With renewed interest in revitalising the services on the Knaresborough to York railway line in North Yorkshire currently in the air, I present the following ruminations on how the service might be promoted...
‘Ouse-Nidd Express’
I don’t think so. The name will not catch on…
But ‘market’ it, let people know!
“It’s central Yorkshire’s way to go”!
“Trans-Vale Executive - every day
with Business Class from Stray to Stray’!
‘Ouse-Nidd’? ‘Nidd-Ouse’?
(The men peruse…)
It’s got to have a ‘hook’,
A selling aspect, profile plus,
It’s there if we just look.
Okay, airlines might not lose out
And freight, that’s not its line
But competition must be more
Than just ‘A59’.
Well, other aspects - something else?
Vacation angle, p’raps…
And heritage means revenue -
West Highland, Settle - Carlisle too;
Just look at tourist maps.
“Gothic splendour to the East -
A verdant gorge for eyes to feast
On to the West, then Yorkshire Dales
Rising up…”
Beyond these rails…
Because this is here. They're miles away
Far beyond the green and grey
Of fields. That’s all. Of pigs and cows
Who hear the train, look up and browse,
Like central Ireland, a Polish spring.
It’s the grass round here that’s interesting.
So.
‘Knaresborough - York’:
What can it mean?
What lurks unheard of in between?
Awesome vistas? Mountain ranges?
Orange-groved old-English granges?
None of this. No ‘selling’ factors.
Pig Sheds.
Silos.
Broken tractors.
No litany of exotic venues, this
No over-familiar names.
But quirky charm you cannot miss
A place of farms, not fame.
No.
It doesn’t even go from A to B but rather K to Y
In ‘ordinary’ railway style.
Lacklustre. Plain. Awry.
Does it encapsulate a time
When society really cared?
Or is it just a weary branch line that stayed because it’s there?
No portentous statement of an era
Bringing far-off places nearer
Just stations from which you… start.
Where semaphore and crossing gate
Bear testament to endless wait
For 150s that squeak and grate.
Which way does it come? Will it be late?
An emptiness that makes you dizzy.
Can this line be ever busy?
Yet, once aboard, in cosy heat
On blue veloured and comfy seat -
Was that a bridge?
I mustn’t blink -
That might have been some points I think.
And fishplates clack on single track
Where rusty ballast brown and old
Spills down the bank to rabbit holes
Punctuating telegraph poles…
But level, flat?
I’ll grant you that.
Tedious - but it has connections.
‘Glamour’s just a change away’.
People forget that railways are
A means to reach an end.
So forget ‘romantic’, forget the twee;
It’s a railway line for you and me
To travel when we want to be
Elsewhere. At ease. Without a care.
A simple route. To take us there.
The country should be criss-crossed
With routes as plain as this.
And if we had them, then we’d use them
And we’d give the car a miss.
Different people every journey.
An opportunity to learn,
You do the crossword, read a book,
Give the River Nidd a look.
The sights to see, the smells, the sound -
Become aware of the world around.
Therefore this rural ramble becomes a journey of the mind.
‘Enlightenment’
‘Discovery’
That is what you’ll find.
So there.
Now recount on what we’ve said:
The way our verbal journey lead
Subjectively from A to Z,
And how many things we’ve found to talk
About the Knaresborough line to York
Which, as a line, it works just fine
Connecting Y to K.
A simple link,
Offering time to think.
I hope it stays that way.
Wednesday 7 August 2013
Tuesday 6 August 2013
Llívia - Border Incidents at a Spanish Exclave
With a border dispute in Gibraltar making news at the moment, many people are citing the examples of Ceuta and Melilla, Spain’s own possessions in overseas territories (exclaves), as a good reason why Madrid’s kettle should stop calling the UK's pot black. Perhaps rightly so. But, in addition to Ceuta and Melilla which nestle on the north African coast of Morocco, there exists a little-known third Spanish exclave which, like Gibraltar, is located on the European mainland. However (and unlike Gibraltar) there don't appear to be any problems for those wishing to drive into it.
