But the anniversary always used to be given as 10th January instead. Saturday 10th January 1863 was the day the railway opened to the public, and that's the day that's always been quoted everywhere as Day One. Friday 9th January was more Day Zero, the day the directors took a one-way ride on their new railway and celebrated with a slap-up banquet. No, the proper anniversary's surely, definitely, 10th January. And, contrarily, TfL agree.
This is from the official list of TfL milestones...
That's right, in 2007 TfL published hundreds of thousands of tube maps with an artwork on the cover declaring that on 9th January 1863 the Underground hadn't yet started. Now they've changed their mind and say that 9th January 1863 is The First Day after all. How strange.
Oliver Green from the London Transport Museum, who ought to know what's what, is giving a free lecture at Gresham College on the 9th January which he's advertising as the actual day.
Meanwhile the Royal Mail are bringing out some rather lovely anniversary stamps on Wednesday 9th, like so.
But staff in the control room at Farringdon station seem sure it's the 10th. Maybe they missed the internal email.
And here's a plaque outside Baker Street station, bolted to the wall in front of the taxi rank, unveiled for the Underground's centenary in 1963. Surely this is convincing proof that January 10th is the definitive opening date... or was.
It seems that at some point in the last fifty years, more likely in the last five, someone at TfL has decided to switch the official Underground anniversary from the 10th of January to the 9th. A deliberate decision, an approved choice, a rolling back to the day before. And I wonder why.
Clearly there are two possible anniversaries for the birth of the London Underground. One's the day passengers were first allowed on board in their thousands, which is the day I'd pick as the launch date. And the other's the day the directors rode alone, which might technically be the start, but somehow feels wrong. How telling, and how sad, that TfL has shifted from the public to the private.
So when the anniversary trumpet sounds next Wednesday 9th, do raise a glass for one of the finest innovations London ever saw. But raise a bigger glass on Thursday 10th, the true 150th anniversary of the day Londoners began to travel beneath the capital, and never looked back. Let's celebrate...
2013 anniversary quiz
Here are 20 events celebrating an anniversary in 2013. How many can you identify? All the answers are now in the comments box (and clickable). a)opened Jan 1863 (150 years): departing Bishop's Road b)published Jan 1813 (200 years): Elizabeth meets Fitzwilliam c)died Feb 2003 (10 years): seven from STS-107 d)born Mar 1813 (200 years): an explorer, I presume e)acceded Mar 1413 (600 years): victor at Agincourt f)launched Apr 1973 (40 years): started at 10%, now double g)born Apr 1938 (75 years): appeared in Action #1 h)born May 1813 (200 years): lord of The Ring i)died Jun 1913 (100 years): stepping out in Derby j)patented Jun 1938 (75 years): its reservoir works upside-down k)taken Aug 1963 (50 years): £2,631,684 at Sears Crossing l)spoken Aug 1963 (50 years): "one day this nation will rise up" m)fought Sep 1513 (500 years): we'll hae nae mair lilting n)opened Sep 1613 (400 years): from New Gauge to Islington o)born Oct 1813 (200 years): fascinated with Aida p)founded Oct 1863 (150 years): Civil Service, Crusaders (& 9 others) q)born Nov 1913 (100 years): the Young Person's Guide r)died Nov 1963 (50 years): from the School Book Depository s)launched Nov 1963 (50 years): at 76 Totter's Lane t)launched Dec 1913 (100 years): the first one down
New Year on Point Hill That's the hillabove Greenwich, west of Blackheath, with one of the finest views in London. A grassy plateau edged with trees drops steeply away to provide the perfect panorama across the inner city. From Docklands past the Shard to the Elephant, with Wembley Arch in the background, plus the enormous bonus that the London Eye appears face on. All you have to do is stand close enough to the railings to be able to see, because otherwise the lawn here's unhelpfully flat. It is therefore wise to arrive before ten to twelve if you want a decent spot, which I didn't, so I got to stand behind "the tall man in the woolly hat". Many drove and left their cars on the heath, others walked up from the houses below and stood good-naturedly, bottles in hand. A few premature fireworks exploded in the distance, fired by chronological incompetents, as the Eye pulsated on the horizon. Someone started a ten second countdown, and unbelievably it was precise, which has never happened anywhere else I've stood outside for New Year. The Embankment erupted with a silent flash, too far away to be entirely impressive, but clear enough that we still felt connected to the heart of the action. A handful of other displays burst forth, the largest somewhere over Rotherhithe, but most of London made a very lacklustre attempt to compete with the official show. Glasses clinked, couples hugged, and eventually a chorus of Auld Lang Syne went up. For ten minutes we watched, or attempted to as the wind blew the Mayor's smoke in our direction. Then finally the action faded, followed several seconds later by the rumble of gunpowder dissolving into silence. Some stayed to drain their glasses and enjoy the occasion with friends, others headed off across the grass and back to the comforts of home. It's certainly one of the most civilised places I've seen in a New Year, and one of the easiest to get to, but do arrive early if you want to see 2014 explode in style. See also: from theEmbankment, from Parliament Hill, from Primrose Hill, from Princes Street
It's over.
