 Moments before departure, Linda surveys the Cob and the Welsh hills rising beyond. |
Ticket
in hand I strode back out to the
platform. Recalling John Gwynne's advice that one must always ride the very first
carriage "so you can really hear that little engine working as you climb the
hills," I staked out a spot at the head of the train. Luck was with me.
Right behind the Linda was coupled a fine old wooden compartment carriage, #26 on the FR roster. The doors were all locked, and the
guards were all down at the far end of the train seating patrons in the modern steel
corridor carriages which made up the bulk of the consist. FR has invested in a large
fleet of these cars, and wisely so. Climate control, plush seats, a buffet, and a
public address system mean daytrippers can travel the line in the "motor coach"
style to which they have become accustomed. Heritage purists may sneer, but it makes
for happy patrons and a healthy operating margin for the railway. The railway has
not forgotten its roots, however: each train in the warmer months still includes several
compartment coaches from FR's historic fleet. A quick word to a guard about
preferring a compartment bench, an open window and the smell of steam and smoke to the
corridor carriages' undoubted comforts produced a knowing smile; she hastened to unlock
for me the compartment of my choice in the old wooden car.
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| An old
hand by now at Welsh narrow-gauge travel, I
spread out my things along the compartment bench and unlatched the leather straps and
lowered the side windows into their doorsill pockets. Outside our driver, Paul
Davis, had a final word with the guard, and then mounted Linda's footplate and
put hand to throttle. With a great whoosh of steam from the cylinder cocks, we
lurched into motion and headed out across the Cob. The last houses of Porthmadog
Quay flashed past the window, then suddenly the view opened up to a vast panorama of
greens, blues and grays-- the whole expanse of the Glaslyn marshes, glistening under the
hazy morning sun. For a seemingly endless time we rattled past the marsh-grasses,
the carriage rocking gently on the high, narrow rails. Then with a sharp protest of
flanges Linda led the way off the high dam and on through a sweeping leftward
curve.
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| Beyond
the Cob the tracks rose into an easy upward
slope, climbing into the foothills above the river plain. The gentle rise was
deceptive, for it marked the beginning of a relentless 1% grade which would continue for
the next 12 miles, until our little train had climbed a full 710' above sea level.
Unvarying and almost unbroken, this longest grade offers eloquent testimony to the skills
of James Spooner, the FR's pioneering engineer. In the distant pre-locomotive age in
which the FR was conceived and brought to completion, it was intended that loaded cars of
slate should be propelled from Blaenau to Pothmadog by gravity alone. The empty
wagons would then be hauled back up the line by horses working in relays. This
proposed system imposed the most demanding requirements on Spooner's surveys. To
run the wagons downhill without stalling required a near-continuous grade, with
no reverse inclines or excessive level spots. To keep the loaded cars under control going
downhill and to ease the work of the horses pulling uphill required a moderate
grade, of perhaps a little over 1% at most. Somehow, Spooner found just such a
route, running 13 miles across some of the toughest terrain in coastal Britain. It
was a bravura feat of civil engineering-- one which to this day allows the Ffestiniog to
run longer and heavier trains than any comparable narrow-gauge railway in the British
Isles.
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| As we
passed the shop buildings and engine houses
of Boston Lodge and entered the grade proper, Linda set to proving the point yet
again. In moments the entire consist had passed onto the grade, and the full weight
of the heavily-laden cars was tugging back at the engine's drawbar. Yet the trim
Hunslet faltered not even a moment. Her stack talk changed to a deeper, more
insistent note; exhaust steam shot higher and with greater velocity from her tall stack;
but the engine herself simply dug in a bit, settled herself, and commenced hauling the
entire consist up and on towards Blaenau at a brisk, invigorating 25 miles an hour.
Spooner would have been proud.
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