Tuesday, March 25, 2025
The least used station in Britain: DENTON
Greater Manchester
(Annual passenger usage: 54)
The least used railway station in Britain isn't in the wilds of Scotland or down some obscure country lane, it's in a Manchester suburb. Thousands of people live nearby, there's a huge Sainsbury's across the road and nine buses an hour stop immediately outside.
The problem thus isn't Denton's location it's the timetable, which these days consists of just two trains a week. Between 1992 and 2018 it was only one, so this is an improvement.
Saturdays Only southbound northbound Stalybridge 0830 0928 Guide Bridge 0837 0920 Denton 0842 0916 Reddish South 0846 0910 Stockport 0859 0904
We're on the Stockport-Stalybridge line, an outer orbital route through the outskirts of Manchester which opened in 1845. It was originally deemed useful as part of a connection between Crewe and Leeds, but when services started going via Manchester instead it lost its mojo. The towns the line passes through aren't insignificant, and the fact it's shadowed by a motorway suggests some underlying demand, but in the end it's a self-fulfilling prophecy in that if you run hardly any trains you get hardly any passengers.
Year 16/17 17/18 18/19 19/20 20/21 21/22 22/23 23/24 Passengers 144 70 46 92 12 50 34 54 Rank 12th 3rd 1st 5th 7th 4th 2nd 1st
When they last totted up the annual passenger numbers Denton had just 54, fewer than at every other railway station in Britain, bringing a brief moment of celebratory notoriety. That's effectively just one passenger a week, which is remarkably low given you'd think stations like this would attract a fair number of traingeeks. Admittedly most of those would choose to ride the whole line rather than alighting at the halt in the middle, plus this is quite early on a Saturday morning, hence the tumbleweed.
I didn't visit on a Saturday so I won't be upping the numbers. But I did explore the station because you can just walk in, there being no gates let alone barriers or pads for tapping. The entrance is on a bridge above the railway on a slip road off a motorway junction, Denton being the place where the M67 bears off the looping M60. There are much nicer places to be, but also Victorian terraces round the corner and a fine parish church up the road so things could be worse. The boards outside the station include a warning not to bring e-scooters onto trains, a map with a sad-looking dotted line and a paltry list of train times, four destinations tops. It's 28 steps down to the platform, which I was surprised to see someone had salted despite no trains being due.
The station, such as it is, consists of a long island platform chopped off two-thirds of the way down because no trains ever stop at the far end. There are three station signs, all referencing the Greater Manchester Passenger Transport Executive which rebranded in 2011. A single blue bench has been provided in case you face a long wait. There's no lighting because trains only stop during daylight hours. A sign tells you which side trains for Stalybridge depart, because when trains are weekly it would be terrible to get that wrong. And there are three rather nice wooden planters abuzz with shrubbery and even a few daffodils, these provided by The Friends of Denton Station. Alas a notice at the roadside reports that FODS have had to suspend activities "due to circumstances beyond their control", but someone's clearly still coming down and looking after things so thanks for that.
I was expecting to have the station completely to myself so really wasn't expecting to hear the sound of an approaching train. The driver honked to let me know they were coming, twice, presumably just as surprised to see someone wandering around in this godforsaken outpost. A lengthy freight train then rolled by, taking several minutes to pass, which did at least allow me to get some unusual photos of an already unusual station. Research later showed the train was on an eight hour safari from a freight terminal in Liverpool to a power station in Middlesbrough, and that's one good reason why this passenger-unfriendly line remains open.
There being no trains, and the local buses not going to either Stockport or Stalybridge, I headed off on foot. For locals it's 20 minutes down the A57 to the main crossroads in Denton, former hub of the hat industry, just far enough away for many of them not to realise the station exists. Instead I followed steep steps to a subway underneath the motorway, this evidently the most direct route south from the station, only to find two comfy sofas had got there first. Below them the path dipped down into a seasonal mudbath awash with plastic bottles and a couple of Sainsbury's trolleys, crossed by a handful of haphazard planks, and what I did was retreat very fast and go round the long way instead because it was horrible down there. Nobody cares, I thought, and maybe carelessness is why this is our least used station.
