As the mantle clock struck eight, its chimes mingling with hushed voices and the soft clink of crystal, the extended family and leading members of the Castle household gathered in the Birthing Chamber. Outside, the November sky over North Cornwall brightened from dawn's blush to a pale autumn light.

Lord Charles stood in the room's centre before a small table, carefully pouring the 1934 Dom Perignon into delicate flutes. His face was etched with relief and profound gratitude as he watched the bubbles race upward, mirroring the rising tide of emotion within the room. For a moment, he paused, composing himself as the weight of the occasion settled upon his shoulders. Then, clearing his throat, he turned to address the assembled group, ready to toast the newest addition to the Trevelver family.

"To Sylvia", he intoned, the corners of his eyes crinkling with pride. "May she carry forward the proud heritage of the Trevelvers."

A chorus of agreements rippled through the room as glasses were raised. Lady Penelope, still flushed from her ordeal, shifted in her bed, cradling Sylvia closer. Her weary smile spoke volumes as she gazed at her newborn.

Sir George, Sylvia's godfather, stood tall and proud, his usually reserved countenance softening as he beheld his goddaughter. Beside him, Lady Isadora, the child's godmother, discreetly dabbed at her eyes, her composure momentarily overcome.

At the edge of the room, Alfie, the Head Butler, maintained his impeccable posture, though his eyes shone with unmistakable warmth. Edith, the Housekeeper, allowed herself a small, satisfied smile as she oversaw the smooth running of this momentous occasion, her efficient movements reflecting years of devoted service.

As sunlight streamed through the windows, gradually warming the room, Sylvia surveyed the scene with inquisitive eyes the colour of sun-warmed chestnuts. Cradled in her mother's arms, her gaze darted from the dancing flames in the hearth to the faces surrounding her as if cataloguing each detail of her new world. Her tiny fingers clutched at the embroidered edges of the heirloom blanket, tracing the gentle waves and spirals that promised protection. The soft, stylised leaves and tiny stars seemed to shimmer under her touch, while the subtle animal guardians kept silent watch – dolphins for wisdom, owls for knowledge, and butterflies for transformation. As she gripped the delicate stitching of intertwined lines representing her unbroken maternal lineage, Sylvia unknowingly connected herself to generations past, her heritage flowing through the ancient blessing script as surely as it did through her veins.

Chapter 3: Echoes of Magic in Wartime

Emerald eyes gleaming in the firelight, the woman leaned forward. "Jeremy, in some families, power courses through the very essence of their being, transcending ordinary blood."

His fingers gripping worn leather, the companion's baritone filled the room. "Their lineage manifests power in ways others cannot conceive."

Jeremy's brow furrowed. "How can you tell when someone has those... powers?"

The woman glanced at the older man before answering. "There are signs, subtle at first—unexplained occurrences, unusual perceptions, an uncanny affinity with nature."

"As the child grows", the man added, his voice low and measured, "these signs become more pronounced. Until..."

"Something occurs", the woman interjected, her eyes holding a mysterious glint, "that irrevocably alters their life".

Jeremy leaned in, his curiosity piqued. "What kind of occurrence?"

The woman's lips curved enigmatically. "Let me tell you about a little girl's fifth birthday, when the first flicker of her power manifested through candles that behaved rather... unexpectedly."

Quote from: Chris in Prague on August 25, 2024, 05:41:49 AMand hope that it's nothing serious.

Oh it was extremely serious Chris! I had to have a few days back home visiting my brother and his wife in Essex  . Mind you, he did take me to 'Colne Valley Railway' - I am of course not talking about the proper Colne Valley back in Yorkshire, but a little Colne Valley in Essex. However, the railway is well worth a visit, (I might do a travalogue a la @Bealman !  ). If not tonight, I will catch up properly tomorrow. 

Quote from: dannyboy on August 30, 2024, 06:34:50 PM

Quote from: Chris in Prague on August 25, 2024, 05:41:49 AMand hope that it's nothing serious.

Oh it was extremely serious Chris! I had to have a few days back home visiting my brother and his wife in Essex  . Mind you, he did take me to 'Colne Valley Railway' - I am of course not talking about the proper Colne Valley back in Yorkshire, but a little Colne Valley in Essex. However, the railway is well worth a visit, (I might do a travalogue a la @Bealman !  ). If not tonight, I will catch up properly tomorrow. 

Thanks, David. That sounds like an enjoyable time. Is that the CVR that has some ex-BR Class 03 diesel hunters, amongst other railway items? I look forward to your travelogue.

Best wishes,
Chris

[A longer episode today.]

