 Watering in the deep cut.  Heading back under the bridge. |
Welshcakes,
soda and a walk to the famous Devil's Bridge
itself (a nearby gorge where three different generations of bridges-- medieval, 17th
century and modern-- span a tributary of the Rheidol; now sadly overrun by rather tacky
tourist development) passed the minutes until train time. When I returned, I found
the train crew tidying up their pails, fastening their grips and making their way back to
the engine. After stowing their gear on board, the driver and fireman backed their
charge down through the passing loop, over the junction points and out into the deep cut
at the mouth of the yard. There, propped conveniently on the side of the cutting,
was a watertower: soon the fireman was out on the pilot, refreshing #8's tanks for the
downhill run. A high bridge across the cutting gave me a fine view, as well as a
chance to enjoy the traditional baptism of steam as the engine pulled forward to rejoin
the train back at the yard.
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|
 Through the horseshoe curves.  Along the high ledge above Cwm Rheidol |
At
16:30 sharp the guard's whistle shrilled for
the last time, and then with a gentle jolt we set into motion for the return trip to
Aberystwyth. With my carriage seat now at the rear of the train, I had fine views of
the engine and cars as we wound back down through the horseshoe curves and out onto the
high ledge above the Cwm Rheidol. In contrast to her uphill struggle, #8 now served
as little more than a very heavy brake van, using her tremendous adhesion to retard the
downhill gallop of the four heavy carriages. At each turn, I could see the driver
and fireman leaning alertly from either door of the cab, keeping a sharp eye out for
sudden obstructions or unexpected dangers. No towering thunderheads of exhaust
blasting to the skies on this trip: content to simmer along, #8 emitted only wisps of
steam from her brass-capped stack.
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|
 Sun across the meadowlands near Nantyronen |
Shadows
lay longer over the little train as we
chased the sun westward down the mountain. Tall groves of trees flanked the rails,
some so thick that the highest branches formed a cool, shadowy tunnel over the carriage
roof. From time to time the trees would pull away to either side, revealing high
meadowlands which glowed like jewels under the slanting evening sun. As we passed
Nantyronen the tall iron watertank flashed by my carriage window: there would be no
stopping here on the swift downhill run.
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|
 Across the flat and into the sunset. |
One
last set of curves and a dip through a final
cut, and we debouched onto the long flat across Rheidol vale. The great tangent led
straight as an arrow through the meadows, and the carriages cast long shadows under
the sun slanting in from out over the Bay of Cardigan. Rocking gently now, we
clattered along beside the Rheidol's lazy bends. Then it was out and over the narrow
bridge, and back to the north bank of the Rheidol and the sprawl of Aberystwyth.
Soon the great engine house loomed up on the right, and the carriage wheels clattered
across switchpoints. Moments later the platforms of Aberystwyth depot slid slowly
into view and out along the length of the train. The Rheidol had finished another
run.
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