The 5th least used station in Britain: REDDISH SOUTH
Greater Manchester
(Annual passenger usage:128)
Reddish has two stations, North and South. Reddish North is on a busy line with regular services to Manchester and New Mills, thus attracts over 180,000 passengers annually. Reddish South however lies on the twice-a-week Stockport to Stalybridge line so is a railway white elephant, which is peeving because it's much closer to the town centre and ought to be much more useful.
Year 16/17 17/18 18/19 19/20 20/21 21/22 22/23 23/24 Passengers 94 104 60 158 18 108 100 128 Rank 6th 7th 3rd 9th 10th 8th 5th 5th
We've passed two miles down the line, a journey which can be made by train in four minutes once a week. Reddish South station lies below a road bridge thrumming with vehicles and pedestrian footfall, just around the back of Morrisons car park. Like Denton there are information boards at the roadside listing miserably few trains, but this time also a proper Transport for Greater Manchester station sign alerting everyone to its existence. The gate at the top of the steps is lockable but wasn't, and I suspect rarely is, which was great because it allowed me to head down to the platform again and explore.
Originally this was an island platform but one track's disappeared and been replaced of late by a rather nice garden. A white picket fence shields a bank of shrubbery, at one point with a carpet of blue spring flowers and at another with a burst of pink blossom. That's because as you might have guessed there's a group of volunteers called The Friends of Reddish South Station and they're still very much a going concern with an unexpectedly comprehensive website. Along the back wall is a vibrant mural symbolising 'Second Chances' and also a recent panel celebrating the line's 175th anniversary. According to signs on the fence Reddish South has won three times in the awards for Cheshire's Best Kept Station, which is incredible given it sees two trains a week and has never been in Cheshire.
The actual platform, however, is ill-surfaced with occasional humps which I nearly tripped over twice. No matter how poorly used the station there is of course a yellow line to stand behind and a parallel stripe of tactile paving. Again the far end of the platform is fenced off, this time not with flowerboxes but with a wonky station timeline. Here and there are plaques unveiled by former local MP Andrew Gwynne, who it seems was always willing to turn up so long as WW2 was being commemorated, and who was also a long-time supporter of returning better services to the station. The posters advertising Northern Rail services feel very out of place, especially given that if you ever head off on a day trip from here you can't get back. Also the sign saying this is platform 1 feels somewhat unnecessary because of course it is.
The southern half of Reddish meanwhile gets on with daily life without the availability of a decent rail connection. It boasts hilariously named businesses like Reddish Ale, Reddish Grill and Reddish Hair. It has a Conservative Club called the Reddish Con Club, which at first I thought was a gaffe but the more I think about it the more brilliant a name it is. It has a magnificent behemoth of a cotton mill at the heart of Houldsworth Model Village, since converted to flats. It has a Grade I listed gothic church at St Elizabeth's, which is where Ashley married Maxine in Coronation Street in 1999. And it's a lengthy yomp into Stockport or £2 on the bus whereas it could be a quick trip by train, and not just one-way before breakfast on a Saturday morning. Opportunity missed, or perhaps unnecessary, but definitely a right Northern quirk.
» 11 photos Denton
» 9 photos of Reddish
» 30 photos of Stockport
» all 50 photos in one album
[FORSS has designated this Saturday's northbound service from Reddish South and Denton as the Breakfast Special Folk Train, leading to "music, bacon butties, hot drinks & local ales" at Stalybridge Buffet Bar (one way only, make your own way back), just in time to boost passenger numbers before the end of the financial year]
Monday, March 24, 2025
Gadabout: STOCKPORT
Stockport is a former textile town on the Lancashire/Cheshire border, since swallowed up by Greater Manchester. Of the ten metropolitan boroughs it's the southeasternmost. Previously I'd only ever seen it from the train while crossing the lofty viaduct over the River Mersey, noting the tall chimney with 'Hat Museum' written on it and thinking that might be a good place to visit. And indeed it was, not just the headgear repository but the unexpectedly split-level town, its heritage and its wider points of interest. Join me to discover what's underneath the shopping centre, where Joy Division recorded, what Lowry painted and how many rabbits it takes to make a hat. [Visit Stockport] [30 photos]
Let's start with the Hat Museum, or Hat Works as it's been officially branded, perhaps because museums are old hat. It's based in a former cotton mill with a striking 200 foot chimney, which thankfully for reasons of authenticity was later used for hat making by local company Ward Bros. A lottery grant helped transform it into a flats and a heritage centre, the latter opening in 2000, and a further grant funded a major "refurbishment and reinterpretation" which reopened last year. It's only open three days a week so I chose the date of my visit carefully, but it is free to enter which is good going for something they could easily have charged for.
