Steer for the deep waters only

Robert Day's thoughts on his photography, his writing and his business

That’s not about testing!

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This is a message to all those people out there who may have looked at my last blog post, “A Warship along the Ecclesbourne” when it was included in the Ministry of Testing blog feed the other day, and had the completely understandable reaction that it had no obvious application to testing.

You are completely right, and if you feel aggrieved by that, I apologise.

Having written a few blog posts on testing and TestBash recently, I submitted them to MoT with the warning that not all my blogs would be about testing, and it was entirely up to them as to whether they listed them or not. I also dropped them a line when I started drafting the last post to say “Hey, guys – the next blog post isn’t going to be about testing. How can I flag it so that you don’t put it up on the feed?” The silence has been deafening.

I started my blog seven years ago when I went freelance as part of publicising my work and abilities as an author, journalist and photographer. Unfortunately, whilst I had some considerable professional success in those directions (in the form of books and magazine articles published, and photographic awards won), I couldn’t actually make a living from it. Which is why I now work as a tester, and very interesting and fulfilling I find it too. But my blog is about anything that interests me as well as (what I think are) interesting things that I have done, so it might cover aviation, railways, motoring, music, history, science fiction or (small-p) politics, as well as testing.

Of course, you could take the view that if these are things that interest a tester, then they might be of interest to other testers. And I see a lot of interest and discussion in the testing community at the moment about communication, writing and presenting at conferences. And these are things that I’ve done plenty of in my time – see my recent post, Return to the Forbidden City. So perhaps people might gain something from my non-testing blogs.

I have a post in mind about some ideas I’ve been working on about the way that professional self-organisation in general and the testing community in particular are developing in terms of mutual support and wider social campaigning in the digital landscape. I’ve been thinking along some of these lines for a couple of years, and TestBash made me think some more about that. But I’m not quite there yet and I shall need to lie down in a darkened room for a while to let these ideas gestate before attempting to put them into words.

But in the absence of any sort of steer from MoT over how they want to me distinguish between different post subjects, I’m afraid you may be stuck with seeing non-testing stories in the MoT blog feed for a while. So I’m apologising for that in advance to anyone who finds that irksome. And to everyone else: feel free to explore! (And isn’t that one of the things that testing’s about?)


Written by robertday154

April 6, 2018 at 9:31 am

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A Warship along the Ecclesbourne

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The River Ecclesbourne in Derbyshire is not one of the country’s longer or better-known rivers. It rises in the quarry town of Wirksworth, on the edge of the Peak District, and runs for nine miles south to a confluence with the Derbyshire Derwent at Duffield. Only slightly more than thirty feet across at its widest, there is no sense in which it could be said to be at all navigable; even canoes would have difficulty in its upper reaches. So how could I be going there to see a Warship?

Well, regular readers might guess that there is some sort of railway connection.

During March 2018, for a couple of weeks the Ecclesbourne Valley Railway hosted a visiting Class 42 diesel-hydraulic locomotive, a class known as “Warships”. Although I don’t normally make a point of following vintage diesel locomotives, in this case I made an exception. The story goes back to the nationalisation of the railways in 1948. Britain’s railways had been built by private capital; by 1914, there were some 120 or more separate companies. The First World War left the railways in poor condition; they had been run by the Government during the war specifically for the war effort, and they had been run into the ground with little thought given to essential maintenance. The backlog of work when they were handed back to their private owners was too great for many of them to afford; so the Government forced amalgamation on the railways in the 1921 Railways Act, merging the majority of companies into four. Three of these were new companies; but the fourth was the Great Western Railway, which through effective lobbying not only survived intact, but indeed absorbed many smaller companies and took over the majority of companies in mid- and South Wales. Twenty-five years later, the same process happened in the aftermath of the Second World War; this time, the Labour Government decided on nationalisation as the solution to the railways’ investment problems, creating British Railways (BR). The new BR was organised on a regional basis; and once again, the Great Western survived as a commercial entity in all but name. The new Western Region exercised a remarkable degree of autonomy, commissioning new builds of a number of Great Western locomotives and ordering unique classes of the new diesel locomotives at a time when the 1955 Modernisation Plan was calling for a range of standardised engines, both steam and the new motive power of diesel and electric.

There was some method behind this. The main line to the West was a legacy of Brunel’s obsession with the “atmospheric railway”, which promised the ability to run fast, light trains over steep gradients, powered by creating a partial vacuum in a tube laid between the tracks and propelling a train by means of a cylinder running in that tube, attached to the train through a hinged leather flap valve running the length of the top of the pipe. Having engineered the line for that method of propulsion, Brunel saddled the Great Western and its successors with a problem when the atmospheric railway proved to be a failure. Victorian technology could not make a reliable flap valve that would allow the passage of a train but at the same time seal the vacuum pipe effectively. GW locomotive superintendents oversaw a range of light but powerful locomotives that could maintain line speeds over the line to the West in the steam era; when dieselisation dawned, the Western Region went looking for a unique solution to the same problem. They found it in the form of the diesel-hydraulic locomotive, which offered a far better power-to-weight ratio than the diesel-electrics being adopted on the rest of the system.

They went to West Germany, where this type of locomotive was widespread, and for their light express passenger type arranged for licence production of a British version of the German V200 class, using German engines also built under licence in the UK (by Hawker Siddeley at Ansty in Coventry). In all, 38 locomotives were built in two batches, the first at BR’s Swindon works and the second by North British Locomotive in Glasgow. The class were all named for British warships – hence the class name. They entered service in 1958 and survived until 1971, having been finally declared non-standard in the late 1960s. Two have been preserved.


The one I went to see, D832 Onslaught, was the last engine of the first, Swindon-built,  production batch. It had a connection with Derby, a place they never visited in regular service. After class withdrawal, Onslaught came to the Railway Technical Centre in Derby where it spent a number of years engaged in a variety of research projects. I saw it parked at Derby on a number of occasions during that time but never managed to secure any photographs; so when I heard that it as to visit one of my favourite railways, it became important that I should go to photograph it.


And why is the Ecclesbourne line one of my favourites? Well, I saw it fairly regularly in my youth, and never imagined that I would ever have the opportunity to travel on it.

