On Friday the
Tornado steam train roared into town. I’m something of a closet railway child, having been brought up with trains at the bottom of the garden. I clearly remember the fiery monsters steaming past as, hanging onto the top rung of our home made ladder, I fought my two brothers for the best viewing position. Intoxicated with the unmistakeable smell of the Tornado’s smoke, I watched ecstatically as she came tearing into Carlisle station, whistle shrieking, steam hissing and brakes squealing. For a few all too brief moments, I was transported to the glorious, bygone age of steam.