Situated two miles over Spain’s northern border, and surrounded by the Pyrénées-Orientales départment of southern France, is the small and attractive Spanish town of Llívia. Like Ceuta and Melilla, Llívia is a throwback to Spain’s past but rather than being a vestige of colonialism, its present isolation is the simple result of border changes several centuries ago. In 1659, the Treaty of the Pyrenees ceded a number of Spanish villages in the area to France although not Llívia, which, as a city, was to remain Spanish. It had been the ancient capital of Cerdanya and was perceived as too important to give away. Today it is a quiet tourist centre - location of ‘Europe’s oldest pharmacy’ - with a population of around 1500.
The principle complaints arising in Gibraltar arise from the Spanish insistence on delaying (and possibly eliciting a fee from) cross-border traffic. Such traffic travelling through France between mainland Spain and Llívia moves effortlessly on a quiet highway but this hasn’t always been the case.
Look on any Spanish map and it is the N-154 that links Llívia to Spain. Look on any French map and the N-154 becomes the D68 for 2 km through France. For many years, this road, on which foreign vehicles were prohibited until 1995, formed a crossroads at its junction with the Avenue Emmanuel Brousse - the deceptively unassuming name given to France’s main N20, the European trunk route E9, in that particular area. And it was here that belligerence (from both countries) raised its ugly head.
For the Spanish, the concept of having to yield to foreigners on what they considered a direct link between their own cities was out of the question. For the French, the N20 linked Paris to the Pyrénées and was a prime artery on its national road network.
Unsurprisingly both countries claimed right of way at this junction and it became the site of ‘la guerre des stops’. Priority became a matter of national pride. For years any ‘stop’ signs erected by one country were quickly taken down by the other and, unsurprisingly, the junction was the scene of many horrific accidents until the Spanish built a flyover - El Pont de Llívia - in 1983. (To add a certain frisson to negotiating the dangerous intersection, a level crossing with a 3rd rail electrified narrow gauge railway - ‘Le Train Jaune’ - was also incorporated into the site).
Closer to the exclave of Llívia, a less expensive compromise was reached when a roundabout (described, for some reason, as ‘lovely’ in local tourist literature) was constructed at the junction of the link road and the D30, the only other French road it crosses, which serves nearby villages. Even here, however, jingoism had its way. Despite having four roads feeding off it, the roundabout featured an astonishing number of no-left- and no-right-turn signs festooned along each of its approaches, which prohibited all traffic from going anywhere other than straight across. Other than giving way to the left, the two nations could cross each other’s path in relatively calm oblivion.
And it is this very European D68/D30 solution by which the Gibraltar problem can be solved. We might ask our old allies the French to tax the Spanish as they pass through their sovereign territory (the French could keep the income as ‘foreign aid’) but that would be unnecessarily confrontational. No, visitors to the rock should do what the Spanish and their neighbours do at Llívia - and which motorists across Europe do elsewhere to this very day.
Ignore the stop signs.
Situated two miles over Spain’s northern border, and surrounded by the Pyrénées-Orientales départment of southern France, is the small and attractive Spanish town of Llívia. Like Ceuta and Melilla, Llívia is a throwback to Spain’s past but rather than being a vestige of colonialism, its present isolation is the simple result of border changes several centuries ago. In 1659, the Treaty of the Pyrenees ceded a number of Spanish villages in the area to France although not Llívia, which, as a city, was to remain Spanish. It had been the ancient capital of Cerdanya and was perceived as too important to give away. Today it is a quiet tourist centre - location of ‘Europe’s oldest pharmacy’ - with a population of around 1500.
The principle complaints arising in Gibraltar arise from the Spanish insistence on delaying (and possibly eliciting a fee from) cross-border traffic. Such traffic travelling through France between mainland Spain and Llívia moves effortlessly on a quiet highway but this hasn’t always been the case.
Look on any Spanish map and it is the N-154 that links Llívia to Spain. Look on any French map and the N-154 becomes the D68 for 2 km through France. For many years, this road, on which foreign vehicles were prohibited until 1995, formed a crossroads at its junction with the Avenue Emmanuel Brousse - the deceptively unassuming name given to France’s main N20, the European trunk route E9, in that particular area. And it was here that belligerence (from both countries) raised its ugly head.