Although the railway wasn’t built until 1862-67, projects for a railway along the Ecclesbourne valley started much earlier, as a part of the corporate manoeuvring concerning rail links between London and Manchester. The Derby-based Midland Railway were promoting a line through the Peak District, but were blocked by the independent (and grandiosely named) Manchester, Buxton, Matlock and Midlands Junction Railway, which had built the railway along the Derwent valley from Ambergate to Matlock, but who were blocked in their ambition to reach Manchester by the Duke of Devonshire who refused permission for the railway to pass through the Chatsworth estate. There was an earlier railway in the area, the Cromford & High Peak, which was projected in the 1820s as a canal to link the Cromford and Peak Forest canals over the High Peak itself; realising that water supply would be a problem, the engineer, Josias Jessop, decided to make the route into one of these new-fangled railways. However, having been designed as a canal with flights of locks to get up and over the Peak, the C&HP was built as a railway to the same principles – level sections of line followed by inclined planes where wagons were drawn up by a stationary engine. This was never going to be a practical proposal for a serious passenger link (the C&HP did carry passengers in its early years, but the inclined planes – nine of them in all – made progress slow and hazardous) but the Midland saw it as a means of getting their longed-for link with Manchester and so were happy to promote the branch railway to Wirksworth as a first stage in incorporating the C&HP into their inter-city route. Construction actually started on an incline beyond Wirksworth to connect the two lines, but only the first part ever saw trains, and that only for bringing stone out of the Middle Peak quarry.

The Midland’s rival for the Manchester route, the London & North Western Railway (LNWR) then acquired th4e C&HP, putting an end to the Midland’s plan. For a while, they considered driving a tunnel between Wirksworth and Cromford, and building a parallel line to Matlock on the other side of the Derwent to the existing rival line (which the LNWR also had a major shareholding in); but then they were able to acquire that line and use it as a springboard to construct an extension from Matlock to Bakewell and through the Peak to Chinley and Manchester. From that time, the Wirksworth branch became of local interest only, with passenger services and heavy traffic in stone and milk.

The growth in road haulage saw milk trains being replaced with road tankers, with the milk service ending in 1939. The war saw the passenger services severely curtailed; the passenger service was suspended in 1947 and officially ceased in 1949. Limestone traffic continued, though, and it was as a purely freight line that I saw and knew the railway during the 1970s and 80s. The line had also always been used by Derby Locomotive Works as a “running in” venue for new or recently-repaired locomotives; when Derby restored a number of locomotives for the National Collection in the late 1950s, Wirksworth station became the location of a number of official photographs, and for a while, visitors to the transport museums at York and Clapham could buy souvenir postcards of some of the exhibits that were taken there. However, there was continuous pressure for the quarries to transfer their transport operations to the road, and in 1991 a change of ownership of the quarries precipitated the decision to cease rail transport altogether.

But by then, rail privatisation had occurred; and knowing of the proposals, a group of Derby-based railway managers had earmarked the Wirksworth branch as a possible candidate for one of the new kinds of railway, a “community railway”. Accordingly, in 1992 these managers established WyvernRail Limited, with the intention of operating such a service between Wirksworth and Derby using leased diesel units under the “Open Access” management model.  The Railways Act 1993 created the framework that would allow WyvernRail to start the process, but the industry structure the Act created also caused the whole process to slow down to a crawl. The line had been mothballed after 1991 as Wirksworth had been designated a Strategic Freight Site, protecting the whole undertaking for railway use and possible future stone traffic, and making closure of the line extremely difficult.

Changes to the structure of the industry following privatisation meant that for several years during the mid-1990s WyvernRail often experienced difficulty in maintaining a consistent business relationship with the authorities responsible for the line. However, while progress was slow on the ground, the individuals involved maintained informal links with Railtrack because of their background in the rail industry. This enabled them to be granted a Light Railway Order for the line in 1996, and then starting to explore the possibility of leasing or even an outright purchase of the line.

From the Summer of 2000, Railtrack management changed its stance and not only took an interest in the firm’s activities but provided a proactive and imaginative basis for negotiations, including granting the company’s staff and the supporters association’s volunteers access to the line. This approach led to the gradual restoration of the line, accompanied by conversion to a plc and the successful share launch of WyvernRail plc in April 2002. Re-opening of the line started in 2004 and passenger services were reinstated for the length of the line in 2011.

The Ecclesbourne valley is relatively unspoilt and Wirksworth has undergone a renaissance as a town working hard to attract tourists (as, indeed, has my neighbouring home town, Belper). The railway is a pretty professional operation; it aims to provide a service first whilst accommodating and welcoming enthusiasts, but it isn’t trying to achieve superstardom in the heritage railway firmament. I recommend it for an excursion and hope to see them flourish for many years to come.

Written by robertday154

April 5, 2018 at 12:18 am

Posted in Uncategorized

Return to the Forbidden City

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About ten days ago, I posted on here about my attendance at TestBash, a conference for software testers held in Brighton. As I said in the post, that was my first testing conference (and very enjoyable and informative I found it, too), but certainly not my first conference in Brighton by any stretch of the imagination.

Apart from visits on family holidays, my first conference in Brighton was the 1979 World Science Fiction Convention, held over the August Bank Holiday in the Metropole Hotel. I’ve written about science fiction conventions before in this blog; but World Conventions (Worldcons for short) are something a bit different. Until comparatively recently, it was rare for them to leave the United States; prior to 1979’s convention, Seacon, the previous time the Worldcon had been held in the UK was Loncon II in 1965. Interestingly, I recollect Loncon II being reported in the Daily Mirror as though it was a (moderately) serious scientific conference; granted, I was only eight years old at the time, but the reporting seemed reasonably straight, if a little “silly season”, but not mocking in the way that later media accounts of sf conventions have tended to be.

I couldn’t afford to stay in the main convention hotel, so I was located in a hotel on the other side of Regency Square. I had a bedroom at the top of the hotel at the back, and I recollect that the window frame was sufficiently rotten for rain to come in through the frame timbers on my first night. I recollect little of the convention that I’m prepared to write about here, beyond:

  • attending a programme item in the Bedford Hotel a bit further along the seafront and sharing a lift with author Larry Niven on the way out
  • seeing the world premiére of the trailer for The Empire Strikes Back (once Gary Kurtz and Irvin Kershner were able to attach the special anamorphic lens for the widescreen format to the hired-in film projector)
  • watching my then girlfriend portray Supreme Commander Servalan from the BBC series Blake’s 7 in the convention masquerade and ending up on television myself when a BBC camera crew managed to get me in shot during the masquerade photo-call
  • wondering what all the fuss was about with this much-hyped film Alien that we were seeing so much advance publicity material for, including that August’s must-have accessory, Nostromo crew baseball caps
  • wandering by accident into the Science Fiction Writers of America suite whilst looking for someone and (despite their fearsome reputation for security) not getting thrown out because I obviously had the air of someone thinking Nah, no-one here I want to talk to
  • listening to a lot of people discussing this new radio show The Hitch-Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy and hearing people wonder who this Douglas Adams bloke was, because he’d nailed some of the more ridiculous tropes of science fiction (especially television science fiction) so well that he was obviously some sort of insider; but no-one had ever heard of him, so the speculation was that it was a pseudonym for someone much more famous (of course, as fans of written literature, hardly anyone had previously spotted Adams’ name in the credits for Doctor Who – as script editor – a few years previously).

