Conditions Were Perfect: Old Railways, Abandoned Tents And Beached Cars

“This one’ll only go backwards boys,” the Scotsman said. The cheerful Englishman lined up at the front right corner of the car, where the wheel rested in a deep puddle, ready to push. Carl and I went for the left. Readies were exchanged. The Scotsman put the car in reverse and accelerated, sending a torrent of muddy water from the puddle straight into his friend’s face and down his front. The driver shook his head and put his hands in the air as if to say ‘how could I have known that would happen?’ The car went nowhere.After this the two men excused us and thanked us for our help. I recommended finding the local farmer, who’d have a tractor, but the Englishman said: “Yes, I thought of that too, but he’s not usually up for helping in these situations.”“Tell him I’ll pay him!” said the other man. The Englishman decided to walk back to his house to fetch a third car – ‘Pauline’s car’ – before resorting to contacting the farmer. I felt concerned for Pauline, who I worried might need her car to get to work the next day. He strode off ahead of us. We waved goodbye to the other man who’d got stuck originally, who would probably be home by now if only he’d slowed down and gone through the pothole instead of trying to avoid it. He stayed with the two cars, radio rock still emanating from his, looking completely flummoxed and a bit sad.Carl, Holly and I pondered the Englishman’s final words as we wandered homewards. ‘He’s not usually up for helping in these situations.’ These situations? How many times had this happened before?

On our way back we met two elderly men who had got themselves into quite the pickle. One of them, puffing and Scottish and complaining of his false knees, told me he’d managed to run his car into the ditch at the side of the track while trying to avoid a pothole. He had avoided the pothole, but not the ditch. Stuck, he’d trudged a mile or so to fetch a friend who owned a small four-by-four, and asked him to pull him out. His friend was a wiry Englishman, who in contrast to the first man maintained an air of baffled happy-go-luckiness, despite their predicament. He’d driven up in his nippy Suzuki or whatever it was, attempted to pass the stricken car on its right, left far too much space, and put his motor straight into the ditch opposite.“Ah left him plenty ae fuckin room,” the first man told us, as we got ready to push the four-by-four. The engine revved, scaring nearby birds. We bowed down against the back of the car and heaved. “Nope!” He shouted. It wouldn’t move. We tried pushing from the front, which yeilded some results but improved nothing. The driver’s side scraped dramatically along the rocks for about a metre until the vehicle stopped again, smoke billowing out from under the wheel arches. We would try the other car.

“This one’ll only go backwards boys,” the Scotsman said. The cheerful Englishman lined up at the front right corner of the car, where the wheel rested in a deep puddle, ready to push. Carl and I went for the left. Readies were exchanged. The Scotsman put the car in reverse and accelerated, sending a torrent of muddy water from the puddle straight into his friend’s face and down his front. The driver shook his head and put his hands in the air as if to say ‘how could I have known that would happen?’ The car went nowhere.After this the two men excused us and thanked us for our help. I recommended finding the local farmer, who’d have a tractor, but the Englishman said: “Yes, I thought of that too, but he’s not usually up for helping in these situations.”“Tell him I’ll pay him!” said the other man. The Englishman decided to walk back to his house to fetch a third car – ‘Pauline’s car’ – before resorting to contacting the farmer. I felt concerned for Pauline, who I worried might need her car to get to work the next day. He strode off ahead of us. We waved goodbye to the other man who’d got stuck originally, who would probably be home by now if only he’d slowed down and gone through the pothole instead of trying to avoid it. He stayed with the two cars, radio rock still emanating from his, looking completely flummoxed and a bit sad.Carl, Holly and I pondered the Englishman’s final words as we wandered homewards. ‘He’s not usually up for helping in these situations.’ These situations? How many times had this happened before?