As Europe simmered with shifting alliances and mounting tensions, Sylvia's childhood unfolded within the weathered walls of Trevelver Castle. From a wide-eyed toddler to a sharp-witted seven-year-old, she grew amidst a world on the brink of upheaval. Her small hands traced worn tapestries depicting long-ago battles, an unwitting parallel to the conflicts brewing beyond the Castle gates.

Sylvia's brown eyes, flecked with gold, missed little. She eavesdropped on hushed conversations between her father and grim-faced men in military uniform, while poring over discarded newspapers. Her young mind struggled with words like "ultimatum" and "mobilisation", sensing their gravity without fully grasping their meaning. Even as nations braced for war, the ancient rhythms of Castle life endured. Centuries-old floorboards creaked underfoot, and hymns echoed from the grey stone Early Gothic chapel dedicated to Saint Petroc—a timeless constant amidst the looming chaos.

Doted upon by her parents and grandmother, Sylvia was steeped in Trevelver traditions from her earliest days. Lady Margaret, in particular, took a keen interest in her granddaughter's education, imparting both practical skills and mystical lore. Under her grandmother's tutelage, Sylvia began to understand that the Castle was more than just her home—it was a repository of secrets and power, waiting for her to uncover its depths.

One crisp autumn morning, as leaves crunched underfoot, Lady Margaret gently took Sylvia's small hand in hers. "Come, my dear Sylvie", she said, her dark eyes twinkling with excitement. "Let's explore some of the treasures of our land." At their heels, Rusty trotted eagerly, his warm russet coat gleaming in the dappled sunlight. The Cocker Spaniel's nose worked overtime, sniffing at every leaf and twig, his tail wagging in anticipation of the adventure ahead.

One crisp autumn morning, as leaves crunched underfoot, Lady Margaret gently took Sylvia's small hand in hers. "Come, my dear Sylvie", she said, her dark eyes twinkling with excitement. "Let's explore some of the treasures of our land."

At their heels, Rusty trotted eagerly, his warm russet coat gleaming in the dappled sunlight. The Cocker Spaniel's nose worked overtime, sniffing at every leaf and twig, his tail wagging in anticipation of the adventure ahead.

In the distance, the faint whistle of a train echoed across the countryside, its rhythmic chugging a comforting reminder of the world beyond their magical realm. The sound seemed to blend seamlessly with the rustling leaves and Rusty's happy panting, creating a soothing backdrop for their expedition.

Sylvia squeezed her grandmother's hand, feeling a surge of excitement. The familiar train sounds, a constant presence in her life at Trevelver Castle, now seemed to take on a new significance. They were a gentle reminder of the ordinary world that existed alongside their extraordinary one, a world she was learning to navigate with increasing skill.

As they set off down the leaf-strewn path, the distant train continued its journey, its sounds fading in and out like the ebb and flow of magic itself. Sylvia wondered what adventures awaited them in the crisp autumn air, her heart light with the joy of discovery and the comforting presence of her grandmother and the faithful Rusty.

Venturing beyond the Castle grounds, Sylvia's eyes widened with wonder. Lady Margaret knelt beside a fragrant patch of herbs, her veined hands caressing the delicate leaves. "See here? This carpet of green is Wild Thyme", she explained softly. "Breathe deeply, child."

Sylvia closed her eyes and inhaled, a smile spreading across her face. "It smells like... sunshine!" she exclaimed, eliciting a warm chuckle from her grandmother.

As they continued their ramble, Lady Margaret's tone grew serious. She pointed to a cluster of beautiful purple flowers, their bell-shaped blooms nodding gently in the breeze. "See the Foxglove here? Its bells hold powerful medicine for the heart, but can be deadly if misused."

Sylvia's brow furrowed as she nodded solemnly, committing the plant's appearance to memory. Her small hand reached out, hovering just above the delicate petals. "It's beautiful", she whispered, "but dangerous".

"Just so, my dear", Lady Margaret replied, a proud smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Nature, like life, is full of such dualities."

Their path then led them through an ancient archway in the Castle wall, a short walk from the Great Kitchen. As they stepped through, Sylvia's eyes widened at the sight before her: a well-tended stone-walled herb garden, its neat beds filled with a tapestry of green leaves and colourful blooms.

Lady Margaret's face lit up with pride as she gestured to the carefully arranged plots. "This, Sylvia, is where we cultivate the herbs that have aided our family for generations. Each plant here has a story and a purpose."

Sylvia inhaled deeply, savouring the mingled scents of Lavender, Rosemary, and countless other herbs. Her fingers traced the feathery leaves of Yarrow as she pondered the garden's secrets. "What does this one do, Grandmama?" she asked, her voice brimming with curiosity.