I came away with some additions to the book collection and a determination to attend more conventions.

I returned to Brighton in 1984, when the European Science Fiction Convention returned to the Metropole. This time I stayed in the hotel, in what appeared to be a broom cupboard. The impression of it being a broom cupboard wasn’t because of the size – anything but. It was a huge room on the fifth floor, where the corridor turned through 90 degrees away from the front of the building. My room was on that corner, and although it had one wall facing the sea, there were no windows in it. Instead, the windows were on the side wall, and what made me think the room had been storage at some point was the fact that the windowsills were six feet off the floor! To look out of the window, I had to stand on a central heating pipe; and then I was only able to peer over the windowsill. Otherwise, the room was perfectly well appointed, with all mod cons and a huge en suite bathroom. Frankly, I remember even less about this convention. The one thing I do remember is going out to eat with a friend and finding what we would now call a pop-up French restaurant actually on Regency Square. The proprietor was a French chef who was running an hotel’s kitchen for them; the hotel only offered breakfast, but they were allowing him to open the dining room of an evening at his own expense. The food was excellent, but there were very few customers; so after the meal, we got to chatting with the owner, and offered to take him back to the Metropole for a nightcap. We’d talked about why we were in Brighton, but the reality of a convention in full flow rather amazed this chap. He immediately saw the opportunity and sketched out a menu on the back of an envelope, said that if we could get twenty people together he’d do that menu for a fixed sum, and when could we come? We put up notices and spread the word, and on the Sunday night twenty people turned up at this restaurant and filled it. The shock was so much that the chef’s pregnant wife went into labour and he had to make a quick exit…

The convention must have been something of a success, though, because the world convention returned to Brighton and the Metropole Hotel in 1987. But that’s when things began to get a bit weird…

There had been a fireworks display on the sea front opposite the hotel; this had caused some consternation because the organisers wanted to put music on to accompany the fireworks, but the city council vetoed that. So the pyrotechnic engineers cheated a little and slightly increased some of the firework charges. The resulting display was deafening, with car alarms going off in a half-mile radius and some of the louder explosions echoing off buildings in the town.

Meanwhile, I had my second television appearance; this time, another BBC camera crew were filming in the convention’s art show and wanted some fans meeting friends they hadn’t seen for ages. So I was roped in to greet warmly some people who I’d spent the previous evening drinking with. This was unscripted, but I recollect that we had three takes before the director was satisfied. Of course, the broadcast footage looked incredibly staged.

And then there was the infamous (to those who knew about it) ‘hotel explorations’ of the late author Iain M. Banks, who took great delight in clandestinely going “behind the scenes” in the Metropole, just to see what was there. This later appeared as an episode in his novel Use of Weapons where his protagonist does likewise with a hotel – and more, engaging in climbing expeditions on the outside of the building, just for the fun of it…

But that was as nothing compared to the arguments going on behind the scenes in the hotel. There had been issues over some of the function rooms that had been booked and paid for; when the convention tried to use some of these rooms, they found that there were still painters and decorators in residence and some of the rooms were not ready – but the hotel did not seem to be interested in fulfilling their side of the contract. Then there were the attendees’ key cards. Most convention attendees received key cards marked with a green star. The reason for this was that it identified them as convention attendees as opposed to “proper” guests (convention room rates were usually lower than the hotel’s rack rates as part of the deal for filling the hotel and guaranteeing huge bar takings for three or four days; this was long before the Internet and getting the cheapest deal for your hotel room depending on who you book it through); and convention attendees were then not allowed to charge anything  to their room bills. And the hotel security staff were more than a little over-zealous over who they allowed to have access to which parts of the hotel, irrespective of whether they were residents or not. This came to a head at 11pm on the Saturday night, when the convention organisers pulled one particular American author out of bed – his day job was as a lawyer – to confront the hotel manager. Or the deputy manager, as it turned out, as the manager proper was not on site for that particular weekend. A major argument blew up.

The upshot of all this was two-fold. Firstly, the then owners of the hotel – a major hotel and catering chain – were soundly lambasted by convention attendees. At the gripe session – a regular feature of conventions, where attendees can attend and  deliver bouquets or brickbats after the main events of the weekend have finished – one particular friend stood up and declared that although he looked like an aging hippy (to be fair, I’ve known this guy for at least 35 years and he has always looked like an aging hippy), his Day Job was organising corporate conferences and training courses for the UK HQ of a major international computer company on the south coast of England (clue: all their executives wear blue suits, after which the company is nicknamed, their name consists of three letters, and they have no connection whatsoever with the computer HAL in Arthur C. Clarke’s 2001: a space odyssey, despite many people thinking that there was some sort of connection implied), and he said that after the treatment that both he personally and the convention had received at the hotel that weekend, he could assure everyone that the owners would never get any business from his company again. Anywhere in the world.

But something strange then happened. The deputy manager of the Metropole left the company shortly afterwards. A few years later, some convention organisers decided that Brighton was such a good venue that they should try organising another convention there. They enlisted the help of the official Brighton Conference bureau, whose remit was to bring conferences to Brighton. All was sweetness and light. The organisers chose their hotel and started negotiations. But then, about half-way through, the negotiations came to a sudden halt. The hotel terminated the discussion. No reason was given. The Conference Bureau made enquiries; they were given no explanation either. It wasn’t the personalities involved; science fiction conventions are usually organised by a group of people who come together for that sole purpose, so there was no connection between those organisers and the convention committee of the 1987 Worldcon. The deputy manager of the Metropole had never reappeared; and indeed, the hotel had changed hands twice since 1987. None of this made any difference. Other convention committees came to Brighton, but negotiations either came to nothing or never even started.

And so Brighton became known to the science fiction community as “The Forbidden City”.

Meanwhile, my life had moved on. In 1989, as a consequence of the privatisation of the UK water industry, the government took the decision to locate the regulator’s office, Ofwat, in Birmingham as it was equidistant from most of the water companies’ HQs. I took level transfer to Ofwat, and by a series of odd events found myself the organisation’s main trade union representative. I began rapidly making contacts and looking for support and advice, as I’d gone from being a floor representative within a union sub-Branch in one office of a department employing tens of thousands of staff to being the leader of trade unions in an entire Government Department; although that department only had a total of 250 staff at its height, my peers were suddenly people leading the unions in Departments such as the Ministry of Defence (MoD) or the Inland Revenue, with memberships in five or even six figures. Things were complicated by the fact that the union I was then in, the Civil and Public Services Association (CPSA) was known in some quarters as “the Beirut of the British trade union movement”. The level of internal conflict in CPSA was notorious, and had a shady origin in tales of conspiracy, plots, secret armies, infiltrators of Left and Right, and the efforts of the security services to keep a lid on all this. Back in the days of Harold Wilson’s Labour administration in the 1960s, there were rumours that the Prime Minister was a Russian spy (sound familiar?), and one David Stirling – founder of the SAS – and a bunch of cronies from the Clermont Club and similar establishments in Pall Mall had set up a private army ready to seize power. He claimed that he had many supporters in the Civil Service, and the security services promptly recruited some minor union officers to keep an eye on disruptive elements of both Left and Right. In time, these people became entrenched in CPSA and were elevated to high office. Others arose to counter them, seeing them as anti-democratic. For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.