The golden year, long awaited, has passed.
London planned, prepared, delivered, enjoyed.
Now time moves on.
Sorry, 2013's not going to be as good. It might be good for you, there could be some marvellous personal moment or achievement unlocked. But overall, sorry, 2012's as good as it gets.
The world won't be staring in awe at Britain during 2013, not apart from the day Kate delivers. They'll be looking elsewhere, building up their own economies as ours fades a little further. We'll be in retreat, dismantling, inexorably cutting back, and good luck to you if you can stay afloat.
On some distant day in the future, when what's left of the BBC broadcasts its latest talking heads retrospective, they'll surely alight on 2012 as a perfect example of the glorious past. See the Duke of Edinburgh get wet on a boat, relive that golden Saturday in the Park, remember when getting your hip replaced was free. 2012 will stand alone as The Year To Go To, much as 1977 now represents and dominates its decade. Nobody'll give a damn about 2013, it'll be eternally overshadowed, that is unless something godawful strikes us over the next 365 days.
The year ahead's as yet unwritten, so maybe it won't turn out as drearily as I fear. But let's all make the most of 2013, as far as we're able. If nothing else, it'll surely be better than 2014.
The first time I went to Kew Gardens it cost a penny to get in. Yesterday it cost less. Entrance to the gardens is free for twelve days over Christmas, but only if you booked in advance, and if you didn't you're too late. A fine day out at any time, but finer still for nothing.
The trick to visiting Kew Gardens is to come early. I arrived shortly after half past nine, and the parkland was almost entirely empty. Even better the sky was almost completely cloudless, which wasn't going to last, so I had a short time to enjoy the gardens at their best. I headed for somewhere that hadn't been built the last time I was here, the Treetop Walkway - an elevated circuit eighteen metres above the ground. It's not for those without a head for heights, as a few of the day's first visitors discovered. As they slunk down in the lift, nerves aquiver, I strode off round the upper level unhindered. Being winter the view stretched to the horizon, beyond the tower blocks of Brentford to the distant Wembley arch, but in spring the surrounding branches will burst into obstructive leaf... which is entirely the point.
Close by is the Lake, recently crossed by an S-shaped span called the Sackler Crossing. This low granite walkway hugs close to the water, and is edged by a series of vertical bronze posts forming a semi-transparent barrier. It's also very pretty, especially when nobody's standing on it (which is another good reason to arrive at Kew early). Various waterfowl waddle along the banks, and glide like limbo dancers beneath the bridge, so best mind where you stand. Indeed boots are recommended over trainers at this time of year, especially if you want to explore the muddier, squishier paths towards the riverside.
The predominant colours at Kew, at present, are green and brown. That's grass and branches, mostly, which is great if you like trees and shrubs but not much cop if you prefer flowers. Blooms are in short supply, obviously, apart from a few formal transplanted beds of winter pansies and some resilient blue irises in the Japanese garden. Various magnolia trees appear to be budding, which is impressive given it's not even next year yet, but apart from that the glories of spring remain some distance off.
Even indoors, inside the famous glasshouses, proper flowers are in short supply. The leaves may be grand, and the tallest fronds reach to the roof, but not many of the plants can be tricked into thinking it's summer. The Temperate House is full to bursting, as you can see if you step up the spiral staircase to walk around the inside of the glass roof. The Palm House is warmer, which is ideal if your visit comes on a cold or rainswept day, and don't forget to shut the door on your way in. So many plants from around the tropics are here, scientifically labelled for the experts and educationally described for the rest of us. Expect mostly algae in the marine gallery underneath, but I'm sure most visitors are looking only at the fish.
For Christmas the team at Kew have got a carousel in, a proper one, except the pipe organ plays Sir Duke by Stevie Wonder and a selection of other semi-modern tunes. There's also a 12 Days of Christmas scratchcard quiz for younger members of the family, with clues hidden around the gardens, for a 20% discount at the shop on your way out. There were plenty of children in attendance on Sunday, some being led around the gardens by enthusiastic parents, others dropped off at the adventure playground after staring at plants got all too much.
