Engines of Rhydayellon

Author's Note: This is an idea I've had floating about for a while, but now its upgraded to sailing. I own everything except the song Daphne parodied.

In the little Welsh town of Rhydayellon, in the South-West corner of Powys, there sat a little railway. It had recently been preserved by the Rhydayellon & Llanwhellis Railway Preservation Society. Since no-one has the time to read all that, it will be known as the RLRPS. It was built by the late, great, Isambard Kingdom Brunel in 1845 for the coal and slate mining. It was built, uniquely for both Brunel and slate traffic as a whole, to the standard gauge. This was because it was too mountainous for the broad gauge, but Brunel did not favour a narrow gauge railway, instead doing major earthworks to keep a ruling gradient of 2%. This is quite steep, and the railway ended up with several beam engine driven, cable hauled inclines, where the track grew even steeper. This is how the railway still operates, even in preservation. These are the stories of that railway.

- The Author.

It was a rainy Autumn day in the bottom left corner of Powys County, because this is Wales, and its how things are. The No.1 locomotive, a Stroudley A1 painted in South Eastern & Chatham Railway green. Her name was Daphne, a name she'd carried since before preservation. She had never worn this livery in her life, and was never owned by the SE&CR, but she wore it well. The little engine had lived there since its preservation in 1961. The reason for its needing preservation was because the coal mine shut and slate traffic dropped to just 3 wagons every week. Pathetic. Still, freight is freight. The terrier had just arrived back at the mainline interchange with the short train, and left it to fend for itself in the yard. She went to the sheds for a drink, and found Nos. 3 and 4. There names were Atlas and Albert, and they were Scottish 611 saddle tanks. They were sat in the sheds, safety valves whispering, and talking about the merits of their beloved Scottish rugby teams. Daphne was a Brighton engine, and had no clue about any of that. Once her tanks were full, she went to get the old coaches from the sidings. They were wooden SECR coaches, painted red. She left Rhydayellon with the coaches, and chuntered on up the line, clanking a little as old engines do. She was singing a little song cheerily to herself

'And there's no sense crying

Over evey mistake

You just keep on trying

Till you run out of slate

And the work all gets done

And the railway gets run

For the engines that are still alive.'

She carried on happily, wondering just where she remembered that song from. The writer remembered that this was the 1960s, and that reference was from 2007, but thought it was so clever he left it in. She headed up the hill towards the junction which led to the old colliery. The rails were rusty, the ballast and sleepers sunk in Welsh mud. She hadn't time to reflect on the memories of the line's earliest preservation, as she was coming to the middle station, Aberllafaeau. There were only 3 stations, and the town this one served had only existed because of the coal mine. It was slowly losing its status as a town, and slowly shrinking into nothing, under the shadow of the derelict winding house and washery of the coal pits. There were only a few people on the platform, and they all boarded in a sultry kind of way. They carried on past the slate quarries and down towards the last station at Llanwhellis. The passengers disembarked, and the terrier moved off to run around for the return. She pulled the train bunker first on her way back up the line, and again into Aberllafaeau. She noted only half the passengers she'd picked up got off there again. People seemed to be leaving this little dying town every day. No-one else was turning up, so they continued on to Rhydayellon, Daphne's slide bars and piston rings growing warmer. This was normal, until the A1 noticed they were getting a little too warm. She decided it wasn't much of a problem, probably just that her crew hadn't seen fit to oil her when before she collected her coaches. No-one noticed anything was truly amiss until with a clunking crack, and a rush of steam, she stopped. The guard and fireman met halfway down the train to get answers. The guard then dispatched a cleaner who was in the cab down the line to both see to Rule 55 and to get help if needed. The driver was frantically looking over his little engine. The driver's name was Anthony, and he was always fond of his terrier. He found the piston rings on the right cylinder shattered, and half the cylinder head cover gone. He unearthed it on the ground a few yards away, cracked. Clearly the rings had broken and the sudden rush of steam pressure had snapped the bottom half of the cover off. He climbed up and looked at the Stroudley tank engine. He asked 'Your cylinder's shot, can you get home on just one?'

'I think so, its mostly downhill, but get the twins ready just in case' she replied, but with little conviction. They began again, leaking plenty of steam from the right cylinder, and clanking for all of England, Wales, and the next 6 countries over. They descended the hill on the handbrake, and the guard's brake, because they might not have had enough steam to get the train brakes off. They made it onto the last 500 flat yards into the station. Atlas and Albert heard the noise from the sidings. The terrier limped into view from behind the goods shed, looking red in the face and worse for wear, but triumphant nonetheless, as she finally drew to a halt in the platform. She then found she hadn't the energy to even keep her fire alight, and she blacked out in a cloud of sooty steam. The twins shunted her and the coaches away, remaining respectfully silent.