So it was that CPSA conferences were pretty turbulent affairs. Stirling had recruited his insiders initially to cause trouble at conferences; the Left organised to repay that compliment. Over time, their influence waned, especially as changes in the Civil Service meant that there began a series of union mergers to reflect changes in Departmental structures and to present a more coherent and united front to a government determined to downsize the Civil Service and to degrade the terms and conditions of employment. CPSA and its fellow unions held their conferences, it was said, in “a seaside town beginning with B”, usually circulating between Blackpool, Bournemouth and Brighton; by the end of the 1990s, a series of mergers had created the Public and Commercial Services Union (PCS), which was of such a size that Brighton’s seafront conference centre was the only venue big enough for the annual delegate conference.

Conference Week was the main event in the union’s annual timetable. Over the preceding months, elections to the National Executive Committee had been held, and the results of those elections were usually published shortly before Conference. Meanwhile, Branches had been consulting members on motions for Conference; these had been submitted and the union’s Standing Orders Committee had considered the motions, brought together those which were on similar themes and had similar objectives in a process known as “compositing”, decided which motions were suitable for debate – there were a set of fairly bureaucratic rules determining the criteria under which motions could be ruled suitable or not suitable for Conference – and assembled a timetable for Conference which placed the most important motions first in each session’s business. If debate caused motions to run out of time, they were guillotined, though half of the final morning of Conference was set aside for guillotined motions to be heard, though it was down to the same Standing Orders Committee to decide which guillotined motions made it to the schedule.

Meanwhile, the normal pattern was for the union’s Sections and Groups – roughly corresponding to employing Departments – to hold their Conferences over the few days before main Conference. These Group Conferences would decide union policy in areas that solely concerned members’ terms and conditions in those Departments. After two or three days there, main Conference would start, with sessions lasting from 9am to 5:30pm, and with a tight timetable and a formal process to determine who should speak. And so it was that I ended up on the podium at least once each Conference, and on odd occasions three or four times.


One of my appearances at the Conference podium at Brighton (photo: Jon Gambit)

Conference was notable for a few things. One such was Popular Front, or “The Popular Front for the Liberation of the CPSA”, a scurrilous newsheet that circulated on the fringes of Conference and took satirical potshots at personalities on all sides of the union.  It drew its iconography from some of the formal politics of the Middle East (especially Gadaffi’s Libya), inspired by that “Beirut of the trade union movement” tag already mentioned. It is a bit of a surprise that it never got into more trouble with more people than it did. Regularly denounced from the top table, perhaps the best perspective on it would be a misquote of Oscar Wilde: “The only thing worse than being in Popular Front is not being in Popular Front.”

On another occasion, PCS conference made national news, though not through anything that happened in Conference itself. In November 1998 (Conference was very late that year because of merger timetables), the Royal Albion Hotel, at one end of the seafront, caught fire one breakfast-time. Apparently, the ventilation ducts from the kitchen hadn’t had their grease traps cleaned out for a number of years; so a minor frying pan fire rapidly escalated to a major conflagration.


The Royal Albion on fire, 1998 (Photo: BBC)

The hotel was being used by the MoD delegation, who had to evaculate in the clothes they stood up in. The union immediately made emergency payments available to affected delegates, though quizzical eyebrows were raised at the number of posh suits being claimed for by otherwise sartorially-challenged delegates; and there were red faces over the number of official MoD laptop computers being claimed for that should not have been being used for such non-official duties as union work. I was staying at the time in a small hotel in Hove, a good mile or more along the seafront; the column of smoke was visible as soon as I left the hotel and the location of the Albion meant that traffic was severely affected.

Our regular haunt for our Group Conference in later years was the Queens Hotel, not quite next door to the Albion, A slightly eccentric venue, the site was once occupied by an inn called ‘The Dolphin’ which was demolished in 1846. Next door was the famous Vapour Baths run by one Sheik Mahomet, who had been Shampooing Surgeon to King George IV. The baths were converted into the Markwell Hotel in 1869 and eventually were absorbed into the Queens Hotel.

And now I’ve been to my first TestBash. My last post talked about the content; I’ll just add that for me, it was even a new experience because of the venue, as the Clarendon Centre is located in an end of Brighton that I’ve never explored before. Of course, places look much different in winter (and be sure that March is still potentially winter in terms of the British weather! I’ve never seen snow in Brighton before until this year’s TestBash), so to close, and especially for TestBash attendees who might not have seen much of Brighton in the sunshine, here’s a portfolio of photographs I’ve taken in Brighton since 2003, showing some of the places I’ve named in this post (and a few others that I haven’t mentioned but which delegates might know).


Written by robertday154

April 2, 2018 at 12:24 am

Posted in Uncategorized

TestBash Brighton 2018 – a first-timer’s impressions

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(This blog post was written primarily for colleagues at my place of work and for possible circulation to our client base, to show the extent of the company’s commitment to testing as a discipline as a means of contributing to the overall quality of our product, which is a computer-based timetabling application for the higher education sector.)

TestBash Brighton 2018

Rosie Hamilton’s presentation, “Discovering Logic in Testing”. And yes, the slide on display really does say “That’s Impossible!” – A Developer. (photo courtesy of @flahertsy)

Although I‘ve been engaged in testing work of one sort or another since 1995, it’s only been since joining CELCAT in 2016 that I’ve had any sort of contact with the testing community. This came about because Ben Fellows, one of my colleagues on the testers’ team, was heavily involved in that community and encouraged new colleagues to take part. As a self-taught tester whose involvement in the craft pre-dates the main qualification in the profession, I jumped at the chance, participating firstly in the local Midlands Testers meetup, then exploring the on-line resources provided by the Ministry of Testing (which models itself on the night-club Ministry of Sound, rather than on any Government department), and finally attending their annual conference, TestBash Brighton, for the first time this year.

TestBash Brighton was their original test conference, and 2018 was their seventh such event. The format has proved so successful that it has spawned similar events in Manchester, Dublin, Munich, Utrecht and even Sydney; and similar conferences are springing up world-wide. Talking to test professionals in meetups, at conferences and online, one of the common themes that arise is that testers do not necessarily come from any sort of uniform background; indeed, the diversity of our various experiences is one of the strengths that the profession is beginning to appreciate. It is because of this diversity, and the variety of reactions to the very concept of “testing” that arise in different organisations, that the testing profession is evolving an idea of itself as a discrete discipline.