The first floor down is the Gallery of Hats, because obviously what you do in a hat museum is display as many different types of headgear as you can. Here they have several hundred, from pillboxes to pith helmets and kepis to kippahs, appealingly laid out in bright display cases. A subject like hats screams out for thematic curation so that's what they've gone for, with underlying issues like faith, pride and sustainability subtly woven in throughout. The red Mini they've squeezed into one corner seems a bit redundant, but it does at least signpost the way to some splendid Mary Quant numbers. Also full marks for filling the reading corner with appropriate children's books including I Want My Hat Back and The Quangle Wangle's Hat.
Downstairs is the factory floor which is awash with all kinds of machinery used to make all kinds of hats. I think sometimes they turn some of it on because there were a heck of a lot of ear defenders hanging on the wall outside. Separate gizmos helped with dyeing, shaping, lining, dimpling and even adding those little fiddly ribbons on the inside. Pick your time right and you can be led round on a proper tour, pick your time wrong and you end up mid-school-trip. One aspect of the latest reinterpretation is a sign warning that the room contains 'aspects of the hat trade which some people may find upsetting'. Skinning rabbits for their pelt fair enough, and maybe the manufacture of extra-cheap hats to send to slaves in the West Indies, but anyone upset by the concept of 'inequality' probably needs a better grip on the world. It was twelve rabbits per hat, by the way, so Stockport was once slaughtering 150,000 a week.
It feels odd that the Hat Works entrance is on the top floor but that's because Stockport is a split level town with an upper bit, a lower bit and several sloping connections. It takes some getting used to walking round and suddenly finding yourself on a high bridge crossing a low road, or realising that what looks like a neighbouring street on a map is in fact a steep climb away. High Street is well named. The quirkiest area is probably the Underbanks, a narrow meandering indent following the line of a former stream, the Tin Brook. Many of the trendier shops are down here, but also a proper chippie because Stockport is not yet up itself. The oldest building on Great Underbank is Underbank Hall, a three-gabled half-timbered Tudor townhouse which is now occupied, appropriately enough, by a branch of NatWest bank. I was so taken by Crowther Street's classic climbing cobbles that I paused for a photo, only to discover later that LS Lowry had done the same with his paintbrush in 1930. However the houses he saw were all demolished during later slum clearance and what's here now is a modern rebuild deliberately designed to echo Lowry's painting.
Stockport's main museum is in the historic heart of the town, up top on a red sandstone cliff where the castle no longer is. It too is free, although it does wrap around a paid-for attraction which is Staircase House, an original 15th century home with rare Jacobean newel staircase. I was all primed to make this the first attraction where I'd paid Senior rates but they didn't upsell it, I suspect because closing time was approaching, so I just went round the ordinary exhibits instead. These spread across five floors and are properly varied, from all the usual local Bronze Age and municipal stuff to a scale model exemplifying the restoration of the Iron Bridge in Marple. I particularly enjoyed the current temporary exhibition in the basement showcasing rediscovered camera shots of Stockport market in the mid 1970s, Heidi's black and white photos being emotionally evocative.
Another gallery focuses on Strawberry Studios, the first professional recording studio outside London, which was set up by early members of 10cc in 1968. The band recorded their first albums here and pumped some of the proceeds from their success into upgrading to a 36-track desk which attracted an eclectic selection of other artists. These included Hotlegs, Neil Sedaka, Sad Cafe, Cliff Richard, The Sisters of Mercy, The Smiths, The Stone Roses, Barclay James Harvest, Echo & The Bunnymen and the St Winifred's School Choir. Several of these get a mention on the blue plaque outside the former studios on Wellington Street, plus the seminal Joy Division whose first album was recorded here at Strawberry (and can be played in full within the museum gallery). You may have the album's iconic cover art on a t-shirt but Stockport proudly slaps it up on buildings ("yeah, Unknown Pleasures, that's one of ours").