"Ah, that's a true warrior's herb", Lady Margaret replied, her eyes sparkling. "It stops bleeding and fights fever."

Their path wound past beds of Sage, where Lady Margaret paused to pluck a leaf, crushing it between her fingers. "Inhale deeply, my dear", she instructed, her eyes twinkling with a mix of reverence and mischief. "Sage is a faithful friend in the kitchen, but it's also a powerful ally against sore throats and winter's chill." Sylvia leaned in, her nose wrinkling slightly at the strong scent.

As they strolled through the misty grounds one morning, Lady Margaret told more tales of Trevelver's history, which danced on the edge of fairy tales. Their path soon led them to a cluster of gnarled trees, their twisted branches reaching out like grasping fingers. Lady Margaret paused, her voice softening with reverence.

"Ah, Sylvie", she murmured, gesturing to the ancient specimens. "These are Hawthorns—the fairies' own trees and a living part of our estate's lore." Her wrinkle-skinned hand reached out, caressing a gnarled branch. "Their berries and flowers are a tonic for the heart—both the physical and the spiritual."

Sylvia's eyes widened, her gaze transfixed by the trees' otherworldly presence. "But why are they the fairies' own trees, Grandmama?" she asked, her voice hushed with wonder and curiosity.

Lady Margaret smiled, pleased by her granddaughter's interest. "Well, my dear, Hawthorns are said to guard the entrance to the fairy realm. The fae folk are drawn to their beauty and magic. It's believed they bloom on May Eve, when the veil between our world and theirs is thinnest."

She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Some say if you sit beneath a Hawthorn on Midsummer's Eve, you might hear the fairies whisper their secrets. But be careful", she added with a wink, "for they are beings as mischievous as they are magical."

Sylvia's imagination soared, picturing moonlit gatherings of ethereal beings. She reached out tentatively to touch the rough bark, half-expecting to feel a spark of magic beneath her fingertips. In her mind's eye, she could almost see tiny, gossamer-winged creatures flitting among the leaves, guardians of centuries-old secrets.

As the years passed, these walks and stories became a cherished ritual. Sylvia grew taller, her questions more insightful, but her wonder never dimmed. Rusty remained a constant companion, though his muzzle gradually greyed and his pace slowed. In the Castle's walled herb garden, Lady Margaret taught Sylvia the art of harvesting and drying herbs in the little granite-built herb house, while Rusty dozed contentedly in patches of sunlight, his nose twitching at the myriad scents.

One summer afternoon, as they hung sprigs of Borage to dry, Sylvia's face lit up with recognition. "The star-shaped flowers! They're the ones you put in our summer drinks, aren't they, Grandmama?"

Lady Margaret beamed with pride. "Indeed, they are, my clever girl. Each plant has its purpose, its story." Her expression softened as she gently cupped Sylvia's cheek. "But remember, Sylvie, you can learn from many sources. The Great Library holds treasures of knowledge waiting for you."

She gestured towards the castle. "John Gerard's 'Herball', Culpeper's 'Complete Herbal', and your great-grandmother's 'Cornish Herbiary and Folklore' await on those shelves, filled with wisdom from ages past."

Kneeling beside a Chamomile patch, Lady Margaret lightly ran her fingers over the delicate flowers. "But books aren't the only teachers, my dear. If you learn to listen, the plants will share their secrets. The bees, the birds – they too have much to teach us about the plants upon which they feed."

Her voice lowered to a near whisper, a mysterious glint in her dark eyes. "Not forgetting the dryads, Sylvie. They are the true guardians of the trees and keepers of nature's deepest mysteries. If you're patient and respectful, they will share their ancient wisdom with you."

Standing, she brushed soil from her skirt. "Your learning, Sylvia, will come from many places – seen and unseen. You need only keep your eyes, ears, and heart open to receive it."

Sylvia nodded, her eyes wide with wonder. "I understand, Grandmama. I'll learn from everything and everyone I can."

As they worked, Lady Margaret continued her lesson. "The Cornish heath beyond the walls is a rare treasure, found nowhere else in the world. The sea thrift on our cliffs is as hardy as it is beautiful. Betony for headaches, Chamomile for calm, Fennel for digestion – each plant has its purpose, its story."

As the golden sun began its descent, painting the sky in hues of rose and amber, Lady Margaret placed her hands on Sylvia's shoulders. Her expression grew serious, the lines around her eyes deepening. "This knowledge, Sylvia, is just one part of your inheritance. Guard it well, use it wisely, and it will serve you all your days."

Sylvia straightened her back, squaring her shoulders beneath her grandmother's touch. Her brown eyes, flecked with gold in the fading light, met Lady Margaret's own with a newfound maturity. "I will, Grandmama. I promise."