This was certainly reflected, for me, in one of the most noticeable things about TestBash itself – the levels of energy and commitment that were self-evident through the conference, starting with the organisers and spreading to the attendees. Many of those at TestBash were almost evangelical about testing, both in their work and in their daily lives. Certainly, the organisers’ personal enthusiasm spread into the conference itself; they were organising it because testing was their passion first, and their job second.

(Although this was my first TestBash, it was certainly not my first conference; as a veteran of different conferences and conventions in a number of spheres, and a frequent speaker in front of large audiences, I recognised a lot of what I was seeing and could draw parallels with similar experiences elsewhere.)

This TestBash concentrated on a number of themes that are current in the IT industry generally. One is test automation – using computers to test computers, replicating the steps necessary to ensure that computer code is checked to try to ensure that applications work first time. A parallel thread was that of “exploratory testing”. Some people think that test automation means that there is no need for actual people to test applications. But automation is only part of the story. I like to use the analogy of test pilots. A test pilot doesn’t start by flipping all the switches in an aircraft’s cockpit to make sure that the landing lights work or the undercarriage retracts. That’s done on the production line before an aircraft ever flies. Rather, the test pilot gets into a new aeroplane to try it out, to establish the parameters of the “flight envelope” (how high the aeroplane can fly, how fast, how low and how slow), to explore the performance of the aeroplane against the specification, and to try it out in practice, to see if any unforeseen problems arise in everyday use and to see if it is safe for people to get on that aeroplane and use it, day in and day out. This is something that only human beings can do by taking the role of the end user and reporting any issues, from the trivial to the highly impactful.

This process isn’t guaranteed to find every problem – no piece of software can ever be guaranteed 100% bug-free – but proper, focussed exploratory testing can hopefully find the worst issues and highlight them so that the business can decide the priority for fixing them. Obviously, the more this can be done before the application is shipped, the better.

Other sessions looked at issues relating to the management of testing using what is known as the “Agile process”; whilst there were some speakers who looked at wider workplace issues about keeping people in general, and testers in particular, happy, healthy and productive, and how to support them when these things go wrong. Some delegates queried whether this was the right place to raise such issues; but TestBash is set up as a “safe space” where testers can discuss any matters that concern them, and there are not many forums nowadays where grassroots workers can get together and explore some of these issues.

The CELCAT test team found TestBash a useful and enjoyable few days which has given us a lot to think about. Ultimately, the aim is to use the best and most up-to-date techniques to improve the product that CELCAT creates and to improve the customer’s experience. CELCAT’s testers are an integral part of that process.


The talented Constance ( has now produced one of her wonderful comics about TestBash. I never knew my beard was that grey…

Written by robertday154

March 21, 2018 at 1:47 pm

Posted in Uncategorized

Knowledge is power

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Part of my own library, rather than a public one

Part of my own library, rather than a public one

I came across this blog post from the USA about the role of free libraries in education and social development. It interested me because the writer was from a much younger generation, and started using their library in a time when libraries generally were beginning to get to grips with what we used to call “the Information Revolution”. The blogger remembers first coming into contact with audio-visual formats in their library, and accessing the Internet for the first time in that library. It’s interesting to have this perspective, because I’m from the generation where libraries were equated with books; and very many opinion formers – writers, thinkers and a whole range of people in different walks of life whose work I absorbed – themselves promoted libraries as formative and positive influences at the time when they only contained books. It’s reassuring to read an account that suggests that libraries are as important now as they have ever been.

I responded to that blog, and I repeat my posting below.


Here in the UK, we had Carnegie libraries too, and many are still revered in their local communities. Sadly, the concept of the library as a public service has been eroded because of the financial crisis. With the austerity cutbacks imposed by the Cameron administration from 2010 onwards, local councils (who administer public libraries) had their budgets slashed and many of them cut back on library provision. In a lot of areas — my village included — libraries closed and were handed over to volunteers to run.

This puts me in a quandary. Forty years ago, I trained to be a librarian, because in those pre-Internet days, librarians were the local experts at helping people access knowledge. Sadly, Government policies back then meant that I never fulfilled my ambition to work in a library and help expand free access to information to all. Now I find that the local library is asking for volunteers to help run it. I could do that (or I could if I wasn’t working full-time in IT). But why should I give away for free what I trained and studied long hours for so I could earn a living? When the Government of the day discounts and devalues your job, why should I collude with them by agreeing to work for nothing?

I wanted to become a librarian because in my home town, I went into the library and was staggered by the fact that in that one place, in an unremarkable mill town in the Midlands, there was one place where (potentially) all of human knowledge could be accessed; and this was replicated across the country (and, indeed, the world). And it was open to everyone who wanted it. It also gave me a feeling for books, and reading, and (eventually) writing too. I may not have become a librarian, but at least I can now say that I have a few books to my name, that I’ve made a small contribution to the sum total of human knowledge, even if it is pretty small and quite esoteric, and likely to be of interest to only a small number of people.

I am concerned that the Internet age has made knowledge, in some ways, more commodified; to access it, you now need to own a particular device, pay for a service to connect it to the Web, have power to run it, and possibly (in the case of streaming services) also have to pay to access the content. There may well be a case for that for things that are optional, such as entertainment, though even entertainment may have educational value. But access to knowledge and information should be a basic freedom, allowing for individuals to make informed choices in life and (perhaps more importantly) preventing them from making bad choices. The control of information is something that all tyrants throughout history have exercised; when someone tries to restrict the information you can access, or brands one source of information as “bad” or “fake”, then you can be sure that they are trying to tilt the playing field in their favour and keep everyone else in the dark about their intentions. Knowledge, after all, is power.


Written by robertday154

February 23, 2018 at 10:12 am

Posted in Uncategorized

Fiesta’s end

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OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERARegular readers will remember that at the end of 2016, I swapped my Mercedes C-class for a 17-year-old Ford Fiesta, in the face of looming garage bills when I was without work. I reckoned that such a car would be a short-term measure to keep me mobile, and could almost be replaced out of petty cash, if necessary (albeit with something equally bargain basement). W643RRJ came to me with little more than 75,000 miles on the clock, and a record that suggested that it had spent most of its life in the Preston area and may well have been the conveyance of a number of elderly ladies.

