Cardigan Bay

Before the fell doctor took his axe to it,

there was a line from Paddington via

Ruabon up the valley to Lake Bala

and so to Barmouth on Cardigan Bay.

What is left is Llangollen to Carrog,

a heritage line run by volunteers.

 

They have Thomas the Tank Engine days.

The smoke boxes are covered by plastic

faces – Edward, Gordon, Thomas himself.

We go en famille and our grandchild,

predictably, is enchanted but not

surprised. Her universe swarms with magic.

As we eat at a picnic table

on the platform, the Fat Controller

raises his hat to us. She stares enthralled.

 

How very Church of England these tales are,

though not without humour or pathos!

It is the old church – the Tory party at prayer,

and the old party – gentry and tenants.

The useful trains trundle to the beat of

Hymns Ancient & Modern – ‘The rich man

in his castle, The poor man at his gate’.

 

Our engine is Gordon, Britannia Class.

He pumps out gouts of steam as the gradient

rises steeply from Llangollen to Berwyn;

passes the Eisteddfod grounds and crosses

the Dee, where bathers wave from a shallow,

sandy inlet and the little one waves back;

climbs through the Berwyn Tunnel; pauses

at Glyndyfrdwy – where Owain Glyndwr

proclaimed himself Prince of Wales; and so –

past a meadow with sheep and a horse

by a river bend, through sparse woods of ash

and oak – to Carrog and a puppet show.