Chris
I believe there are 2 operational class 03s , D2041 and D2184

Any news please on that Plymouth dock shunter /naval yard shunter you proposed in a previous thread ?

Have caught up Chris, another excellent story in the making. 

Quote from: crewearpley40 on August 31, 2024, 07:21:30 AMChris
I believe there are 2 operational class 03s , D2041 and D2184

Any news please on that Plymouth dock shunter /naval yard shunter you proposed in a previous thread ?

Thanks, Chris. Alas, no. The producer of the 00 Gauge kit had no interest in even providing scale plans for someone else to produce a 3D print. Scale plans must exist somewhere.

Quote from: dannyboy on August 31, 2024, 04:45:10 PMHave caught up Chris, another excellent story in the making. 

Many thanks, David. There is still a strong railway element as the next excerpt shows. I'm making much more of a conscious effort to write well in the intention of publishing the books.

Sylvia's love for trains also grew under the care of her family and carers. When home on leave from the Army, Lord Charles would tell her tales of brave knights and noble causes, his eyes bright as he also described the Great Western Railway's important role in the war effort. Sylvia's interest in trains was further nurtured by her dear old Cornish nanny, "Nursie", and her mother. Together, they taught her to recognise the distinct whistles of engines passing through Cant Cove or climbing the steep, goods-only line.

This single-track line led to a network of underground sidings in caverns beneath the Castle. Sylvia's father explained, with a mix of pride and caution, that some of these sidings were still secret. He stated that they dated back to Winston Churchill's time as First Lord of the Admiralty between 1911 and 1915. This blend of history, secrecy, and the everyday wonder of trains fuelled Sylvia's growing love of railways.

As Sylvia's curiosity about trains grew, so did her desire to explore beyond the confines of Trevelver Castle. One crisp morning, Sylvia discovered a fascinating piece of information that piqued her endless curiosity. The overnight 1:15 am newspaper train from Waterloo arrived at Wadebridge station at precisely 9:05 each morning, bringing the freshly printed London papers. The train was on its way to Penmayne and did not stop at Cant Cove unless Waterloo issued a Special Stop order for passengers to alight there.

"Mr. Trelawney", Sylvia asked, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "May I come with you to collect the newspapers?"

The Head Butler's stern expression softened, the corners of his mouth twitching into a barely perceptible smile. His silver hair caught the early morning light as he considered her request. "Very well, Miss Sylvia. But you must promise to stay close and mind your manners."

From that day forward, Sylvia often accompanied Mr. Trelawney on his morning trips to Wadebridge. She delighted in the bustling activity of the larger station, which was so different from the quiet charm of Cant Cove. The air was filled with a symphony of sounds: the hiss of steam, the clatter of trolleys, and the chatter of passengers mingling with the authoritative voices of railway staff. Soon, Sylvia knew everyone at Wadebridge by name – from the Head Butler's older brother, Mr. Clarence Trelawney, the stationmaster with his gleaming pocket watch and neatly trimmed moustache, to the porters Jago Penrose, Meryn Polwhele, and Kenver Nancarrow with their trolleys and cheerful greetings. But her favourite was Bill Truscott, the Yardmaster, with his limp and special walking stick with its brass knob and tiny plaque.

To Sylvia's wide eyes, Wadebridge station was a magical place where the Southern and Great Western railways met. Mr. Truscott explained that around fifty men worked there, each with an important job. She watched in awe as Arthur Angove, the Shedmaster, directed the care of the worn locomotives, both large and small. The smell of oil and coal smoke lingered in the air. The signalmen, Sandy Penduckett at Wadebridge West Box and Neamiah Treskerby at the East Box, fascinated her as they worked their signals, their actions a complex dance that kept the trains running safely.

With the war, Bill mentioned that the station had become even busier. Sylvia was fascinated by the trains carrying soldiers and their equipment, imagining distant adventures. Occasionally, she overheard staff whispering about convoys and the movement of troops, equipment, and ammunition. She recalled her mother's words: "Always remember you are the Keeper of Secrets!" Mr. Truscott explained how everyone worked tirelessly to keep things running smoothly, even during tough times. He recounted a terrifying night when three bombs were dropped on the hill above Fernleigh Road but reassured her that they kept the trains moving regardless.

Sylvia absorbed every detail, feeling part of something grand and important. She admired how Mr. Truscott got along with everyone, whether they were from the Great Western or Southern railways. Every noon, Sylvia eagerly awaited the arrival of Gracie, Mr. Truscott's wife, a lovely, friendly Cornish woman who brought her husband his lunch. Gracie always greeted Sylvia with a warm smile and often shared stories about life in Wadebridge, quickly becoming another cherished friend at the station.