One of the treats at Kew at the moment is a series of artworks byDavid Nash. He specialises in wooden sculpture, naturalistic rather than figurative, and has carved a number of pieces in situ over the summer. Pillars and globes of charred black timber, towers of bark, all scattered around the gardens for you to enjoy. There's also a Nash exhibition in Kew's new art gallery, where I was absorbed by the 25-year downstream tale of 'Wooden Boulder'. Nextdoor is the amazing Marianne North gallery, its walls hung deep with 800 oil paintings bequeathed by a Victorian world traveller, recently restored to awesome effect.
To be frank, this isn't the best time of year to enjoy Kew Gardens. Nature's in hibernation, there's minimal colour and it gets dark by far too early in the afternoon. But I still managed to spend six hours wandering and exploring, and even then I got home and looked at the map properly and realised I'd missed things. The normal entrance price is steep (£16, sheesh), but you almost certainly know a member of the family who'd adore a trip here, to one of the jewels of London.
Sir Sideburned Cyclist: For whopping the French at their own game. In any normal year, the only sportsman to get a knighthood... but 2012 is no normal year. Sir Consistent Sailor: For grabbing lots of medals over the years, in a sport the public's only interested in every four years, and then only vaguely. Sir Werewolf Parawheels: For doing really well in the Games that isn't the proper one, but which we now love more. Dame Longslog Paralympian: She's been doing wonderful bike-y things at these Games for years, but only this year do we care enough to give her the biggie. Sir Skyteam Coach: For being quite involved in cycling, which is so flavour of the month that anyone who's big in the saddle can have a big award this year. Dame Golden Postbox: Another cyclist yadda yadda. Seriously kids, get on your bike now, otherwise you're wasting your life. Mo Mobot CBE: For running very fast on that Saturday when we all cried, and doing that hand gesture everyone likes. County Down Golfer MBE: He's barely started shaving for heavens sake, but we need to get our Northern Irish quota in. Betty The Lollipop Lady No-BE: Not this year love, it's only the sportsmen and women who deserve our praise. Equestrian Dressagelady MBE: Because we're dishing out gongs to everyone who won a gold medal this summer - think of it as a 2-for-1 offer. Strictly Lewis MBE: For doing good in gymnastics, but especially for looking good in spandex. Sandra Gamesmaker McBE: For your selfless volunteering that made the summer, have a five pound McDonalds gift token. Dunblane Racketeer OBE: After years of not winning, and therefore being innately disappointing, actually winning in the one year when sport matters. Heather Small OBE: For services to winning the Olympics in the first place. Lord Civilservant of Cheam: It's business as usual in the main body of the honours list. Baron Torydonor: Sssh, while you're looking at all the Olympi-winners, we're giving dukedoms to our friends. Paralympic Silver Medallist: Nothing for you, dear. You let some foreigner beat you, so all your years of training and selfless dedication are utterly wasted. Dame Clare Balding: Not for a few more years, if that's OK with you. Sir Opening Ceremony: What do you mean, you don't want a knighthood? Do you have principles or something? Dave Former DJ: No, we're not risking any male BBC employees this year, just in case the skeleton in their closet escapes. Lord Coe: He's already a Baron so we can't really give him much else, but the Queen will be sending him a nice monogrammed canteen of cutlery to say thanks ever so.
If you know any Olympians who didn't get an honour this year, tip us the wink and we'll fit them in next summer.
Keep driving north across East Anglia and you'll eventually reach (any one of a number of Norfolk coastal settlements, but for the purposes of today's post let's assume) Cromer. A clifftop town, and a long-standing seaside resort, you'd more than likely prefer to visit Cromer in the summer. I visited in the off-season between Christmas and New Year, for four hours before my Dad's car park ticket ran out, and the place was busier than you might have expected.[photo]
The Esplanade: Author A C Swinburne described Cromer as "an esplanady sort of place" which, if nothing else, gives you a new word to use when playing Scrabble. The Esplanade runs for about a mile beneath the cliffs, accessible from the main town via zigzag ramps, vertiginous staircases or a steep slipway. At this time of year the ice cream shop is very closed, but you can buy burgers and candy floss from Starvin Marvin's trailer or nip into an illuminated shed that acts as an amusement arcade. Swinburne's words are etched into the paving beneath the clifftop, along with a rather less positive quote from a young Winston Churchill - "I am not enjoying myself very much". Perhaps he visited in December. [photo]
The beach: Cromer's beach is rather good - mostly sand but with a wide assortment of variegated pebbles dumped above the high tide mark. Dogs, and their owners, make the most of this damp playground during the off-season, splashing through the wavelets and leaping over the wooden groynes. The fishing industry lives on, although there's no harbour so the few small boats have to be pulled down to the sea by decrepit vintage tractors [photo]. No crabs emerged yesterday, but two fishermen laid their haul of open-mouthed fish on the quayside before returning to throw any small fry back into the water. A row of 60-or-so primary-coloured beach huts stretches off beneath the eastern cliffs, not a single one of them occupied, more likely sealed by a weatherproof padlock until Easter comes round again.