Opposite the museum is the Market Hall, a striking cast iron and glass confection that narrows as it climbs. It houses three dozen stalls in that appealing way only northern towns seem to manage, selling such delights as Polish plum donuts, mop and bucket sets and embroidered hedgehog cushions. Other buildings hereabouts include the Robinson Brewery, a towering redbrick presence which looks like it ought to be flats by now but is still the heart of a 250 year-old independent brewery chain. I wasn't prompt enough to see inside their small museum and shop. A memorial on Hopes Carr commemorates the 1967 Stockport plane disaster, still one of Britain's worst, in which fuel issues brought the plane down on a scrap of open ground perilously close to the town centre killing 72 of those aboard. The town is still very obviously on the flight path for Manchester Airport which is five miles away and whose runway annoyingly aligns.
Stockport's main shopping mall is highly unusual in that it's built on top of a river. With nowhere else to cram it, town planners in the 1960s added concrete arches above a 500m stretch of the River Mersey and so created Merseyway. What's more the river was once the official boundary between two counties, so if you go shopping in Primark you're in historic Cheshire and if you cross the mall to River Island you're in what used to be Lancashire. The Mersey is a ridiculously young river at this point because its source is less than five minutes walk away, born at the confluence of the River Goyt and the River Tame. One starts in the Peak District and the other on Pennine moorland, meeting here in the town centre alongside the roaring ribbon of the elevated M60 motorway before launching off towards Liverpool.
Mersey-side is also the location of the town's newest regeneration locus, Stockport Interchange. This replacement bus station opened a year ago on the site of the old, a futuristic split-level swoosh with an airy timbered waiting space and an elliptical bus stand. Up top is a new park with fine views over the rim, accessed via lifts, a long staircase or an unwieldy outdoor spiral called the Stockport Helix. Manchester's recently-launched Bee Network is gradually turning all the local buses a gorgeous shade of custard yellow, and yesterday saw the introduction of tap and go fares for the very first time. Displays within the bus station are very clear and a full rack of paper timetables is available, but alas there's not a map to be seen - I did ask at the information desk and got a smiley "no". Roger has a full report from opening day if you'd like to see more photos.
And this whole area is dominated by the massive Stockport viaduct which remains one of the world's largest brick-built structures. It was built to carry the fledgling Manchester and Birmingham Railway across the River Mersey, comprises over 11 million bricks and was completed in less than two years. It looks splendid in the sunlight, and can be newly admired from a sinuous footpath connection which now links the bus station in the valley to the railway station on the escarpment. The best view however is from up top on a train, looking down across the town with its jumble of rooftops and occasional mill chimneys. I never got to see that because the station comes just before the viaduct, ditto I never quite made it to the Art Gallery, the Air Raid Shelters or Fred Perry's childhood home. But I really liked Stockport, it had unexpected character, so don't rule out a return visit.
» 30 photos of sunny Stockport
Sunday, March 23, 2025
Five years ago PM Boris Johnson addressed the nation from 10 Downing Street and told us "You must stay at home". All sorts of extraordinary restrictions were subsequently introduced, many of which were conveyed to us in signs and stickers slapped across our immediate environment. But many of these have never been removed, despite all restrictions having been withdrawn three years ago, so for today's post I've been collecting examples of such lingering signage. All photos were taken this year.
This a road sign at the Gallions Reach roundabout in the Royal Docks.
It points towards the Nightingale Hospital, a scary morgue-like contingency that was virtually never used. As far as I'm aware all the other road signs pointing to the Nightingale Hospital have been taken down, but not this one.
This is a crumpled poster in a bus shelter in Becontree Heath.
It's from that era when disinfectant, hand sanitiser and ventilation were key to providing confidence to returning passengers. And it really should have been taken down by now.
This is the foot of a totem outside the Priory Retail Park in Colliers Wood. Above Burger King are listed Currys, Aldi, Dunelm and the Kiss Me Hardy pub. Click to embiggen.
It was once appropriate to request that shoppers "maintain a distance of at least 2 metres from anyone", "do not shake hands" and "wash your hands regularly and for at least 20 seconds", but in 2025 it's pointless hectoring.
This is the front of the Lansbury Pharmacy in Poplar. They also have a sign on the pavement outside.
