Dying embers of the Combe Norton branch…

In the late 1950s in a curious act of fore-sight the management of British Railways gave branch lines across the country one last chance, could the improvements in efficiency brought by the humble rail bus allow these lightly used but in many ways 'vital' services to break even, or at least, stem the losses?

In reality of course the experiment came too early, yet also too late. The rationalisation of staff and operation that in parallel with the railbus may have saved more branch lines was a few years away in the 1963 Beeching report on the reshaping of Britain's rail byways. The light weight vehicles alone could not make the financial savings required, and whilst they offered comfortable and clean transport, they lacked the flexibility and timetable of the road bus or dare I say it the beginning of the era of personal transportation, that damn car.

Were not these branchline memories themselves a sign of our own changing humanity?

Held in our stories with the fondness of memory like a great aunt we look forward to visiting from a village we haven’t lived in for a long time. 

Their lives lived every day. Not just on special tween times that reunite us for one celebration that becomes another. Their lives lived every day and sometimes as unintentionally singular prose. Private by circumstance. 

Branchline railways reaching out from the main trunk to offer a home to birds and bees and us and we and cups of tea and biscuits please. We can’t always be the place we’re going and sometimes where we come from. 

The railbus waiting on platform three takes us back to where our path began. It’s smaller rails our humble path in the story of our name.

This beautiful prose is from Chris, thank you my friend.

I hope you've enjoyed another of those ad-hoc Hilton and Mears, we're here all week! Until next time, more soon...