It’s late evening at Dookes H.Q..

Outside, gentle Spring drizzle is gently settling as the light softly dwindles towards night. There is a chill in the air, so the mellow heat of our log fire is comforting as much as it is warming.

I have just returned from a long ride to have lunch with my old friend Mel, who I haven’t seen for a long time; too long in fact.

Just before I set out this morning I heard from my friend G, who is battling Cancer. He is back in hospital again and having a rough time of it; G was on my mind a lot as I headed East to meet Mel in the heart of Dorset. Mel himself has also had more than his fair share of problems in the last year and I’ve been trying to give him whatever sort of clumsy/inept support I can. These are two good guys who really don’t deserve the different situations that they find themselves in.

It’s at times like this that I find riding a motorbike is such a good way of finding some sort of peace to deal with the crap that life throws around from time to time! Now don’t get me wrong, the old Dookes brain was firmly on the road and the job on hand, but other cogs were turning trying to make sense of things. That’s how it started out as I eased “Baby” onto the A30 this morning and headed East.

Then other matters came into play, like that we were travelling through some of the most gorgeous scenery in Southern England.

Living in Cornwall, I sometimes find I can get a bit parochial, it’s so removed from the rest of the UK that it’s often easy to forget that there is more out there across the River Tamar and the County boundary!

This morning our neighbouring county of Devon was as verdant and lush as I’ve ever seen. Billowing white clouds drifted across an azure sky and the red earth of ploughed fields absorbed the bright sunlight. Rolling into Dorset, the scenery becomes magnificent around the Jurassic Coast between Lyme Regis and Weymouth. Excellent on a motorbike, the roads curve around steep hills and deep valleys…just a shame that at times the other traffic gets in the way, but hey on two wheels it’s still fun dealing with that as well!

The round trip was nearly 300 miles, hard miles at that! It was worth every inch of it though. Not only did I get to see my old friend again and enjoy a super lunch with him, ! got there and back on a Harley Davidson.

Now at home with my computer, the humming of the engine is still ringing in my ears; actually it’s more like I have a steam engine whistle sounding continually in my head!

I’m sitting here trying to make sense of life, the universe and everything; but my eye keeps being drawn to a couple of bottles of rather splendid French claret that are in the rack to my left. You know good friends are really very like a bottle of good wine; the bottle will sit there on the rack, you know where it is when you want it and over time, so long as you take care, it will only get better.

When things get better for both of my mates, I’m going to uncork those bottles with them, let it breathe, then share and savour that wine in fine crystal glasses; it’s the least that my friends deserve.

Friendship, you can’t put a value on that; G & Mel, here’s to you and the day we uncork those bottles!

“Old red wine, well past it’s prime, may have to finish it after crossing the line.”

Catch you all soon.

Dookes

It’s late February 1964, a small boy is accompanying his father to witness something very special.  Something he will remember for the rest of his life.

The location is Crewe South Locomotive Shed, once a busy engine depot supplying motive power to freight trains in the Midlands and North West of England, but now a crumbling shadow of it’s former self and staring imminent closure in the face.

On shed today is one of the last Royal Scot class steam locomotives, number 46115 named “Scots Guardsman.” Tomorrow she is scheduled to haul a prestigious special train that will commemorate the service of these famous locomotives before the last of them heads to the scrapyard. The class was introduced by the London Midland and Scottish Railway in 1927 and soon achieved fame across the World; doyen of the class 46100, “Royal Scot” visited the United States in 1933 and wowed the crowds at the “Century of Progress Exposition” in Chicago with its looks and performance. Later all 70 locos in the class were re-built extending their working lives into the 1960’s.

The young boy, whilst in awe of these leviathans, is totally at ease in the “Shed” environment; his father is an engineer and now quite senior in the operations management team, Crewe South Shed is like a second home!

Today “Scots Guardsman” being fitted with wooden replica nameplates for tomorrow’s special train, it’s own brass pair having been removed months ago for safe keeping. With his Dad filming the event on an 8mm cine camera, the small boy watches two fitters mount the wooden nameplates on the locomotive. It seems to him that by this simple act, somehow the dignity of the magnificent locomotive is restored as she quietly hisses contentedly in light steam.

Next day, just to the north of Crewe near the old station at Minshull Vernon, the boy and his father are standing by the side of the railway line. The air hangs still, in the distance a familiar syncopated beat can gradually be discerned across the frozen landscape. The musical three cylinder rhythm of a “Royal Scot” hard at work draws nearer as the locomotive battles against the rising gradient with its heavy train. Then in a flash “Scots Guardsman” roars past with a mournful toot on it’s deep noted whistle and a cheery wave from the fireman. Carriages rattle by and then the red tail lamp on the rear of the train recedes into the distance as father and son watch the swirling steam disappear.

Fast forward fifty-two years.

Only two “Royal Scots” escaped the dreaded cutters torch, “Scots Guardsman” was one and the other is “Royal Scot” itself. Both locomotives have now been restored to mainline running order and are available for the haulage of special excursion trains on the national network.

A man stands by the side of the railway line near Bodmin Parkway Station. The air hangs damp and still, crows call noisily in the high trees bounding the line. In the distance a familiar syncopated beat can gradually be discerned. The musical three cylinder rhythm of a “Royal Scot” hard at work draws nearer as the locomotive battles against the rising gradient with it’s heavy train. Then in a flash “Royal Scot” roars past with a mournful toot on it’s deep noted whistle and a cheery wave from the fireman. Carriages rattle by and then the red tail lamp on the rear of the train recedes into the distance as the man watches the swirling steam disappear. He walks away with tears in his eyes and starts his Harley Davidson motorbike.

He is still that little boy.