They always seemed overkeen to be a vaccination centre, and I don't think they've ever taken this signage down.
This sign's attached to a gate halfway up the long path down to Sydenham Hill station.
I've long suspected The Dulwich Estate of being behind the times, and here they definitely are.
This sticker lingers on a cycle hire station near the southern entrance to the Rotherhithe Tunnel.
It is arguably still good advice to 'wash your hands before and after you travel', but three years on from Covid now also overtly nannyish.
This is a sign at Islington Museum alongside a normally-handleable water jug and bowl.
It should have been simple for any member of staff to realise this sign was irrelevant, pick it up and remove it - they've had three years - but nobody ever has.
These signs survive in the subway at Bank station and on the pavement in Harold Road, Upton Park.
Erosion has got rid of most of the underfoot stickers and paintjobs urging us to keep 2m apart, but not yet all.
This sign is attached to a fingerpost beside the River Chess in Croxley Green.
The top row includes information now deemed irrelevant, including "do not touch your face", "wipe down equipment before use" and "if the park or play area is busy please come back another time". But the bottom row is evergreen behavioural advice and maybe that's why Three Rivers council have never spent money replacing these signs.
This is a sign beside a shopping parade in Kingsbury.
It's highly evocative of a time of press conferences and podium slogans, but it shouldn't be here.
This Priority Postbox sticker adorns a pillar box in Rush Green near Romford. It was a key part of the hopelessly inadequate Track and Trace system which relied on Royal Mail being selectively competent.
These stickers remain widespread and may be the last evidence of Covid to finally disappear.
This is perhaps my favourite leftover.
It's a bus stop and shelter introduced as part of a temporary bus network to help medical staff at the Nightingale Hospital get to work. This was the terminus of route 3, the last of the four routes to be withdrawn, strategically located outside a couple of hotels at Prince Regent.
It last saw a bus on 13th May 2020 and yet it's still here, ditto the bus stop across the road which was for alighting only. You'd think a superfluous bus shelter could be of more use elsewhere and would have been removed by now, but you'd think wrong.
It is perhaps impressive that after three months of looking this is all I've found. But it's also symptomatic of a system that rushes to put signs up but never notices it should also take them down.
Saturday, March 22, 2025
Route 60: Streatham to Old Coulsdon
Location: London south, outer
Length of bus journey: 12 miles, 75 minutes
It's traditional around every birthday that I take a numerically significant bus journey. Eighteen years ago I took the 42 to Dulwich, then subsequently the 43 to Barnet, the 44 to Tooting, the 45 to Clapham, the 46 to Farringdon, the 47 to Bellingham, the 48 to Walthamstow, the 49 to Battersea, the 50 to Croydon, the 51 to Orpington, the 52 to Willesden, the 53 to Whitehall, the 54 to Elmers End, the 55 to Oxford Circus, the 56 to Smithfield, the 57 to Kingston, the 58 to Walthamstow and most recently the 59 to Streatham Hill. This year it's back to Streatham for a southbound safari aboard the 60 to Old Coulsdon.
I confess I have already ridden and blogged about route 60, way back in June 2012 when it seemed an appropriate way of celebrating the Queen's Diamond Jubilee. But I was in my forties then and insufficiently bothered I'd need to come back and ride it again in 2025, so my apologies if any of this feels like a repeat. That said my focus then was mainly bunting and royal references whereas this will be more general and indeed three times the length, so buckle in.
Route 60 has linked Lambeth to the North Downs since 1998 and kicks off from a bus stand squished between Streatham station and a giant Tesco Extra. Four routes kick off here, all best observed on the Countdown display because the timetable panel seems to have suffered an existential crisis. We'll be taking the scenic route to Croydon so nobody who boards here is going that far, other than me that is, which does at least make it easy to grab the key observation-friendly seat above the driver. On the way up I note a sign that says "For your own safety do not stand on the upper deck or stairs", and I know what they're trying to say but it does sound like upstairs is out of bounds unless you hop or crawl. This means I have already tutted at two poor examples of signage and we haven't left yet, so my birthday reportage is very much on trend.
