Now, before I bombard you with words, here is a link to Roy's site, there will be a better write up on there, either way they are the same I guess. Visit his site!http://rozzarail.weebly.com/
I flipped up the laptop on the typical thursday night, wondering what was to be of my weekend. Old mate Mick had dropped me a message asking whether I was interested in chasing ARHS ACT's 30T to Richmond via the goodsline etc. I quickly replied 'yeah mate, what are the times?' Mick proceeded to send me the times, once reading them I wondered whether this was a warplan, or your typical gunzel trip...I woke up on sunday morning, staring at my year 7 project clock, realizing the time. 7am. I jumped out of bed, wacked on a pair of footy shorts, put my camera in my bag and proceeded to the station. The problem with this was, Croydon isn't a major interchange, nor is Ashfield. Usually, 3 trains stop there each hour, but as it was a sunday, trains were not running as often as usual. I saw a train that was bound for Strathfield, so I could meet Mick. I dived for it, quickly and passively. I realised it was going to be tight, meeting Mick on his train from the urban utopia of Morisset...made famous by the 14 year old drug addicts..* * * * * * * * * * * *Central. 0920 Hours. No 2 Platform.There, we met our other companions for the day, Thomas, known herein by his nickname "Turbine", and Ben, known herein as "Paynie"The rails tingled.A faint beat grew just within the limit of perception.From behind the reverse curve of Central's famous No 1 Platform, came the low rumble of a gurgling Clyde-EMD, 4918, together with 4 carriages, and the star of the show, Beyer-Peacock steam locomotive, 3016.We clicked our shutters happily as it drew to a halt. After the foaming masses of photographers around us gradually obstructed our view, we headed off, bound for the opposite end of the station: Platform 22, to convey us to our next location: Birrong.If you know the first thing about Central, it's that Platform 2 to 22 is a bloody long way. After trekking our way across the cavernous two city blocks, we found ourselves standing at platform 22, staring at a sign."BANKSTOWN LINEALL STATIONS TO BANKSTOWN VIA SYDENHAM""Oi Mick" I said, turning to face him"Yeah mate""Be better if that sign said "All nations on the Bankstown line, eh?"After subduing their urges to roll on the platform floor in fits of laughter, we boarded the train to Birrong.
Sometime in the morning.Myself, Mick, Paynie, and Turbine burst out of the train doors, anxious to find our spot for the forthcoming steam special. We looked up at the station clock. 10 am."It'll be here soon" Turbine piped up"Thanks Turbine, like we hadn't worked that out…." I piped back.We made our way along the bitumen to the low CityRail fence at the end of the platform, with a clear view to approaching trains. Diving into our backpacks, we each fished out our cameras: a motley assortment of mid-range DSLRs.After much discussion about the average propensity to be stabbed in Birrong, and the usual teenage questioning of the length of one's dick, we became acutely aware of a slight beat in the distance….A column of haze appeared from just above the treeline, as the beat grew louder.Our shutters clicked happily as 3016, producing very little steam, drifted through Birrong, with 4918 doing the hard yards at the rear.We turned, and began heading back along the broken, loose bitumen of the platform. As we neared the graffitied brick station building, we craned our necks to the destination screen."Next Train to Lidcombe25 Minutes"With this much time to kill, it was mutually agreed that we find some tucker."But we'll get stabbed in Birrong" Paynie piped up"Challenge Accepted" we chorused back at him, as we made our way up the crumbling concrete steps to the road bridge. We turned left, and found ourselves in Fibro Heaven, as far as the eye could see was aluminium-clad fibro housing, famous in Sydney for it's traditional links to lower-class, "dole bludgers".These urban myths were soon confirmed, as we walked past one house, with grass at about knee height, strewn dilapidated furniture and rubbish. One of the cracked windows had a large piece of plywood nailed to the inside. It was almost certainly abandoned, until we heard two voices yelling inside."Fellas," I said "In an urban slice of paradise like this, an argument like *that* is called a 'domestic' ""ferals" Mick said.We digested this thought, and quickened our pace once more, eager to find tucker. *Having devoured delicious, hot, meaty pies, and the obligatory bottle of coke, we made our way back to Birrong Station. Once again passing the good folks in the seemingly-abandoned house, we were soon at the station.We boarded the train, and immediately found a 6 seat facing arrangement.We discussed our next location, which would be somewhere on the Richmond Line.We settled on Clarendon, having heard favourable reports about the "shot" there."shot", is railway-enthusiast "slang" for what kind of composition the location allows, i.e. whether there are poles in the way, or other trains, or the sun's position at that time, or anything. When an enthusiast says its a good "shot", it means the location is a favourable place to take good photos. *Having endured an hour of suburban trains, delays, and inconvenient train changes, we finally got to Clarendon. An SMS arrived from one of our fellow trainspotters, at Carlingford, indicated that the train was still a fair way off, and had only just departed Clyde, some 30 km's up the line.With this thought in mind, the 30 degree heat was beginning to fry the brain."Hobbo" [Mick's other nickname], I said"Yeah?""Wanna get a drink from the 7-11 cuz?" I said in my best rendition of a kiwi accent"Yes uleh, oh myyy goddd" Hobbo replied, in his best rendition of an ethnic accent, complete with extra flem.We made our way down the blinding white concrete footpath to the Servo I had indicated. We entered the shop, and were immediately met with air conditioning at least 10 degrees cooler than outside. I laid $5 down on the counter, and we immediately filled up two large cups with frozen cokes. After being out in 30+ degree weather, it was a heavenly feeling, being in a climate controlled shop kept at 22 degrees, drinking a frozen coke.Following our bidding farewell to the papadam at the counter, we hastened across the blinding concrete threshold, still brandishing frozen cokes.
No comments:
Post a Comment