On the way we passed the site of Little Water of Fleet, a smaller viaduct blown up by the army after the tracks and trains went. They’d asked to blow up the big viaduct as a training exercise, but permission had been refused, so they turned their eyes to the little one instead. The forest track now laid along the old route lurched left at this point, to avoid the fissure left by the bridge’s destruction, leaving the hundred metres or so before the drop to prosper in trees and bushes. We wanted to continue straight, to search for any structural remnants after all these years. So we ventured through the under and overgrowth. Not before long, we changed from casual explorers to intruders. We had found someone’s campsite. Two large green canopies were tied to trees; they sheltered a small triangular tent. On this day there seemed to be no sign of life, but there were bags of rubbish hanging from branches and more strewn on the floor. Empty cans of food, bottles of drink.Somebody had weaved the branches together at one side, as if to protect the camp from being seen from the track. Why? Twigs snapped, Holly’s collar jangled. We tiptoed past, worried someone – a rambler, a runaway, a vagrant – may be sleeping feet away from where we stepped. But it looked abandoned, for now – everything was covered in pine needles.We ate lunch at the loch, hearing nothing but the cries of swans on the water. It was a remote place, and this bevy of swans had skilfully avoided the ignominy of being bothered daily by children with clumps of bread in public parks, at least for this season, and sounded glad about it.

On our way back we met two elderly men who had got themselves into quite the pickle. One of them, puffing and Scottish and complaining of his false knees, told me he’d managed to run his car into the ditch at the side of the track while trying to avoid a pothole. He had avoided the pothole, but not the ditch. Stuck, he’d trudged a mile or so to fetch a friend who owned a small four-by-four, and asked him to pull him out. His friend was a wiry Englishman, who in contrast to the first man maintained an air of baffled happy-go-luckiness, despite their predicament. He’d driven up in his nippy Suzuki or whatever it was, attempted to pass the stricken car on its right, left far too much space, and put his motor straight into the ditch opposite.“Ah left him plenty ae fuckin room,” the first man told us, as we got ready to push the four-by-four. The engine revved, scaring nearby birds. We bowed down against the back of the car and heaved. “Nope!” He shouted. It wouldn’t move. We tried pushing from the front, which yeilded some results but improved nothing. The driver’s side scraped dramatically along the rocks for about a metre until the vehicle stopped again, smoke billowing out from under the wheel arches. We would try the other car.

“This one’ll only go backwards boys,” the Scotsman said. The cheerful Englishman lined up at the front right corner of the car, where the wheel rested in a deep puddle, ready to push. Carl and I went for the left. Readies were exchanged. The Scotsman put the car in reverse and accelerated, sending a torrent of muddy water from the puddle straight into his friend’s face and down his front. The driver shook his head and put his hands in the air as if to say ‘how could I have known that would happen?’ The car went nowhere.After this the two men excused us and thanked us for our help. I recommended finding the local farmer, who’d have a tractor, but the Englishman said: “Yes, I thought of that too, but he’s not usually up for helping in these situations.”“Tell him I’ll pay him!” said the other man. The Englishman decided to walk back to his house to fetch a third car – ‘Pauline’s car’ – before resorting to contacting the farmer. I felt concerned for Pauline, who I worried might need her car to get to work the next day. He strode off ahead of us. We waved goodbye to the other man who’d got stuck originally, who would probably be home by now if only he’d slowed down and gone through the pothole instead of trying to avoid it. He stayed with the two cars, radio rock still emanating from his, looking completely flummoxed and a bit sad.Carl, Holly and I pondered the Englishman’s final words as we wandered homewards. ‘He’s not usually up for helping in these situations.’ These situations? How many times had this happened before?