One afternoon, Sylvia solemnly asked the stationmaster about Mr. Truscott's limp and special walking stick. Mr. Trelawney, his voice hushed and tinged with admiration, told her about Bill's bravery.

"Bill there, 'e severely injured 'is leg while tryin' to stop a runaway goods train on the steep incline down to the 'arbour at nearby Trepol Bay", he said in his thick Cornish accent. "That's why Waterloo gave 'im the position of Wadebridge Yardmaster and 'is special walkin' stick. But 'e don' like to talk 'bout it", he added solemnly. "'Afore that 'e were destined for great things on the railway."

Mr. Trelawney's eyes twinkled as he continued, seeing Sylvia's sadness, "But don't you think that's stopped 'im from doin' great things, young miss. Bill's a much-respected Methodist lay preacher and pillar of the local community. 'E's a JP now, too."

Seeing Sylvia's puzzled expression, he explained, "That means Justice of the Peace. 'E 'elps out at the local magistrate's court, makin' sure justice is done fair and square."

From that day on, Sylvia looked at Mr. Truscott with even more wonder, seeing not just the kindly Yardmaster but a true hero of the railways and a pillar of the community. Her curiosity piqued, she mustered the courage to ask him about his role as a JP.

"Well, Miss Sylvia", Bill began, his eyes twinkling beneath his bushy eyebrows, "as a JP, I 'elp keep the peace and deal with minor offenses. Sometimes it can be quite amusin'". He chuckled, remembering a particular incident.

"There was this Scottish soldier on a troop train, see. 'E was found leavin' Wadebridge station with a stolen mirror marked LNER, which 'e 'ad unscrewed from the wall of the train compartment, in 'is kitbag." Bill's eyebrows rose in amusement. "When asked why, 'e said 'e needed a shavin' mirror! 'Twas a bit big for that, mind you", he added with a hearty laugh, his Cornish accent thick with mirth.

Sylvia giggled at the story, imagining the soldier's surprise when confronted with his oversized 'shaving mirror'. "What happened to him, Mr. Truscott?" she asked, her eyes wide with curiosity.

"Well", Bill continued, stroking his chin thoughtfully, "we 'ad to confiscate the mirror, o' course. It was returned to the LNER. The soldier was fined for 'is mischief, and then we 'anded 'im over to the Military Police. They don't take kindly to their men pilferin' railway property, even if it's just for a shave!"

Sylvia nodded solemnly, realising that being a JP meant balancing justice with understanding, even in the most unusual cases.

To her, Wadebridge station was not just a place – it was a world of endless fascination, brought to life by the stories, bravery, and kindness of her dear friend, the Yardmaster, his wife Gracie, and all the dedicated railway folk she had come to know and admire. And now, with tales of Bill's experiences as a JP, it seemed the station held even more exciting stories than she had ever imagined.

These excursions became a cherished part of Sylvia's routine, broadening her world beyond the Castle grounds and deepening her fascination with the railways so integral to her family's life and businesses. As she helped Mr. Trelawney sort through the stack of newspapers, the smell of fresh ink filling her nostrils, she felt a sense of importance, a small but significant role in the daily life of Trevelver Castle.

She took pride in remembering that her grandmother and mother favoured 'The Times', while her father preferred 'The Daily Telegraph', and she always made sure to set aside the local 'West Briton' for Cook. Sylvia also noted with interest that Mr. and Mrs. Trelawney shared a copy of the 'Daily Mail', often discussing its contents over their morning tea.

As the war progressed, Sylvia noticed changes at the station. There were more soldiers, more urgent telegrams, and sometimes hushed conversations among the staff. Yet through it all, the rhythms of the railway continued, a comforting constant in uncertain times. Sylvia found herself growing more observant, more curious about the wider world that touched Wadebridge through the daily paper deliveries from far-away Fleet Street.

In the evenings, as she shared stories of her morning adventures with her family, Sylvia felt a new sense of connection to their legacy and the community beyond the Castle's walls. She was no longer just a Trevelver, but a small part of the intricate, fascinating world of the railways, where everyone, from the Yardmaster to the porters, played a vital role in supplying the sinews of war.

Sylvia's mother was delighted by her daughter's ever-expanding interest in the workings of the railway. She often listened with rapt attention as Sylvia recounted her adventures at the station, pleased to see her child's world growing beyond the Castle grounds.