For the Spanish, the concept of having to yield to foreigners on what they considered a direct link between their own cities was out of the question. For the French, the N20 linked Paris to the Pyrénées and was a prime artery on its national road network.
Unsurprisingly both countries claimed right of way at this junction and it became the site of ‘la guerre des stops’. Priority became a matter of national pride. For years any ‘stop’ signs erected by one country were quickly taken down by the other and, unsurprisingly, the junction was the scene of many horrific accidents until the Spanish built a flyover - El Pont de Llívia - in 1983. (To add a certain frisson to negotiating the dangerous intersection, a level crossing with a 3rd rail electrified narrow gauge railway - ‘Le Train Jaune’ - was also incorporated into the site).
Closer to the exclave of Llívia, a less expensive compromise was reached when a roundabout (described, for some reason, as ‘lovely’ in local tourist literature) was constructed at the junction of the link road and the D30, the only other French road it crosses, which serves nearby villages. Even here, however, jingoism had its way. Despite having four roads feeding off it, the roundabout featured an astonishing number of no-left- and no-right-turn signs festooned along each of its approaches, which prohibited all traffic from going anywhere other than straight across. Other than giving way to the left, the two nations could cross each other’s path in relatively calm oblivion.
And it is this very European D68/D30 solution by which the Gibraltar problem can be solved. We might ask our old allies the French to tax the Spanish as they pass through their sovereign territory (the French could keep the income as ‘foreign aid’) but that would be unnecessarily confrontational. No, visitors to the rock should do what the Spanish and their neighbours do at Llívia - and which motorists across Europe do elsewhere to this very day.
Ignore the stop signs.
Friday 15 February 2013
A Film Review
There will be those of you who recall my old pal Vernon Thornycroft. Still floundering in the depths of pedagogy, he got in touch the other day to send me an interesting article from his archives. It relates to a film made by his amanuensis (and my friend) Simon Broad, which I recently had the chance to see and enjoy. I understand the BFI is considering a limited-edition release: I hope it goes ahead - the film is worth £29.99 of anybody's money.
The review was written by the internationally-renowned film academic Raymond Dogdirt and appeared in a 1974 edition of the well-respected film magazine "Screen & Sound".
I thought you might like to read it.
A STAGGERING OPUS - “Let The Dog See The Rabbit”
“Peter’s our biggest headache - professionally speaking...”
This tour de force from emerging writer and director Simon Broad presumes from its audience a uneasy conversance with its complex plot. Yet it can. This is familiar ground - and it is to the ground, downwards, that we look as the story begins on the footways, steps, the very earth from which our spirits emanate: the symbolism of the extractor fan - from where does it extract? A sequence of textured down shots as a young man - Noël - searches for an entrance - but an entrance to where? The doorway - when he eventually finds it - will be a portal to what? A fulfilled promise? An encounter? Imprisonment? Or worse?
And why does Noël search for “Richard Hart” when it is Peter we need to discover?
Broad’s portrayal of torpor as his protagonists fabricate their irksome relationships is overwhelming. This our territory, but with them in charge. It has never been so eerily uncomfortable.
London. And as a grey embankment drifts drearily away to Tomila’s Reverie, parallel themes emerges. Conspiratorial voices, dull administrators in lifeless offices, ponderous telephone calls, a Whitehall even Deighton would reject as moribund. The players take their time. It is the only weapon they have.
But Peter. Where is he? Where is this man with “lots of faces, for different occasions - self-centred to a frightening degree”?
Broad’s use of Rundgren’s ‘Initiation’ throughout the film is ironically apposite - for few here are being initiated. Collusion is rife: in their enclosed world they investigate potentially boundless realms, yet this is a film about entrapment and captivity. Any one is restrained by another. All are imprisoned within their own tortuous machinations. Even we, as audience, yearn for release. Yet we reject it.
Is that Peter?
Is that him struggling silently through a post-coital cigarette with Roland? It could be. Sarah loves him. They all love him. Despite Peter's “naïve romanticism”, his “pseudo intellectual ramblings” and "brandishing a flowery pen”, they love him. Why shouldn’t they? Isn’t Peter the escape they - we - you - I - all covet? Where is he, anyway?