On the way we passed the site of Little Water of Fleet, a smaller viaduct blown up by the army after the tracks and trains went. They’d asked to blow up the big viaduct as a training exercise, but permission had been refused, so they turned their eyes to the little one instead. The forest track now laid along the old route lurched left at this point, to avoid the fissure left by the bridge’s destruction, leaving the hundred metres or so before the drop to prosper in trees and bushes. We wanted to continue straight, to search for any structural remnants after all these years. So we ventured through the under and overgrowth. Not before long, we changed from casual explorers to intruders. We had found someone’s campsite. Two large green canopies were tied to trees; they sheltered a small triangular tent. On this day there seemed to be no sign of life, but there were bags of rubbish hanging from branches and more strewn on the floor. Empty cans of food, bottles of drink.Somebody had weaved the branches together at one side, as if to protect the camp from being seen from the track. Why? Twigs snapped, Holly’s collar jangled. We tiptoed past, worried someone – a rambler, a runaway, a vagrant – may be sleeping feet away from where we stepped. But it looked abandoned, for now – everything was covered in pine needles.We ate lunch at the loch, hearing nothing but the cries of swans on the water. It was a remote place, and this bevy of swans had skilfully avoided the ignominy of being bothered daily by children with clumps of bread in public parks, at least for this season, and sounded glad about it.

On our way back we met two elderly men who had got themselves into quite the pickle. One of them, puffing and Scottish and complaining of his false knees, told me he’d managed to run his car into the ditch at the side of the track while trying to avoid a pothole. He had avoided the pothole, but not the ditch. Stuck, he’d trudged a mile or so to fetch a friend who owned a small four-by-four, and asked him to pull him out. His friend was a wiry Englishman, who in contrast to the first man maintained an air of baffled happy-go-luckiness, despite their predicament. He’d driven up in his nippy Suzuki or whatever it was, attempted to pass the stricken car on its right, left far too much space, and put his motor straight into the ditch opposite.“Ah left him plenty ae fuckin room,” the first man told us, as we got ready to push the four-by-four. The engine revved, scaring nearby birds. We bowed down against the back of the car and heaved. “Nope!” He shouted. It wouldn’t move. We tried pushing from the front, which yeilded some results but improved nothing. The driver’s side scraped dramatically along the rocks for about a metre until the vehicle stopped again, smoke billowing out from under the wheel arches. We would try the other car.

“This one’ll only go backwards boys,” the Scotsman said. The cheerful Englishman lined up at the front right corner of the car, where the wheel rested in a deep puddle, ready to push. Carl and I went for the left. Readies were exchanged. The Scotsman put the car in reverse and accelerated, sending a torrent of muddy water from the puddle straight into his friend’s face and down his front. The driver shook his head and put his hands in the air as if to say ‘how could I have known that would happen?’ The car went nowhere.After this the two men excused us and thanked us for our help. I recommended finding the local farmer, who’d have a tractor, but the Englishman said: “Yes, I thought of that too, but he’s not usually up for helping in these situations.”“Tell him I’ll pay him!” said the other man. The Englishman decided to walk back to his house to fetch a third car – ‘Pauline’s car’ – before resorting to contacting the farmer. I felt concerned for Pauline, who I worried might need her car to get to work the next day. He strode off ahead of us. We waved goodbye to the other man who’d got stuck originally, who would probably be home by now if only he’d slowed down and gone through the pothole instead of trying to avoid it. He stayed with the two cars, radio rock still emanating from his, looking completely flummoxed and a bit sad.Carl, Holly and I pondered the Englishman’s final words as we wandered homewards. ‘He’s not usually up for helping in these situations.’ These situations? How many times had this happened before?

Conditions were perfect, apart from that it had rained the previous day, meaning it was sometimes marshy underfoot. My friend Carl, my dog Holly and I followed the former Stranraer to Dumfries railway along from Big Water of Fleet viaduct to Loch Skerrow, where trains would pause to take on water and passengers could take in the splendour of their surroundings.It closed in 1965. You can still see the old platforms, cracked and mossy, surrounded by bare hills on one side and the loch on the other. Beyond the loch is Galloway Forest. The watering point is still there – still useable if ever required again – supplied by a natural stream.