Cromer Pier: An abnormal pier, this, and relatively short, but much loved. At the landward end is Tides restaurant, which aims above the usual fish and chips but isn't quite cordon bleu. Opposite is the Footprints gift shop, the sort of place where you can buy gift mugs featuring your favourite breed of dog or a pink pinboard in the shape of a cupcake. The middle section of the pier is fairly empty, though an ideal place to dangle a line if the tide's in and the sun's out. And then the legendary Pavilion Theatre, one of Britain's very few offshore places of entertainment, which still reels in thousands of punters to its variety shows. The Christmas Seaside Special has been running all month, twice daily, to what I suspect is an audience of mostly coachloaded pensioners. There's still time to catch Olly Day and Jo Little (and the children from Cromer's own Marlene's School of Dancing) in their sparkly medley of wit and music before the curtain falls on Sunday. [nothing to see here][photo]
The Lifeboat Station: The RNLI raises more money in Cromer than anywhere else in Britain, which may be because they have two separate lifeboats and a museum. The offshore lifeboat is based at the end of the pier, beyond the theatre, while the inshore lifeboat runs from a boathouse on the beach. Alongside this is a tapering building erected six years ago to house the Henry Blogg Museum, a tribute to Cromer's George-Cross-winning coxswain. Obviously I was raring to visit, but opening hours are limited in December so I had to make do with a hot chocolate from the excellent Rocket House Cafe upstairs instead. The place was packed, as befits a contemporary locally-sourced venue, and my Dad recommends the curried parsnip soup (if it's ever on the menu again).
Xmas decorations: The few lights draped across the main shopping streets are nothing special. But outside the parish church stands an impressive-looking Christmas tree made of piled-up lobster pots and decorated with orange buoys. Only in Cromer.
I crept silently into his life without leaving a trace.
I thought it'd be more fun if I left him guessing. Could have been from the stair-rail on the bus. Could have been on the handle to open the door of the train. Could have been via a member of the family or a total stranger. Whatever, I tagged him somewhere, just before Christmas, then hung around over the festive period like an uninvited aunt.
I first revealed myself on Christmas Eve. I thought I'd keep it simple, and light, and wholly unexpected. I engineered a sniffle, just the one, just enough to make him reach for his handkerchief. Enough to leave him with a lingering feeling of mild doom, but not backed up by any further action. He went to bed with fingers crossed, and sinuses open, and slept til Christmas.
In the morning, when the nephews and nieces summoned him to the grand opening of the presents, he awoke with a snort. That's when the slippery downward slope began, increasingly slippery as the morning went on, and that's when I knew I had him.
I thought I'd take him over gradually, because I enjoy prolonging the suffering that way. Slight stuffiness on Day One, not total blockage, that's my favourite plan. I made him sniffle a lot over the Christmas dinner table, and appear weak during the pulling of the crackers. I made him sneeze during the Queen's speech, then add further sound effects during the evening's TV. And I dribbled at random during the game of Monopoly, then smiled as I watched him pass the dice on to unsuspecting rivals.
I hoped I'd caught him unprepared. Most people of his age don't get handkerchiefs for Christmas, so he'd have to rely on any minimal stock he'd brought from home. But it turns out he'd packed several pairs of trousers, each with emergency linen stuffed in the pockets, so no emergency tissue stash was required.
On Boxing Day I hyped things up a notch. I halved his number of functioning nostrils. I dampened his handkerchiefs a little faster, almost at a rate of one per feature film. I dulled his head a bit, just enough, to remind him I was there. And I started work on the sore patch above his lip, the one distinguishing feature that lingers after all my other work has gone away.
He tried his best to contain me. He kept well away from any mistletoe, he left the stripping of the turkey to others, he even disappeared into the hallway to sneeze. But he couldn't wash his hands of me, not completely. At some point during the playing of the board games, or the sharing of the Quality Street, or the dabbing of a smeary finger on an iPad, he'll have passed me on.