When Sylvia's father and godfather were home on leave, they, too, showed great interest in her stories. Her father would often nod approvingly, remarking on how the railways were indeed the nation's lifeblood, especially in these trying times. Her godfather, with his military railway service, was particularly impressed by Sylvia's understanding of how the railway supported the war effort. He would sometimes add his own anecdotes about troop movements and supply trains, further fuelling Sylvia's fascination with the intricate scheduling of locomotives, carriages, wagons, and people that kept the country running. Their positive reactions only served to deepen Sylvia's love for the railway and her appreciation for the hardworking men and women who operated it.

As the weeks turned into months, Sylvia's presence at Wadebridge station became as much a part of the daily routine as the arrival of the 9:05 am 'papers from Waterloo. Her genuine interest and quick mind endeared her to every member of the railway family, whether they were of the Southern or Western persuasion, as Bill termed it.

From Bodmin to Penmayne, Sylvia and her Cocker Spaniel were a welcome sight. Her inquisitive nature and respectful demeanour, complemented by Rusty's playful spirit, earned them invitations into every signal box and onto many a locomotive footplate. The gruff drivers and firemen would beam with pride as they explained the workings of their engines to the attentive young girl with her charming smile and neatly plaited hair, while signalmen delighted in teaching her the intricacies of their vital role in keeping the trains running safely. Rusty's wagging tail and friendly disposition often helped break the ice, and the railway workers would sometimes sneak him treats, further endearing the pair to the railway community.

The railway workers saw in Sylvia not just the daughter of the local gentry but a kindred spirit who truly appreciated the magic and importance of their world. For Sylvia, the railway had become more than just a fascination—it was a second home filled with friends who shared her passion for the endless rhythm of the rails.

Quote from: Chris in Prague on September 01, 2024, 07:18:49 AM

Quote from: crewearpley40 on August 31, 2024, 07:21:30 AMChris
I believe there are 2 operational class 03s , D2041 and D2184

Any news please on that Plymouth dock shunter /naval yard shunter you proposed in a previous thread ?

Thanks, Chris. Alas, no. The producer of the 00 Gauge kit had no interest in even providing scale plans for someone else to produce a 3D print. Scale plans must exist somewhere.

Chris

Hi the only hope as discussed previously must be to a library or historical society or even see if railway modeller has drawings and then approach the 3d modellers on this forum. Shame really as it would make a beautiful loco


If it's this

https://www.ngaugeforum.co.uk/SMFN/index.php?topic=18923.msg579801#msg579801

railway,-centre.com
https://www.irsociety.co.uk/Archives/back_issues.htm

Sadly I cannot find any drawings

Quote from: Chris in Prague on September 01, 2024, 07:20:06 AMI'm making much more of a conscious effort to write well in the intention of publishing the books.

It would be nice to see your stories in a 'proper' format, (although there is nowt wrong with reading them in the forum of ccourse!). Keep us informed. 

Quote from: dannyboy on September 01, 2024, 12:47:22 PM

Quote from: Chris in Prague on September 01, 2024, 07:20:06 AMI'm making much more of a conscious effort to write well in the intention of publishing the books.

It would be nice to see your stories in a 'proper' format, (although there is nowt wrong with reading them in the forum of ccourse!). Keep us informed. 

Thanks, David. I will.

This deep connection to the railway and its people prompted Lady Penelope to contact her friends at the Southern Railway headquarters at Waterloo. She knew that Sylvia's railway adventures were more than mere childish whims—they were an integral part of her daughter's growth and education. With this in mind, Lady Penelope arranged for a special pass to be created, one that would allow Sylvia and Rusty to travel freely between Penmayne, Cant Cove, Wadebridge, and Bodmin.

The pass that arrived was a marvel of craftsmanship, clearly modelled after the prestigious Directors' passes but with a touch of whimsy befitting its young recipient. Made of polished brass, it gleamed in the sunlight, its surface adorned with an enamel rendering of the Southern Railway's iconic logo. The initials "SR" stood out prominently in a bold, serif font, instantly recognisable to any railway employee. The logo was beautifully executed in the railway's signature bright malachite green, with yellow accents that seemed to catch and hold the light.

In elegant script beneath the logo, it bore the words "Special Junior Pass" followed by "Hon. Sylvia Trevelver and Rusty". The use of "Hon." before Sylvia's name, short for "The Honourable," reflected her status as the daughter of Lord and Lady Trevelver, adding an extra layer of official recognition to the document. Below this, a small, expertly rendered image of a girl and a spaniel was etched into the metal. The pass was personalised further with Sylvia's date of birth – 28th November 1938 – and a unique serial number: No.1. This number, signifying that Sylvia's pass was the very first of its kind, added an extra layer of distinction to the already special document.