On the way we passed the site of Little Water of Fleet, a smaller viaduct blown up by the army after the tracks and trains went. They’d asked to blow up the big viaduct as a training exercise, but permission had been refused, so they turned their eyes to the little one instead. The forest track now laid along the old route lurched left at this point, to avoid the fissure left by the bridge’s destruction, leaving the hundred metres or so before the drop to prosper in trees and bushes. We wanted to continue straight, to search for any structural remnants after all these years. So we ventured through the under and overgrowth. Not before long, we changed from casual explorers to intruders. We had found someone’s campsite. Two large green canopies were tied to trees; they sheltered a small triangular tent. On this day there seemed to be no sign of life, but there were bags of rubbish hanging from branches and more strewn on the floor. Empty cans of food, bottles of drink.Somebody had weaved the branches together at one side, as if to protect the camp from being seen from the track. Why? Twigs snapped, Holly’s collar jangled. We tiptoed past, worried someone – a rambler, a runaway, a vagrant – may be sleeping feet away from where we stepped. But it looked abandoned, for now – everything was covered in pine needles.We ate lunch at the loch, hearing nothing but the cries of swans on the water. It was a remote place, and this bevy of swans had skilfully avoided the ignominy of being bothered daily by children with clumps of bread in public parks, at least for this season, and sounded glad about it.

On our way back we met two elderly men who had got themselves into quite the pickle. One of them, puffing and Scottish and complaining of his false knees, told me he’d managed to run his car into the ditch at the side of the track while trying to avoid a pothole. He had avoided the pothole, but not the ditch. Stuck, he’d trudged a mile or so to fetch a friend who owned a small four-by-four, and asked him to pull him out. His friend was a wiry Englishman, who in contrast to the first man maintained an air of baffled happy-go-luckiness, despite their predicament. He’d driven up in his nippy Suzuki or whatever it was, attempted to pass the stricken car on its right, left far too much space, and put his motor straight into the ditch opposite.“Ah left him plenty ae fuckin room,” the first man told us, as we got ready to push the four-by-four. The engine revved, scaring nearby birds. We bowed down against the back of the car and heaved. “Nope!” He shouted. It wouldn’t move. We tried pushing from the front, which yeilded some results but improved nothing. The driver’s side scraped dramatically along the rocks for about a metre until the vehicle stopped again, smoke billowing out from under the wheel arches. We would try the other car.

“This one’ll only go backwards boys,” the Scotsman said. The cheerful Englishman lined up at the front right corner of the car, where the wheel rested in a deep puddle, ready to push. Carl and I went for the left. Readies were exchanged. The Scotsman put the car in reverse and accelerated, sending a torrent of muddy water from the puddle straight into his friend’s face and down his front. The driver shook his head and put his hands in the air as if to say ‘how could I have known that would happen?’ The car went nowhere.After this the two men excused us and thanked us for our help. I recommended finding the local farmer, who’d have a tractor, but the Englishman said: “Yes, I thought of that too, but he’s not usually up for helping in these situations.”“Tell him I’ll pay him!” said the other man. The Englishman decided to walk back to his house to fetch a third car – ‘Pauline’s car’ – before resorting to contacting the farmer. I felt concerned for Pauline, who I worried might need her car to get to work the next day. He strode off ahead of us. We waved goodbye to the other man who’d got stuck originally, who would probably be home by now if only he’d slowed down and gone through the pothole instead of trying to avoid it. He stayed with the two cars, radio rock still emanating from his, looking completely flummoxed and a bit sad.Carl, Holly and I pondered the Englishman’s final words as we wandered homewards. ‘He’s not usually up for helping in these situations.’ These situations? How many times had this happened before?

Conditions were perfect, apart from that it had rained the previous day, meaning it was sometimes marshy underfoot. My friend Carl, my dog Holly and I followed the former Stranraer to Dumfries railway along from Big Water of Fleet viaduct to Loch Skerrow, where trains would pause to take on water and passengers could take in the splendour of their surroundings.It closed in 1965. You can still see the old platforms, cracked and mossy, surrounded by bare hills on one side and the loch on the other. Beyond the loch is Galloway Forest. The watering point is still there – still useable if ever required again – supplied by a natural stream.