I proceeded to bat up and down the M69 in my daily commute to work in Coventry, something that soon exposed its limitations. Acceleration was unspectacular, the boxy shape was subject to crosswinds, cornering was exciting for all the wrong reasons, and top speed was somewhere just over 80 mph if you could get a good run up to it. It looked fairly rough because it hadn’t really been looked after, internal noise was dreadful, any overtaking manoeuvre on the motorway had to be planned a good two miles in advance because of the lack of any top-end acceleration, and worst of all, it garnered absolutely no respect from other road users. This last one wouldn’t be an issue if I was only pootling to and from the shops; but in rush-hour motorway traffic, mixing it with HGVs and Type A psychopathic personalities in their Audis and BMWs, it was positively dangerous. A couple of times I was severely hustled by lorries, whose company names were conveniently difficult to read, and to whose managing directors I would have delivered a severe bollocking had I been able to identify the operator.

It let me down three times. The first time, the windscreen wipers failed in a severe rainstorm. The RAC (Royal Automobile Club for non-UK readers) came out and fixed it with what looked like a giant paperclip; it cost me £45 to repair and it only took my garage half an hour. The second time was a bit more hair-raising. Coming home one afternoon, I had a rear tyre blow out on the motorway at about 65 mph. Fortunately, the weather was dry and I was able to come to a halt on the hard shoulder in a cloud of smoke. The tyre had let go completely and the tread had separated from the sidewalls, which in turn were pretty much shredded to pieces. I had to have the RAC out to that one as well, as the car lacked a jack so I couldn’t change my own tyre.

I took it to the nearest tyre specialist the next morning. The guy looked at the remains of the burst tyre, and then said “I see your problem. There will have been radial cracks in the sidewalls – like these on the offside tyre.” So that was two new tyres, total £96, which as a casual purchase was not a good thing. (The two front tyres were fairly new – I had receipts for them – and that had lulled me into a false sense of security.)

The third time was unusual. Over the summer, I’d noticed that if I turned the heater on at night, the engine temperature rose. An examination of the coolant tank showed that I was losing water, but not very much. I took it for its MoT (annual safety check) in August, thinking that this would be a make-or-break deal. The verdict was good – all it needed to be road-legal was a new front wheel bearing, total cost £94. But when I went to get the car back from the garage, I just got home when I noticed the engine temperature rising again as I parked up. I opened the bonnet and saw water pouring out from the area of the heater. I obviously had some sort of leak, but I couldn’t see anything obvious. So I decided to refill the system once it was cold, and then go to work the next day as normal, but carrying water with me to refill if necessary, until I could get it looked at properly.

The next morning came and I set off. I got a mile down the road when the steam started coming from under the bonnet – but the engine temperature seemed normal. But the inside of the windscreen was misting up more than I’d expected – and it kept getting worse. The engine temperature was rising too – and the interior of the car was beginning to fill with steam. This was a problem. I was approaching the motorway junction to join the M69 to Coventry, and there was nowhere to pull over and stop. However, the motorway junction is also a junction with the M1, and there is a service area less than a mile from that junction. I headed for there, constantly wiping condensed water off the inside of the windscreen and with both windows open to try to get the steam out of the car.

I made it to the service area and summoned the RAC. They turned up fairly quickly, and diagnosed the problem. The heater control valve on the Fiesta was made out of plastic; and it looked as though it had reached the end of its life. As with most plastics, heat and vibration would tend to make it brittle; and even if that was considered to be a problem, the designers almost certainly considered that a design life of ten years was sufficient for this car. Seventeen years was never considered. So when I noticed the first engine temperature rises, the valve had probably developed cracks and some coolant weepage. But when I’d taken it to have the bearing replaced, the garage had lifted the car on a trolley jack, and most likely let the jack down by gravity when the job was done. No problem 99% of the time, but the shock of the car hitting the ground, even though it would have bounced quite happily on its suspension, would have been the final straw for the heater valve, and the inlet and outlet pipes had sheared off.

When I started driving the car, coolant would have sprayed out all over the engine compartment. The Fiesta has a transversely-mounted engine, and so directly underneath the heater valve is the exhaust manifold, with a steel heat shield over the top of it. The leaking coolant would have hit this and flashed straight into steam.

The RAC engineer said that this was a common problem with Fiestas, and then dug around in the van and came up with a little kit to bypass the valve so I could get back on the road. This bypass kit, which looked like nothing so much as the bypass Walter Tuttle, the guerilla heating engineer, installs in Sam Lowry’s flat in Terry Gilliam’s Brazil, effectively cut the heater out of the circuit, but that was hardly a problem for August, even given British weather. So I had something else to go back to the garage for (after the next pay day, of course).

Except that I never got there.

Come August Bank Holiday weekend, I was travelling along the A5 towards Atherstone. Approaching a junction, I could see in the distance a car turning out of a side-road on my left to make a right turn. It crossed my carriageway but then stopped, waiting for a gap in oncoming traffic. I lifted my foot off the accelerator, ready to brake. But then the other car either rolled back or reversed – I could not tell which, but it looked deliberate – leaving enough space for me to move into the centre of the road and pass them by, which I started to do.

Except that when I was within fifty yards, the other driver saw the road to their left was clear, and made their right turn, having forgotten I was there to their right. I had been accelerating, but when I saw them pull out, I immediately made an emergency brake application. But I was unable to stop in time and hit the other car squarely on their offside front wheel.

The driver of the other car and her mother were the only occupants; they were unhurt. So was I, after I’d let my hands have a good shake for a couple of minutes. The other driver summoned the police, who turned up reasonably quickly, but they saw no-one was injured, so they gave us an incident number and left.

My car was driveable, and the only damage was a severe crease in the bonnet.


Though I was unable to actually open the bonnet, I was able to complete my journey. The other car was not so lucky; the offside front wheel’s suspension had collapsed and it was undrivable.

The other driver’s father arrived after about half an hour to render assistance. His first words to me were “Did the police breathalyse her?” I replied “No. Is there any reason why they should have done?” He made the excuse that “I thought they did that to everyone in road accidents these days”, though I suspect he’d been watching too many police reality shows. I then said “You might want to change the subject” because that suggested to me that he thought that there would be a good reason why the police might breathalyse his daughter at 12 noon on a Saturday.

I completed my journey and later on got home without incident. The next morning, I had a call from the RAC’s Accident Assistance service. It turned out that we were both RAC members, and the RAC’s assistance service (actually sub-contracted) would happily take over the management of my claim, especially as they were able to offer me a better level of service than my own insurers (who didn’t offer a courtesy car if mine were to be off the road and were making noises about a £250 excess on a car that an online car buying service had said was possibly worth £250). They also told me that the other driver had admitted full liability. After I described the accident and the damage to my car, they declared it to be unroadworthy (as I couldn’t open the bonnet to replenish vital fluids or tackle a fire should one break out in the engine compartment), and they would arrange a courtesy car for me whilst my own vehicle was taken away for assessment.