I don't think I wrecked his Christmas, merely added a layer of inescapable uncomfortableness. And I'll leave him once his time with the family is over, and send him back to London tomorrow as if nothing bad had happened. But I'll be back to have my fun again, at some other time of year, when he least expects it.
And I'm coming for you too, the next time you stand in the updraught of a cough, or shake hands with the possessed, or grasp a doorhandle where I'm patiently waiting. God bless you, bless you, every one.
Scott's finished writing about our Northern Rail day out last week.
He's written a lot more than me.
He's written a lot more about me.
Perhaps he's written too much...
DICKENS 200 Charles Dickens Museum Location: 48 Doughty Street, London WC1N 2LX [map] Lived here: 1837-1839 Open: 10:00-17:00 (except Mondays) Admission: £8 (£4 children) Website:www.dickensmuseum.com(& on Twitter)
Charles Dickens lived in more than a dozen houses during his life, many of them in London, only one of which still stands. That's his newlywed home in Bloomsbury, a Georgian terrace, which the great man described as follows:
Doughty Street's no longer gated but still well-to-do, and currently blessed by a fine selection of Christmas wreaths tied to various front doors. Charles lived in one of the houses with a blue plaque - this one of the London County Council's originals - but you won't be entering through his front door. The house nextdoor has been acquired as part of a major redevelopment this year, and this now contains all the visitor facilities so that number 48 can be displayed as was. It seemed strange for London's only museum of Dickensiana to have closed during the year of his bicentenary, but the house reopened a couple of weeks before Christmas, and the end result is a visible improvement.
Each visitor receives a printed guide, designed in the format of one of Dickens' "monthly parts", which sets the scene for each of the dozen rooms. Ground floor first, via the entrance hall, where some of Charles' everyday pocketfodder has been arranged on a table beneath the clock. The "as lived in" vibe continues in the dining room, which is laid out for a meal with friends. Be aware that a lot of the furniture in the house isn't from Doughty Street, it's from Dickens' final home at Gad's Hill, but the sideboard and samovar here are originals. Downstairs, by contrast, is a little more ordinary. The kitchen looks like any Victorian basement kitchen, with no real Dickensiana of note, and the wine cellar is locked round the side of the scullery where you can't really see it.
Follow the shadow of Dickens up the stairs, to the finest room in the house - the Drawing Room. The voice of Simon Callow booms out as you enter, not to tell you biographical facts but to narrate a couple of favourite passages. One is from Pickwick Papers, a 20-parter completed while Dickens was living here, along with the end of Oliver Twist and all of Nicholas Nickleby. In this room is the reading desk that Charles took around the country when giving performances to his fans, while nextdoor in the study is his writing desk from Gad's Hill on which The Mystery of Edwin Drood was never finished.
Up again to the bedrooms, one the marital suite, the other occupied by Charles's 17-year-old sister-in-law Mary. She tragically died six weeks after the family moved in, an event which affected Charles deeply and which he often referenced in his work. There are several artworks on the walls, but it's very difficult to read the captions underneath because the museum has chosen to etch them on matt metal - elegant, but entirely impractical. The two attic rooms were the preserve of Dickens' servants so they've been used as exhibition spaces rather than recreations. One's all text, while the other includes a metal grille from the Marshalsea Prison where Charles's father was imprisoned. Neither room is especially exhibit-dense, but I guess this allows room for future expansion.
The tour then steps through to number 49 Doughty Street, where there's a timeline of Charles's life (and a lift to allow less healthy visitors the opportunity to visit the upper floors). A reading area is provided where you can flick through some of the great man's many published works, although you almost certainly won't, while another room contains a handful of costumes from the just-released Hollywood version of Great Expectations. And yes, of course there's a cafe, located in a ground floor annexe, which you might use to push your visit over the 60-minute mark.
A fine restoration, all told, evoking the presence of Dickens rather than being a mere storehouse of his stuff. The place is done up with period Christmas decorations at the moment, as an added treat, and for very good reason. The museum will be opening every day over the Christmas period, including the big day itself, with live readings, mulled wine and mince pies for visitors. Don't rush, the £18 tickets have already sold out, but it's business as usual from Thursday onwards (and today).
Stratford bus update: When Westfield opened, TfL tweaked four bus routes to terminate outside. Now the Olympics are over they're planning to tweak those four routes again, and three more, to improve connectivity hereabouts. Queen Elizabeth Olympic Park is about to open up, with increasing amounts of housing, leisure facilities and other infrastructure, so best be prepared to meet the extra demand.
A consultation is underway, with a webpage here, a summary map here, and a full 22 page document here. Here's the map.
