Ghost Train To Cleethorpes

Ghost Train To Cleethorpes by Neil McCall

I'd been to Cleethorpes before, of course - hasn't everyone, once? I
distinctly remember the day trip excursion train pulling in to the
beachside station, me holding my parents' hands in the pouring rain and
watching a bright blue Grimsby-bound trolleybus. That was a long, long
time ago, and we never went again. The station has survived with a
basic service, but big excursion trains will never again pull into the
expanse of sidings, now grassy, rusty and abandoned, and the
trolleybuses have long since gone. That weekend the rail network people
were trying to make access extra difficult by closing the "main"
Doncaster to Cleethorpes line somewhere beyond Scunthorpe for
engineering works, entailing a change to a bus and an extra hour on the
journey. This would only affect Mark and David, our heroic editorial
team, on the Sunday, when there were no trains on the other line,
connecting from the South at Newark. However, the Internet assured me
that, despite the disruption, I could travel all the way from Stockport
to Cleethorpes by train if I changed at Sheffield, although the station
announcer at Stockport wasn't aware of it. So I tackled the train
conductor who admitted that, yes, there was yet a third way of getting
to the Lincolnshire coast by rail and was forced to disclose the secret
of the ghost train.

This was a two-car, bus-like unit which connected nicely with the
Manchester train in Sheffield and duly clanked and trundled its way
between Sheffield and Gainsborough, after which it swung on to a single
line which crossed the flat fens of Lincolnshire, serving the bustling
metropolises (?) of Kirton Lindsey and Brigg before rejoining the main
line beyond the site of the engineering works. At Kirton I glanced at
the buildings on the station platform and, instead of the expected
waiting room, I found myself looking into someone's front bedroom. This
train ran a mere three times a week, all the journeys being on
Saturday, and attracted precious little clientele; by the time the
train reached Cleethorpes - painfully slowly, but still faster than the
replacement bus - there remained only six passengers on board. I went
into Cleethorpes station booking office to confirm the times of the
return journey for the following day and found a fellow traveller with
a large suitcase who was about to retrace my journey to Manchester
Airport and wasn't happy about having to catch the replacement bus to
Scunthorpe, so I pointed out that the ghost train was about to return
to Sheffield and would get probably get him to the airport earlier than
the alternative. This time it was the booking clerk's turn to look
unhappy, as though I'd just blabbed the secret of some magic trick, or
maybe I'd uncovered a conspiracy of disinformation to allow the line to
be closed completely.

I then consulted my map to find the whereabouts of the ABCtales
venue, Willy's Wine Bar; after a couple of unwanted late night walks
across Derby city centre at previous events, I had determined to select
a B&;B within a very short distance of the venue. There was one
within a hundred yards - probably not quite worth the ?25 they were
asking, but at least I had a sea view, for there was not exactly a
shortage of available rooms in Cleethorpes in October. Willy's Wine Bar
was already sounding quite rowdy at half-past-six and, if this
foreshadowed a huge late-night punch-up, I didn't have far to run. I
made a cup of hotel tea, put on my black African gothic poetry-reading
shirt (the shirt's gothic, not the poetry), grabbed some fish and chips
and it was time to begin.

Mark and David were already there, along with about a dozen locals,
and I was fifth up to read. This suited me, as I wasn't sure what would
go down well here - earnest, erudite musing, funny scatty "perceptive"
rhyme or sheer filth. This was supposed to be part of the prestigious
North East Lincolnshire literary festival and I didn't know whether my
usual Mancunian grunge would be welcome. The early speakers tended to
the witty and wry, and were largely middle-aged, so I opted for the
middle course, and got a few laughs.

However, many of the local readers had only brought a couple of
pieces - I'd brought at least a dozen - so Mark announced that there
would be a second round of reading for those who were up for it, and I
began to reselect a reserve list. A local man determined my choice when
he revealed that Rosie Lugosi, Manchester's whip-wielding lesbian
vampire performance poet (and excellent short story author!) had,
astonishingly, trekked across the Pennines and fens to do a writing
workshop for them. This had attracted an audience second only to Simon
Armitage - i.e. approaching fifty, a respectable crowd for an
off-the-beaten-track Lincolnshire town - thanks largely to local Goths
who had swelled the numbers to meet their heroine, plus an elderly
Lothario who couldn't see beyond her black basque and had, hilariously,
tried to pull her. Although Grimsby/Cleethorpes is notorious for being
a lawless, hard-drinking homophobic area, the local writers clearly
hadn't lacked bottle in inviting Rosie along, nor Rosie in coming for
that matter, so I decided that I wouldn't stint them some sleaze
either. But the evening still finished early, at not long after ten
o'clock; the local writers quickly dispersed, and it was pleasant to
spend a few moments strolling along the dark promenade, listening to
the peeping of oystercatchers and the coo-ee of curlews before turning
in.

I got up completely sober at around half-seven, made myself another
cup of tea and took in the sea view. There was something black and
white lying on the sand right opposite the guest house, so I went to
investigate; it was a guillemot, and clearly a very sick one. It was
still alive - barely - so I could have counted it on my 2004 bird list,
except I'd decided to take a year out from serious birding to
concentrate on writing. The straggly grass near the leisure centre
hosted a flock of Brent geese, which are rare on the west side of
Britain, so I'd seen a few good birds. But there was nothing to hang
around for once I'd polished off breakfast, so I caught the early bus
to Scunthorpe and the train home. Not the best-attended of ABCtales
events, to put it mildly, but I hadn't regretted going one bit - I'd
enjoyed good company and fun reading, and it was great to meet local
writers, and I can no longer complain at all the events being in the
South.