The reverse side of the pass detailed the extraordinary privileges it granted: "The bearer and her canine companion are permitted unlimited travel on all Southern Railway lines between Penmayne, Cant Cove, Wadebridge, and Bodmin". It also specified "First Class accommodations when available", a nod to the comfort usually reserved for the railway's most distinguished passengers.

Security features abounded, from the raised Southern Railway seal to the intricate border pattern that would be nearly impossible to replicate. At the bottom, the signature of Sir Herbert Walker, General Manager, Southern Railway, lent the pass its ultimate authority. A thin leather strap was attached to the pass, allowing Sylvia to wear it around her neck, keeping it safe and visible during her travels.

On a bright morning, Lady Penelope accompanied Sylvia and Rusty to Cant Cove station for the presentation of this special pass. The station, usually a bustle of activity, seemed unusually quiet. As they approached the platform, Sylvia noticed Stationmaster Keneder Treskerby standing formally at attention, his uniform immaculately pressed and his cap set at a perfect angle.

"Good morning, Miss Sylvia", Ken said, his voice carrying a hint of suppressed excitement. "We have a special presentation for you today."

Sylvia looked up at her mother, curiosity shining in her eyes. Lady Penelope simply smiled and nodded encouragingly.

With great ceremony, Ken produced a small, polished box made of local oak. Its rich grain and warm colour spoke of the care and craftsmanship that had gone into its creation, matching the significance of the item it contained. He knelt down to Sylvia's level and opened it, revealing the gleaming brass pass nestled on a bed of bright green velvet.

"Miss Sylvia Trevelver", Ken announced formally, though his eyes twinkled, "on behalf of the Southern Railway, it is my honour to present you with this Special Junior Pass. This pass grants you and Rusty the freedom to travel our lines and explore the wonders of Cornwall."

Sylvia's eyes widened in amazement as she gently took the pass from the box. She ran her fingers over the engraved surface, marvelling at the detail.

"Thank you, Mr. Treskerby", she said, her voice filled with awe. "But... why me?"

Ken smiled warmly. "The railway recognises its special friends when it sees them, Miss Sylvia. You and Rusty have adventures ahead, and we're honoured to help you on your way."

As if on cue, the distant whistle of an approaching train sounded. Sylvia wearing her new pass, her heart full of excitement for the journeys to come. Rusty wagged his tail, seeming to understand that new adventures were on the horizon.

As news of Sylvia's special pass spread among the railway staff, it was met with a mixture of surprise, delight, and a touch of pride. The signalmen, porters, track workers, and stationmasters along the lines between Penmayne, Cant Cove, Wadebridge, and Bodmin felt a sense of shared responsibility for their young charge. They viewed Sylvia's presence not just as a charming novelty, but as a reminder of the railway's importance to the communities it served. Many of them, having their own children or grandchildren, took it upon themselves to keep a watchful eye on Sylvia and Rusty during their travels, offering friendly waves, interesting titbits about train operations, and the occasional treat for Rusty.

It was 1944, and the war effort was still very much at the forefront of everyone's minds. Sylvia, who would turn six that November, embodied a spirit of curiosity and resilience that resonated deeply with the railway folk. Despite her young age, her questions often surprised them with their insight, demonstrating an understanding more typical of an eight-year-old. This precocious nature, combined with her genuine enthusiasm for the railway, endeared her all the more to the staff.

The Special Junior Pass was not just a ticket for Sylvia; it symbolised hope and continuity for the railway community. In Sylvia, they saw a glimpse of a peaceful future – a bright-eyed explorer ready to carry forward the legacy of the tracks that crisscrossed the Cornish landscape, even as the shadows of war still loomed.

Lady Penelope watched the scene with a mixture of pride and nostalgia, knowing that this pass was more than just a travel document—it was a key to a world of discovery for her daughter and a recognition of the special place Sylvia had created for herself in the heart of the railway community.

Despite the freedom this pass granted her young daughter, Lady Trevelver felt no anxiety. Her peace of mind came from the unwavering presence of Rusty, Sylvia's loyal Cocker Spaniel. Rusty was far more than a mere pet; he was Sylvia's guardian, gifted with an uncanny ability to sense any potential threat to his young mistress.

Lady Penelope had observed Rusty's protective instincts with admiration. His attentiveness to Sylvia was constant yet unobtrusive. At even the slightest hint of unease, Rusty would communicate wordlessly with Sylvia through a series of subtle signals—a gentle nudge, a soft whine, or a particular tilt of his head and look in his eyes. These silent messages were always understood by Sylvia, who shared a deep, intuitive bond with her canine companion.

While such occasions were thankfully extremely rare, Lady Trevelver had witnessed Rusty's protective instincts in action from an unexpected vantage point. She vividly recalled an incident during one of Sylvia and Rusty's exploratory walks through the streets of Penmayne, the seaside port whose character had been dramatically altered by the war.