The next week, a delivery-mileage Citroën C3 turned up (eventually – the hire firm’s delivery driver drove past me to the end of my road and then wondered why they couldn’t find me, despite the fact that I had been standing at the entrance to my driveway for nearly an hour waiting to flag them down. Ringing my phone never seemed to occur to them) and the Fiesta was taken away for inspection. Within a few days, the reply came back that the insurers would treat it as a Total Loss as it was beyond economic repair. I had assessed the repair cost as being somewhere in the £160 region even if I got myself a brand-new replacement bonnet rather than trawling for one around the scrappies of south Leicester and had my garage swap the bonnets over; but they did the full exercise, with new front bumper, front grilles, bonnet, badges, headlamp glasses, a check on an alignment jig, respray and so on, all by specialist companies and coming out with a repair cost somewhere in the low thousands. For a car that cost £450, that was never going to add up. Now, you might say that was overdoing it a bit; but the deal was to restore the car to exactly the condition it was in before the accident, though in fact the work they described would probably result in the car being in slightly better condition than before the collision.

They then offered me £575 in complete settlement, £150 more than I’d paid for the car in the first place; most of that would come from the other driver’s insurance, but £17.50 would come from selling the vehicle for scrap. Naturally, I agreed to this, though I harbour the suspicion that the vehicle actually went back into auction as it was driveable and had a long MoT as well – so if they made £20 on it at auction as an insurance write-off, they would be in profit. Though any prospective buyer would have an unpleasant surprise when they finally got the bonnet open and found no working heater in the car!

So there I was sitting on £575, which with cash I had set aside to repair the heater and have a couple of other things looked at I could make up to £750. What could I get for that sort of money?

First thoughts were “Not a lot much better.” But I trawled the online pages of the Auto Trader for vehicles within ten miles of home or ten miles of work in that price range. And in amongst the rows and rows of 15-year-old 1-litre hatchbacks in indifferent condition, I found something different that attracted me very much.

A Saab 9-3, just like the one I drove happily for many years, and blogged on when I had to let it go in 2012. 15 years old but less than 100,000 miles on the clock. (For Saabs, this is low mileage.) It was in the hands of a private dealer in Coventry, and from the looks of the photograph, I could pretty well work out where. It looked clean, and indeed a check online for its last MoTs (which you can now do) showed that between 2016 and 2017 it had only done 1,800 miles. It also showed that the car had been in the hands of a dealer for all that year; and I could see from the photographs (and later confirmed in person) that the car was not only clean, it was showroom clean and had even been cleaned on the underside. The only thing I could think was that it had gone into the garage (in Reading) as part-exchange, and it had sat in the showroom for a year because “Saab are out of business now” and “anyway, Jeremy Clarkson said that Saabs are just badge-engineered Vauxhalls” (which just shows what that fool really knows about cars). The only issue with it was that it was an automatic, and  not being the most modern of designs it could be heavy on fuel compared with a manual box. But – a Saab! I duly made an appointment to go and look at it.

As I got out of the car just around the corner from the address I’d been given, I saw two things. One was a Rover 75 that the same dealer had advertised. The Rover 75 was the  slightly upmarket saloon that the Rover Group tried to relaunch its fortunes with, and which BMW were so amazed by that they bought the company. (Apparently, they buy rival cars from time to time as ‘mystery buyers’ to suss out the competition. They were impressed with the 90, and when they heard that the Rover factory at Longbridge was up for sale, they went to look at it. Their reaction was “How can they build a car THAT good with a factory THAT BAD?“. The rest is a rather sad history.) This Rover 75 looked quite clean and nice, and it boded well for the sort of cars this dealer selected and presented.

The other thing was the dealer himself, a bloke in his late twenties or early thirties, with a broken arm in a cast. He said it was a rugby injury, and so he would let me have the car for a test drive of my own choosing. And so saying he handed me the keys and headed off back indoors! I did a round trip test drive of about ten miles, and by the time I’d got back, I’d decided that this was the car I wanted. After a little discussion, I gave the man a deposit.

I had to wait a few days for the insurance cheque to clear before transferring funds into the dealer’s account. This I did on a Friday night, but I was unable to arrange to pick it up until the following Monday, as I had to also give back the hire car on the same day. With the help of a colleague who drove me across Coventry, I was able to collect the Saab. We did the paperwork, and then the dealer gave me a ten-pound note. “I’m sorry” he said, “but I had to borrow it over the weekend. I had to run an errand, my wife’s away so she couldn’t drive me, my plaster doesn’t come off for another fortnight and your car’s the only automatic I’ve got in at the moment. So here’s what I owe you for the petrol I used.” I was flabbergasted. You do not expect that level of honesty from a back-street private car dealer.

And so I am a Saab owner again, much to my surprise! And this is the apple of my automative eye:


By dint of some gentle driving treatment (and inflating the tyres to their correct pressures), I was able to improve a displayed fuel consumption of 27.6 mpg to better than 30 mpg on my daily commute (ten minutes’ local driving, twenty minutes’ motorway driving followed by forty minutes or so in urban crawl), and with only slightly longer trips on motorways or trunk roads without stopping I have improved that to 32.6 mpg – not cosmically better, to be sure, but improvement in the right direction, and for a 15-year-old two-litre engine attached to an automatic box, not too bad. Interestingly, nine months driving the Fiesta seems to have broken me of the habit of driving fast (although I was never the fastest driver on the road; there was always someone wanting to go faster than me even when I was exceeding the speed limit). And it does an older car – or any car, for that matter – no good to be continually thrashed all the time. I suspect that many of the cars currently being driven on personal hire contracts, where in exchange for regular payments drivers get to hand the car back at the end of the contract period and choose a new one, are being driven into the ground and will be liabilities for anyone buying them in future time.

Three minor problems with the Saab – there is no rear parcel shelf (“Never had one” said the dealer, when I asked), the external air temperature sensor thinks it’s 50 degrees Celsius outside (and so the aircon gets pretty confused) and the radio aerial is held together with gaffer tape, and reception is therefore about as good as you’d expect. These things can be fixed fairly easily.

But  – a Saab!

I can now certainly hold my own with other traffic, and it commands a good deal more respect than the Fiesta ever did. I now drive with a dashboard camera for my own protection. But I drive with a smile on my face, and I don’t reach my destination feeling like a wrung-out dishcloth. And if that makes me a petrolhead, then so be it.

Written by robertday154

February 15, 2018 at 11:44 pm

Posted in Uncategorized

The best laid plans…

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I made myself a list towards the end of 2017. These are the ideas I have for blog posts, I thought. Let’s make a list so that I don’t forget them. Over the summer and autumn I had a few trips out, to County Durham and to Manchester; we lost Brian Aldiss, who I blogged on a few years ago; and I had an unexpected change to my motoring plans. Each of these and more were going to be the subject of detailed blog posts.

So what happened?

