impossible. Teesside Airport station, at one time the least used station in Great Britain, located on the same line at the Darlington end shared a similar fate, though at least I’d managed to visit that one in 2015, being baffled at the fact that there was a literal dogwalker in the terminal building.
British Steel Redcar also acts as some sort of border between industrial Teesside and the leafier side of Cleveland Suburbia, as we approached Redcar Central with a good dozen or so passengers being exchanged. Redcar brought back memories of going out with my Dad back in his courier days 15 years ago, his patch being Eston down to Staithes, as we would deliver to the GAME store there. It’s also got a very pretty stretch of seafront, despite the appearances as you trundle over the level crossing and look towards the Morrisons on one side and the bleak-ish town square on the seafront.
The train had barely even pulled away from Redcar Central before we stopped at East and Longbeck, with suburbia breaking off and your view on the left turning into industrial units while the right side was actually rather pleasant with the Moors reappearing once again, interrupted only by the sight of the “Long Beck” signalbox controlling the crossing there.
Saltburn was eerily quiet. Of course though, the area in front of the old station was mostly occupied by independent shops, forced to stay shut for another fortnight. In fact, the various “Wear a mask, don’t make me ask” affixed to the lampposts in the vicinity felt a wee bit hostile, considering that wearing a mask as you bumble down the street has never been a thing in the UK. From here, I was hopping on the bus to Whitby, which was successfully done after an argument with the driver about whether or not my pass was valid.
The trip out of Saltburn is rather scenic from the off, with the dramatic descent of Saltburn Bank towards the beach being followed by an uninterrupted run all the way to Staithes where we hit the Moors proper. I left the X4 by the West Cliff, deciding to brave the winds along the seafront before settling on a bench on the corner overlooking the Abbey away from the blasts of a strong westerly. For the first time in months, I felt quite content in myself, with Casper’s “Aschregen” singing of Dreh’ das Radio laut, fahr’ zum Hügel hinauf (Turn the radio loud, drive up that hill) in my ears. I felt a little bit more free, despite Whitby once feeling like a mere trip around the corner, even once popping to Prague as a “self-care” interlude not really being anything ground-breaking. Even the fact that I’d been able to go to Norway in Summer 2020 and hang out in a strangers’ home was a fever dream.
January & February were particularly dark months, both figuratively and literally. I existed to work and to be asleep and/or drunk. To be able to sit in the sunshine on a bench 70 miles from home somehow felt like more of an expedition than being rocked to fuck in turbulence on a 13hr flight to Singapore, all the while with a toddler shaking my seat and screaming.
Following this minor realisation of contentment, I descended into Whitby itself, which would have ordinarily been absolutely heaving in such weather. It was actually still reasonably busy though, with Magpie’s doing a decent trade and a fair throng of folk heading towards the Abbey of Dracula fame. I myself couldn’t face the hike up the hill however and instead headed for a couple of alcoholic drinks and dinner from Co-Op, taking the time to even mention this fact to a colleague who was beginning a nine-hour shift as I cracked open a Lone Wolf & Tonic (this is a great gin by the way).
For some stupid reason I was dreading the 16:00 train to Newcastle which was usually the school train, despite the fact that it was the Easter Holidays and Whitby station lay silent, in much contrast to June 2015 when I braved this train and witnessed the conductor practically whip the kids into shutting up. Instead, I found myself sitting at a table, cracking open a drink and watching a kid wave us off (after a seven minute delay due to the train deciding it couldn’t be bothered to gain power).
The Esk River meandered to our left as we similarly wound our way out of Whitby into Ruswarp and Sleights, the conductor sticking her head out and trying to get us quickly away in an attempt to make up time. For some reason, I have scant memories of this line, having only been down it twice (and somehow having been up some railway lines in Japan more times), but it is genuinely very pretty for much of the way to Middlesbrough and usually very busy in the summer season. Instead, for today, there was just three of us on the whole train. But, with the sun shining, a nice tipple flowing and the scenery rolling by, there was little reason to complain. Even when the delays mounted due to a steam train (yes really) getting in our way, everything was just okay.
Middlesbrough soon came with a few dozen passengers more, followed by Newcastle and a good few miles of the Durham Coast in between, followed by bed as I was to be heading for Sheffield the next day. Certainly, people weren’t flocking in their droves back to public transport and to travelling around the region, never mind the country as a whole, but there was something rather liberating about making that first journey. I personally want to see the industry bounce back sooner rather than later, getting us back on that trend of passenger journeys heading ever upwards. Though, the reality may be somewhat different, with the daily commute in particular from the Home Counties into London being dead as a doornail. That said, I don’t really miss being stood on an short-formed Thameslink train and having to shove someone back onto the platform at Farringdon after they ended up kneeing me in the balls in the process of attempting to somehow board.
I spent the following two nights stuck waiting for, or aboard, delayed trains down the East Coast Mainline, at Doncaster and Durham respectively, but somehow it wasn’t as much of a stress as before. The ability to go somewhere is enough even if you’re stood by the door looking pensively into the March evening and wondering when you’ll actually be able to get to bed, not caring because you’ve just been able to drunkenly lie in a park with your two best friends.
Here’s to things getting better x
The Lone Bon Voyager 