As an essay in entrapment, ‘Let The Dog See The Rabbit’ is faultless. Even a frenetic walk through the racing traffic of Aldgate or cruising past hydrofoils on the Thames leads no-one to escape. We are all ensnared in the same melancholy intrigue.
So is this “about peace and self-development alone"? Is it a world where "one makes one’s own rules”? If so, how can it be?
And where is Peter?
Broad’s captivating use of 1⁄2” monochrome videotape perfectly enregisters the gloomy environs of his libretto. Ugly camera angles, awkward pans and anomolous pacing position this film at the forefront of a British ‘nouvelle vague’ (and I put the accent on ‘vague’). The flow has started, it has yet to reach its crest. What will the denouement be? What will our denouement be?
And what happened to Peter?
This magnificent work deserves your fullest attention. It is a masterpiece. Bravo, M. Broad!
(It certainly beats all that bollocks I foist onto my General Studies students at St Martin's every Tuesday night...).
Raymond Dogdirt - Screen & Sound. May 1974.
The review was written by the internationally-renowned film academic Raymond Dogdirt and appeared in a 1974 edition of the well-respected film magazine "Screen & Sound".
I thought you might like to read it.
A STAGGERING OPUS - “Let The Dog See The Rabbit”
“Peter’s our biggest headache - professionally speaking...”
This tour de force from emerging writer and director Simon Broad presumes from its audience a uneasy conversance with its complex plot. Yet it can. This is familiar ground - and it is to the ground, downwards, that we look as the story begins on the footways, steps, the very earth from which our spirits emanate: the symbolism of the extractor fan - from where does it extract? A sequence of textured down shots as a young man - Noël - searches for an entrance - but an entrance to where? The doorway - when he eventually finds it - will be a portal to what? A fulfilled promise? An encounter? Imprisonment? Or worse?
And why does Noël search for “Richard Hart” when it is Peter we need to discover?
Broad’s portrayal of torpor as his protagonists fabricate their irksome relationships is overwhelming. This our territory, but with them in charge. It has never been so eerily uncomfortable.
London. And as a grey embankment drifts drearily away to Tomila’s Reverie, parallel themes emerges. Conspiratorial voices, dull administrators in lifeless offices, ponderous telephone calls, a Whitehall even Deighton would reject as moribund. The players take their time. It is the only weapon they have.
But Peter. Where is he? Where is this man with “lots of faces, for different occasions - self-centred to a frightening degree”?
Broad’s use of Rundgren’s ‘Initiation’ throughout the film is ironically apposite - for few here are being initiated. Collusion is rife: in their enclosed world they investigate potentially boundless realms, yet this is a film about entrapment and captivity. Any one is restrained by another. All are imprisoned within their own tortuous machinations. Even we, as audience, yearn for release. Yet we reject it.
Is that Peter?
Is that him struggling silently through a post-coital cigarette with Roland? It could be. Sarah loves him. They all love him. Despite Peter's “naïve romanticism”, his “pseudo intellectual ramblings” and "brandishing a flowery pen”, they love him. Why shouldn’t they? Isn’t Peter the escape they - we - you - I - all covet? Where is he, anyway?
As an essay in entrapment, ‘Let The Dog See The Rabbit’ is faultless. Even a frenetic walk through the racing traffic of Aldgate or cruising past hydrofoils on the Thames leads no-one to escape. We are all ensnared in the same melancholy intrigue.
So is this “about peace and self-development alone"? Is it a world where "one makes one’s own rules”? If so, how can it be?
And where is Peter?
Broad’s captivating use of 1⁄2” monochrome videotape perfectly enregisters the gloomy environs of his libretto. Ugly camera angles, awkward pans and anomolous pacing position this film at the forefront of a British ‘nouvelle vague’ (and I put the accent on ‘vague’). The flow has started, it has yet to reach its crest. What will the denouement be? What will our denouement be?
And what happened to Peter?
This magnificent work deserves your fullest attention. It is a masterpiece. Bravo, M. Broad!
(It certainly beats all that bollocks I foist onto my General Studies students at St Martin's every Tuesday night...).
Raymond Dogdirt - Screen & Sound. May 1974.
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