Below is a summary of the proposed changes, which are scheduled to be introduced from next spring onwards. Every bus will serve Stratford City, and five of them will stop at Stratford International, which is far more than this empty station deserves. Three buses will run through the heart of the Olympic Park - two along a restored Waterden Road and one along Carpenters Road. And three will stop outside the Aquatic Centre, should you fancy a swim in Newham's latest pool or a trip up the Orbit.
Bus
Current route
Future route
S City
S Int
Ol Pk
Aq C
97
Chingford - Stratford City
via East Village
✔
✔
241
Canning Town - Stratford City
Canning Town - East Wick
✔
✔
308
Clapton Park - Wanstead
Clapton - Wanstead
✔
✔
339
Shadwell - Stratford City
Shadwell - Whipps Cross
✔
✔
✔
✔
388
Blackfriars - Hackney Wick
Blackfriars - Stratford City
✔
✔
D8
Crossharbour - Stratford City
Crossharbour - Stratford Int
✔
✔
✔
N205
Paddington - Bow Church
Paddington - Leyton
✔
✔
✔
The 97 continues much as before, but with a diversion through the East Village to save its new residents a walk. The 241 won't be extended until the Olympic Media Centre is reopened, so that's merely an aspirational change at this stage. The 308 returns to its original route down Temple Mills Lane, then nudges away from Leyton to serve the East Village. The 339 cuts through the heart of the park and is then extended an extra three miles to Whipps Cross, becoming a much more important route than it is now. The 388 becomes Hackney's link to the Westfield shopping centre, a long awaited change. The D8 abandons Warton Road for Carpenters Road, with a wiggle back to serve the Aquatic Centre. And the N205 is a night-time-only extension of the 205, from Bow through Stratford City to Leyton.
I'm surprised not to see the 276 revert to its original route along Carpenters Road - presumably somebody thinks it's best to maintain its connection through Bow. Indeed quite a number of TfL's original plans for this area (blogged here) no longer appear on the drawing board. It had been mooted that the 8, 30, 145, 262 and W14 might extend to Stratford City, but they'll be staying put for now. One other peculiarity is that only two services will be terminating at Stratford City bus station, down from four today, which means its vast windswept parking facilities will be increasingly wasted.
The consultation runs until Friday 22nd February, so there's plenty of time to make your views heard. Residents along Leyton Road might not appreciate losing two-thirds of their buses to an upstart development, but there'll still be plenty of other untweaked buses nearby. Other than this it's hard to see too much dissent, given that these are additional services along extra route miles employing more drivers.
If all goes to plan then services on the 97 and 308 will change from May, the D8 and 205 from the autumn, the 388 next December, the 339 by 2014 and the 241 on some unconfirmed date. And one day you might be riding one of these buses to the former Olympic Park for a picnic... just not any time soon.
It is of course untrue that the world ends today, especially if you're reading this tomorrow.
But it is true that the 13thb'ak'tun of the Mayan Long Count calendar terminates this morning, after 5125 years, at the precise moment of the winter solstice. That's...
...which is such an unlikely collection of ones and twos that it looks apocalyptic all by itself. Of course, once you add "and 43 seconds" to the time, it's not quite so digitally perfect. And the Mayans didn't count months in twelves, nor have 60 minutes in an hour, so any perceived magic is merely coincidence. But today's winter solstice does have a rare astronomical meaning, in their calendar at least, which echoes back through several millennia.
As such, today's is a date I've had my eye on for a very long time. I can't remember when I first heard about the Mayan Doomsday prophecies, but it'll have been a few decades back, probably as I was rifling through a book from my local library. "The world might end in 2012" was mere apocalyptic rumour, but enough to place a bookmark on the Friday before an unimaginably distant Christmas.
2012's also been in my long-term calendar for a completely different reason - the Olympics. Not quite so long-term in this case, but the Games were confirmed for 27th July 2012 at least seven years in advance. I'd had something specific to look forward to, at a particular time, unbelievably close to my house, ever since that unlikely lunchtime in Trafalgar Square in 2005. All gone now.
I like having something to look forward to. A future markpoint, a fixed point in time, something to aim myself towards. Something properly in the future, not just next year or the year after. A birthday won't do, not even a biggie, it needs to be a global milestone.
2008 and 2011 I'd been looking forward to since I was ten. I found a list with the dates of Easter in it, from the 1970s forward into the 21st century, and two extreme dates instantly stuck out. In 2008 an extremely early Easter, and in 2011 an extremely late Easter. This probably wouldn't have excited you, but it roused something in me, and I had thirty-plus years of patiently waiting.