Christmas, that’s what. Come the end of the year, there’s not only Christmas (as someone once complained, “Why does Christmas always come at the time of year when the shops are so busy?”), but as Competition Secretary for Sutton Coldfield Model Makers, I have to prepare for the grand final competition at the end of the year. We hold monthly competitions, and the winners in the various classes go forward to the Finals, where the Model and Modeller of the Year are selected. That takes quite a bit of setting up; and then I have to collate the results, let the Chairman know the outcome so that the trophies can be suitably engraved, print out the certificates and generally make everything ready for our Awards Night which is usually in the second week of December.

At the same time, as Secretary of the Austrian Railway Group, I had to finalise minutes from our last Committee meeting, which we held in November, ready for the next in January. I did actually manage to send a batch of Christmas cards this year – the first time for a couple of years that this has been an affordable exercise – and for those who don’t normally see either me in person or this blog I had to enclose a “round robin” letter just to explain what had been happening to me recently. (This caused a little amusement as one recipient rang my sister in some shock and horror as to what had been happening to me!)

So with all that, seven blog posts – yes, that was my plan! – went out of the window. So here’s a round-up of the things my regular readers might be interested to hear about.

Most of this will consist of pictures.


Such as these from a trip to the Tanfield Railway, in County Durham. Tanfield is a bit unusual, in that it is a restored colliery railway, whose passenger service was restricted to colliers going to and from the pit. The north-east of England was the birthplace of railways, the Tanfield line being able to trace its origins back to the Causey waggonway which opened in 1725. Waggonways – primitive railways using initially wooden rails and horse-drawn wagons – date back in this country to the early 1600s, though the use of tubs on rails in mines and quarries can be traced back in Germany to perhaps the late 1400s. These waggonways evolved into the modern railways we know over the following hundred years, first adopting iron rails and then steam locomotives in the first quarter of the nineteenth century.

Tanfield has worked hard to retain its colliery railway atmosphere, and the result is a fine example of combining the attractions of a steam railway with an accurate approach to history. No former main-line locomotives and coaches here, but a range of stock reflecting the sort of railways to be found in the area. They also have the sheds and workshops as open to the public as seems safe, and also allow the more intrepid visitors to wander around the sidings that hold stock awaiting restoration. Too often nowadays, the sort of decrepitude that photographers love is locked away under the banner of “health and safety” – not that I’m against health and safety, you understand. I just find it a shame that my pleasure in finding photogenic industrial grot is constrained by the likely actions of less responsible members of the public who would treat such a thing as an adventure playground but then cry “foul” when it all ends in tears.

Without the opportunity to wander around at will, we wouldn’t have found something truly odd – a locomotive from the Tasmanian Government Railways, repatriated to the UK a number of years ago by a private owner who then didn’t have the necessary funds to actually restore the thing. It’s quite a substantial engine, too – an M class 4-6-2, and it’s at Tanfield because it was built by Robert Stephenson & Hawthorne’s in Newcastle.


Tasmanian Government Railways class M at Tanfield, 2017

It should look like this:


By Hothguard11 – Taken at BRMA Model Train Show 2013, at Tasmanian Transport Museum, CC BY-SA 3.0,

Which has given me another idea for a writing project – a series on overseas locomotives in the UK, to be entitled A Corner of an English field…

A few weeks later, a trip to Manchester, acting as chauffeur, gave me spare time in the city, which I occupied with a little museum-going; most specifically to the Museum of Science and Industry, the Imperial War Museum North, and to the Greater Manchester Museum of Transport. This last one is housed in part of a bus garage out at Cheetham, but it is easily accessible via the Manchester Metro tram service and then perhaps 10-15 minutes’ walk. The garage itself is interesting; its appointments, such as the canteen and other offices are all part of the experience and add to the atmosphere of the place. But the key exhibits are the buses.


The late Alan Coren once said “You could understand people being trainspotters when the trains were worth looking at. Nowadays, they all just look like Tetra-Paks.” Well, I feel pretty much the same about buses.

In October, a railway museum closed. You’d think that this would be pretty big news; but no. And there was a fairly good reason for that. The museum in question was the Electric Railway Museum, and their remit was to preserve and educate about electric railways in the UK. That’s not the most sexy subject if you think about “heritage railways”; yet it’s important. So much of the daily commuting by rail in this country is by electric railway; these mass people movers have been so very important in the economic life and history of the country. Yet, beyond the London Underground – which is more than adequately covered elsewhere – very little attention has been paid to electric railways in this country. (It’s different overseas, especially on the Continent, where there is a lot of interest in electric locomotives – but they have a lot of interesting examples, all bonnets and bus-bars and insulators and ventilation grilles and connecting rods, many as ugly as a box of frogs but possessing a certain charm.)

The Electric Railway Museum, on a brownfield site on the outskirts of Coventry, was beginning to get a handle on their development when the plug was pulled on them by the city council, as leaseholders, who had sold the land off as part of a redevelopment deal for new industrial premises. So they had to close and vacate the site, the collection being scattered to different sites across the country, pending their getting them together again at some point in the future.

I said that this wasn’t big news; actually, it made quite a splash locally, to the extent that on their last open day, they were inundated with visitors, more than they had ever seen before (indeed, probably more in one weekend than they’d had throughout their existence!). A shame that more hadn’t been to it before; and a shame that the council, having pulled the plug on them, didn’t see it as an obligation to help them find another site.


As the year drew to a close, I went out early one morning to photograph a steam excursion, with the newly-restored Great Western ‘Castle’ class locomotive Earl of Mount Edgecombe out on the main line. I don’t do many of these trips, because it can sometimes involve a lot of travel for a very brief glimpse of an engine in full cry on the main line; but this was only a few miles away on the south side of Leicester and I was lucky enough to find a good spot to photograph. And it wasn’t far on a cold morning.


Great Western in Leicestershire – Earl of Mount Edgecombe outside South Wigston

The final railway trip of the year was to the Severn Valley Railway. A colleague very kindly passed me some shareholders’ tickets that needed to be used before the end of the year, so a crisp December day saw us making the journey from Kidderminster to Bridgnorth. We had a spirited run behind a rebuilt Bullied Pacific, Taw Valley, along the line; just outside Kidderminster, the traveller gets the rare chance to see rhinos, elephants and other wildlife as the line skirts a safari park.  I hadn’t been up into Bridgnorth town for very many years, so that made for a pleasant excursion, together with a (rather slippery) walk around Castle Hill to look at the funicular railway (the only one in the UK not at a seaside resort) and a fine view over the River Severn.


And that was the end of the year. 2018 dawned with my catching flu, like so many others; and the possibility of change once more. But that’s for the future, perhaps. Meanwhile, although I haven’t told the story of my car, I think I’ll leave that for another post…

Written by robertday154

February 10, 2018 at 6:07 pm

Posted in Uncategorized