On the way we passed the site of Little Water of Fleet, a smaller viaduct blown up by the army after the tracks and trains went. They’d asked to blow up the big viaduct as a training exercise, but permission had been refused, so they turned their eyes to the little one instead. The forest track now laid along the old route lurched left at this point, to avoid the fissure left by the bridge’s destruction, leaving the hundred metres or so before the drop to prosper in trees and bushes. We wanted to continue straight, to search for any structural remnants after all these years. So we ventured through the under and overgrowth. Not before long, we changed from casual explorers to intruders. We had found someone’s campsite. Two large green canopies were tied to trees; they sheltered a small triangular tent. On this day there seemed to be no sign of life, but there were bags of rubbish hanging from branches and more strewn on the floor. Empty cans of food, bottles of drink.Somebody had weaved the branches together at one side, as if to protect the camp from being seen from the track. Why? Twigs snapped, Holly’s collar jangled. We tiptoed past, worried someone – a rambler, a runaway, a vagrant – may be sleeping feet away from where we stepped. But it looked abandoned, for now – everything was covered in pine needles.We ate lunch at the loch, hearing nothing but the cries of swans on the water. It was a remote place, and this bevy of swans had skilfully avoided the ignominy of being bothered daily by children with clumps of bread in public parks, at least for this season, and sounded glad about it.

On our way back we met two elderly men who had got themselves into quite the pickle. One of them, puffing and Scottish and complaining of his false knees, told me he’d managed to run his car into the ditch at the side of the track while trying to avoid a pothole. He had avoided the pothole, but not the ditch. Stuck, he’d trudged a mile or so to fetch a friend who owned a small four-by-four, and asked him to pull him out. His friend was a wiry Englishman, who in contrast to the first man maintained an air of baffled happy-go-luckiness, despite their predicament. He’d driven up in his nippy Suzuki or whatever it was, attempted to pass the stricken car on its right, left far too much space, and put his motor straight into the ditch opposite.“Ah left him plenty ae fuckin room,” the first man told us, as we got ready to push the four-by-four. The engine revved, scaring nearby birds. We bowed down against the back of the car and heaved. “Nope!” He shouted. It wouldn’t move. We tried pushing from the front, which yeilded some results but improved nothing. The driver’s side scraped dramatically along the rocks for about a metre until the vehicle stopped again, smoke billowing out from under the wheel arches. We would try the other car.

“This one’ll only go backwards boys,” the Scotsman said. The cheerful Englishman lined up at the front right corner of the car, where the wheel rested in a deep puddle, ready to push. Carl and I went for the left. Readies were exchanged. The Scotsman put the car in reverse and accelerated, sending a torrent of muddy water from the puddle straight into his friend’s face and down his front. The driver shook his head and put his hands in the air as if to say ‘how could I have known that would happen?’ The car went nowhere.After this the two men excused us and thanked us for our help. I recommended finding the local farmer, who’d have a tractor, but the Englishman said: “Yes, I thought of that too, but he’s not usually up for helping in these situations.”“Tell him I’ll pay him!” said the other man. The Englishman decided to walk back to his house to fetch a third car – ‘Pauline’s car’ – before resorting to contacting the farmer. I felt concerned for Pauline, who I worried might need her car to get to work the next day. He strode off ahead of us. We waved goodbye to the other man who’d got stuck originally, who would probably be home by now if only he’d slowed down and gone through the pothole instead of trying to avoid it. He stayed with the two cars, radio rock still emanating from his, looking completely flummoxed and a bit sad.Carl, Holly and I pondered the Englishman’s final words as we wandered homewards. ‘He’s not usually up for helping in these situations.’ These situations? How many times had this happened before?