And especially 1999. I was given a Guinness Book of Answers as a child, which on the inside front cover had full details of Britain's only upcoming total eclipse of the sun. I pored over the map, and memorised the time, and prayed that I could somehow contrive to be in Cornwall on the morning of August 11th. I managed it too, thanks to circumstances I could never have predicted, even if the moment was entirely clouded out and my long-term dream cruelly snuffed.
Once today's non-Armageddon passes, suddenly there won't be much that's long-term-definite to look forward to in my life. No more UK total eclipses, no more local Olympics, and I'll quite possibly be dead before Easter's ever so extreme again. Lots of amazing things will surely happen on days I can't yet predict, but monumental certainties seem rather harder to come by.
The world won'tend today, even though I've long known today it might. What will end for me is having something rock-solid, distant and definite to hold on to, as I've had for many a year before. Once 2012 passes I don't have a clue what the far flung future might hold, and that's more than a little unnerving. I guess I just need to embrace the uncertainty and make the most of it, before I find that 2012 was indeed the year where my life peaked, then slipped away, and the Mayans were right after all.
A lot of people try to visit all of the stations on the London Underground in as short a time as possible. They don't get out at every station, they just pass through, and the whole thing can be done in a day. For a rather different sort of challenge, more appropriate to the northwest of England, Scott decided to visit all of the 100+ stations on the Merseyrail map. This would be proper visiting, not passing through, and with a photo of himself taken in front of every single station sign. To add to the challenge he'd walk between some of the stations and ride between others, and then he'd blog about it all after he got home. It took him five years.
Another challenge was required, so Scott stepped up a gear and decided to visit every station on the Northern Rail map instead. This is huge, from Carlisle and Newcastle in the north to Stoke-on-Trent and Nottingham in the south, and it's going to take him a lot longer. Yesterday he struck out to visit five stations on the far-flung eastern side of the map, and I headed up to join him. An ideal Christmas shopping avoidance task, I thought.
We journeyed from Sheffield to Lincoln on a branch line plied by Pacers (more a bus on rails than a proper train). The service runs only hourly, which made getting off and back on again a slow business, and that's why we only visited five stations. Scott's train from Liverpool was (very) late, so we missed the first train we intended to catch, and that had repercussions. We had lunch in Retford, which isn't something you do every day. We skipped Gainsborough, because he's been there already. We stopped for a pint in Saxilby, which previously I couldn't even have located on a map. And we arrived in Lincoln long after dark, alas with no time to admire the floodlit-cathedral before we had to catch our respective trains home.
Scott'll be writing up his account of the day in more detail, which is a bit unnerving, because people don't normally blog about a day spent out and about with me. But he'll be writing about it a bit later, not today, so don't expect to see his report immediately. So I thought I'd tell you about an hour of our day, from Shireoaks station to Worksop station and the three mile walk inbetween. I think I can guarantee it's not a walk you'll ever do, nor want to do. But that's how it is when there's a mega-challenge to complete, the journey is what you make of it.
WALK THE NORTHERN RAIL MAP
Shireoaks to Worksop(3 miles)[map]
The thing about an hourly train, if you're walking from one station to the next, is that you have one hour to complete the walk. An hour and three minutes in this case, but that's still a challenge when there's three miles to be covered. Shireoaks station isn't much, not since its Victorian buildings were demolished recently, leaving a couple of shelters and an old signal box. Scott needed his self-portrait photo taken in front of the station sign (and a paltry sign at that), and then it was time for a swift exit. To the Chesterfield Canal, a few yards along the road, which would take us down the valley to Worksop.
There are a lot of locks on this stretch, all of them narrow gauge for narrow boats. Quitescenic in the spring, no doubt, but a little more washed out in mid-December. The marina on the left bank looks like any other, but was originally built to serve a colliery on the land behind. Shireoaks is in the Nottinghamshire coalfield, exploited here from the 1860s until 1991, so it's now a former pit village getting by as best it can.
The towpath squashes between a road and the canal, past a verdant hillock that looks suspiciously like it used to be a slag heap. Past the railway bridge is another pit village with the unlikely name of Rhodesia. It's nothing African, far from it, having been named after Mr Rhodes the chairman of the colliery company. As for Haggonfields Lock, that could the scenic highlight of the walk were it not for a concrete viaduct carrying the A57 overhead. [photo]
The canal is closed at Stret Lock, where workmen are using the winter months to drain, widen and rebuild. Recent measurements revealed that the lock is an inch narrower than it's supposed to be, following centuries of ground pressure, and boats were regularly getting stuck on the way through. Progress can be observed from The Lock Keeper pub alongside, whose "Carvery from £3.99" looks wonderfully cheap to my southern eyes.