Lady Penelope had been in Penmayne that day, attending to business with the local Women's Voluntary Service. As she emerged from a meeting at the town hall, she caught sight of Sylvia and Rusty further down the high street, near the junction that led down to the harbour. The usual holiday crowds were absent, replaced by a mix of off-duty sailors, dockworkers, and women who had taken on new roles in the harbour's war-related activities.

From about fifty yards, partially obscured by a shop window plastered with wartime posters, Lady Penelope watched the scene unfold. The vibrant displays caught her eye: a "Careless Talk Costs Lives" poster featuring a stern-faced sailor warning against loose lips in this port town; next to it, the iconic "Dig for Victory" image encouraged even urban dwellers to grow vegetables. A local addition proclaimed, "Keep Our Shores Safe - Report Suspicious Objects", a stark reminder of the coastal town's vulnerability.

Lady Penelope noticed an inebriated sailor, likely fresh from a long and perilous voyage, approaching Sylvia and Rusty with unclear intentions. Her first instinct was to rush to her daughter's aid, but something made her pause – a mixture of curiosity about Rusty's reaction and a desire to see if Sylvia could handle the situation with the dog's help. The scene stirred a memory from her own childhood: her loyal Cocker Spaniel, Cador, who had been fiercely protective of her.

With her characteristic intuition, Lady Penelope felt a quiet certainty that Rusty would show the same instinct to guard Sylvia as Cador had once done for her. This innate sense of knowing, honed over years of navigating the intricacies of high society and her keen observations of both people and animals, reassured her. She watched intently, her posture relaxed but alert, trusting in the bond between her daughter and the faithful canine companion.

In an instant, Rusty's demeanour transformed. His usually friendly eyes narrowed, teeth bared in a warning snarl, and a low, rising growl emanated from deep in his chest. Standing at full height, with his muscular frame and thick coat, Rusty cut an imposing figure against the backdrop of the grey, wartime street. Suddenly sobered by the dog's fierce display, the sailor quickly retreated, disappearing into the passing workers and military personnel.

Lady Penelope watched in amazement as Sylvia remained calm throughout the encounter, her hand resting reassuringly on Rusty's back. The incident was over in moments, leaving Sylvia unharmed and even largely unalarmed, thanks to Rusty's swift intervention.

As the stranger vanished, Lady Penelope hurried to Sylvia and Rusty, her heart racing with relief and pride. She knelt down, quickly checking Sylvia for any signs of distress before enveloping her in a tight hug. "Are you alright, darling?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. Satisfied that Sylvia was unharmed, Lady Penelope turned her attention to Rusty. She lavished praise on the loyal spaniel, ruffling his ears and patting his sturdy flank. "Good boy, Rusty! Such a good, brave boy", she cooed, her voice thick with gratitude. This isolated incident cemented her trust in both her daughter and her canine companion. Rusty's unwavering loyalty and protective instinct, combined with Sylvia's remarkable composure, proved a formidable partnership that both reassured and impressed Lady Penelope.

In that moment, Lady Trevelver's lingering doubts dissolved. The extraordinary bond between Sylvia and Rusty echoed her own childhood relationship with Cador, Rusty's matrilineal ancestor and her faithful protector. Like Cador before him, Rusty could clearly safeguard Sylvia beyond the sheltered routines of Trevelver Castle. The Special Junior Pass, which had initially caused her and her husband some apprehension, now symbolised their trust in this remarkable duo. As she stood up, Sylvia's hand in hers and Rusty pressed loyally against her daughter's leg, Lady Penelope felt a surge of relief tinged with nostalgia. In this tumultuous wartime world, she had found an unexpected comfort: her daughter and faithful spaniel were ready for whatever lay ahead, just as she and Cador had been a generation before.

From Bodmin to Penmayne, Sylvia and her Cocker Spaniel were a welcome sight. Her inquisitive nature and respectful demeanour, complemented by Rusty's playful spirit, earned them invitations into every signal box and onto many a locomotive footplate. The gruff drivers and firemen would beam with pride as they explained the workings of their engines to the attentive young girl with her charming smile and neatly plaited hair, while signalmen delighted in teaching her the intricacies of their vital role in keeping the trains running safely. Rusty's wagging tail and friendly disposition often helped break the ice, and the railway workers would sometimes sneak him treats, further endearing the pair to the railway community.

The railway workers saw in Sylvia not just the daughter of the local gentry but a kindred spirit who truly appreciated the magic and importance of their world. For Sylvia, the railway had become more than just a fascination—it was a second home filled with friends who shared her passion for the endless rhythm of the rails.