Thwarted

One of the disadvantages of living by a railway line is that you know no train has gone down the line even though the departures board tells you you've missed it. Rebranding the 0949 as the late-running 10:23 did little to instil confidence in the day's travel. Not only was the connection with the Southport missed, so was the later connection with the Blackpool train to pick up the Victoria to Southport train at Salford Crescent. I didn't see any great point in trying to get to Martin Mere today: I'd lost at least an hour and if the trains are going to be that unreliable I'd best pass on the experience.

The day's plans so violently scrubbed I wondered what to do instead while fighting a strong urge to say stuff this for a game of soldiers. Instead I got the bus to Huddersfield, like you do, and had a bit of an explore. I've not travelled the train line direct from Huddersfield to Sheffield through Penistone and wondered what the country was like.

It turned out to be a pleasant journey, winding its way round the rolling hills and townships of South Yorkshire. It was unsurprisingly quiet, the large whites outnumbered the woodpigeons and there was a remarkable absence of magpies. The only large flock of birds was the few dozen herring gulls and lesser black-backs having a bath on the River Don just outside Sheffield City Centre in the company of a little egret. What is likely to be my last swift of the year whizzed over Sheffield Station while I waited for the Manchester train.

The Peak District was bathed in a soft light as we chugged past fields dotted with jackdaws, rooks and carrion crows. A nice end to a not very productive day. And I had a better mental map of the Western edges of South Yorkshire.