Another mile of meadowside towpath follows, with the steeple of Worksop's parish church increasingly visible across the rooftops [photo]. The flood plain's useful only for sports pitches and a fishing lake, and a big shopping centre which has brought Costa coffee and M&S sandwiches to the town for the first time. It's important to leave the towpath here rather than continue to the lock hidden beneath the bridge on the high street. A sign on the brick wall warns "Danger Bathing Prohibited", but you'd have to be pretty stupid to dive into the deep narrow chasm between the lock gates.
And finally up the high street to the station, past a fine building that used to be the Council Offices but now houses an electrical contractors and a bathroom showroom. We thought we had five minutes to spare, so were aghast to see the level crossing lights flashing and barriers descending, blocking off our access to the other side. Thankfully that was for the hourly train going the other way, but we only discovered this after we'd yomped at speed over the station footbridge.
Worksop station's characterfully wooden, with a dance studio on one platform and The Railway Cafe on the other. We could have stopped here for Yorkshire tea and cake, or even a Monster Challenge breakfast (seriously, three eggs?) but our Retford-bound train called us away. And I'll let Scott tell you about the rest of the day, in his own time, no pressure. He still has so much further to go, but that's a tiny fraction more ticked off.
2013 anniversary quiz
That's the hill above Greenwich, west of Blackheath, with one of the finest views in London. A grassy plateau edged with trees drops steeply away to provide the perfect panorama across the inner city. From Docklands past the Shard to the Elephant, with Wembley Arch in the background, plus the enormous bonus that the London Eye appears face on. All you have to do is stand close enough to the railings to be able to see, because otherwise the lawn here's unhelpfully flat. It is therefore wise to arrive before ten to twelve if you want a decent spot, which I didn't, so I got to stand behind "the tall man in the woolly hat". Many drove and left their cars on the heath, others walked up from the houses below and stood good-naturedly, bottles in hand. A few premature fireworks exploded in the distance, fired by chronological incompetents, as the Eye pulsated on the horizon. Someone started a ten second countdown, and unbelievably it was precise, which has never happened anywhere else I've stood outside for New Year. The Embankment erupted with a silent flash, too far away to be entirely impressive, but clear enough that we still felt connected to the heart of the action. A handful of other displays burst forth, the largest somewhere over Rotherhithe, but most of London made a very lacklustre attempt to compete with the official show. Glasses clinked, couples hugged, and eventually a chorus of Auld Lang Syne went up. For ten minutes we watched, or attempted to as the wind blew the Mayor's smoke in our direction. Then finally the action faded, followed several seconds later by the rumble of gunpowder dissolving into silence. Some stayed to drain their glasses and enjoy the occasion with friends, others headed off across the grass and back to the comforts of home. It's certainly one of the most civilised places I've seen in a New Year, and one of the easiest to get to, but do arrive early if you want to see 2014 explode in style.
It's over.
The first time I went to Kew Gardens it cost a penny to get in. Yesterday it cost less. Entrance to the gardens is free for twelve days over Christmas, but only if you booked in advance, and if you didn't you're too late. A fine day out at any time, but finer still for nothing.
1) The Olympics: Obviously this is top of my list for 2012. A one-off fortnight, seven years in the making, which flew higher than any of us could have imagined. And I was there.
1) South Coast Downlander: One rail ticket, one bank holiday, ten south coast resorts. Madness, but a lot of fun. [photos]
The top selling Christmas record in the Christmas chart
DICKENS 200
We journeyed from Sheffield to Lincoln on a branch line plied by Pacers (more a bus on rails than a proper train). The service runs only hourly, which made getting off and back on again a slow business, and that's why we only visited five stations. Scott's train from Liverpool was (very) late, so we missed the first train we intended to catch, and that had repercussions. We had lunch in Retford, which isn't something you do every day. We skipped Gainsborough, because he's been there already. We stopped for a pint in Saxilby, which previously I couldn't even have located on a map. And we arrived in Lincoln long after dark, alas with no time to admire the floodlit-cathedral before we had to catch our respective trains home.
The towpath squashes between a road and the canal, past a verdant hillock that looks suspiciously like it used to be a slag heap. Past the railway bridge is another pit village with the unlikely name of Rhodesia. It's nothing African, far from it, having been named after Mr Rhodes the chairman of the colliery company. As for Haggonfields Lock, that could the scenic highlight of the walk were it not for a concrete viaduct carrying the A57 overhead. [photo]