Escaping onto the High Road relies on traffic kindly slowing to ease us out, so thanks for that madam. The road is broad, as befits the arterial A23, and watched over by a digital billboard seemingly exclusively for the purpose of promoting Global radio stations like Heart and Smooth. We miss our turn through the lights because a sirening fire engine has to take precedence, allowing a slightly longer view of budding branches across Streatham Common. Our off-piste deviation starts almost immediately with a right turn down Greyhound Lane, the Greyhound being the pub that used to stand on the corner. It's since been renamed The Rabbit Hole, the proprietors somehow convinced that what the place really needed was "an amazing interior based on Alice in Wonderland", which is not something you'd ever have named a street after.
We're heading into Streatham Vale, southernmost of all the Streatham neighbourhood variants, thus named because it runs down to the River Graveney. The only other bus heading this way is the 45, which has been serving Greyhound Lane for a mere seven weeks since TfL renumbered route 118 as part of a cost-saving conjuring trick. We pause awhile outside Streatham Common station, which isn't actually by the common and whose station totem is unusually green in its lower parts. Filled rolls and fried eggs are on offer at Mum's Cafe, whereas David's Deli is a bijou cheesemongery and suffering under the middle class delusion that this is Streatham Village. Two teenagers are very pleased that our driver halts awhile to let them on, although it would have been nice if they'd hurried up a bit.
The houses facing Streatham Vale are villa-ish with nice front gardens. I'm pleased to see cherry trees in blossom because it's obligatory to try to mention that somewhere in every birthday bus write-up, although I don't think I've ever had the opportunity to mention vibrant yellow mimosa before. An unusual presence hereabouts is the office of Dave Ridge and Sons, a specialist pebble dashing company who've been tending to unflat walls for almost 60 years. Their own HQ is of course suitably splattered. Meanwhile The Vale pub is shuttered with a For Sale sign outside, and given it's being advertised as "a versatile prospect for buyers" with "scope for alternative uses" has likely pulled its last pint.
Greyhound Terrace marks our passage into the borough of Merton, hence officially outer London, entering via an amusingly named locale called Lonesome. It boasts the first Lidl of our journey and it won't be the last. I wonder why there's a well-stocked florist on the next bend, and ah yes it's due to the presence of a particularly large cemetery, Streatham Park being the final resting place of such personalities as Wilfrid Brambell, Dorothy Squires and Desmond Dekker. The local housing stock consists of long unbroken interwar terraces, all alleyless which must mean anything you want in your back garden has to be lugged through the house. We're still miles from Coulsdon but now two bus routes will get you there, the twiddlier 463 certain never to appear in this birthday bus series.
Entry into Pollards Hill is signalled by a mini-roundabout and the abrupt change in housing from 1930s to 1960s. A contorted wall of three-storey maisonette blocks wiggles uninspiringly across the grass, whereas the local library is a vibrant spiky presence upspruced in blue and grey in 2009. Our bus is suddenly starting to fill up with estate residents because we're the only route that goes to Croydon and that's the obvious target destination round here. The two 20-somethings who join me at the front of the top deck I nickname Sniff and Scroll, she with a pronounced cold and he entranced by his phone. No conversation ensues, but at one point he shows her a hilarious video and she duly smirks.
At Galpins Road we leave Pollards Hill, which is ironic because all the street trees are now fully pollarded, and enter the borough of Croydon. After four paragraphs we're finally turning back onto the A23, here called London Road, just before the A23 itself turns off at the Thornton Heath roundabout. It looked nicer when there was a pond in the middle rather than a traffic-choked greenspace surrounded by drab newbuilds. That was Lidl 2 by the way, if you're counting which obviously I am. National brands are otherwise mostly absent from the local shops, bar Greggs, KFC and multiple bookies, plus the first outpost of Coughlans bakery (which yes I will be counting too).
After passing the bus garage there are now six routes all filtering into Croydon, and still we're filling up with passengers. Building heights are also starting to get higher because Croydon's that kind of town. Officially this is Broad Green, a historic suburb heralded by a big metal bell at the roadside. I think 'Scooperb' may be the best name I've ever seen for a dessert parlour, although I worry it may be too clever for its own good. Likewise Grand Parade may well have been apposite for a parade of shops in 1902 but it looks anything but now. The retail offering along this lengthy stretch is mostly beauty and food focused, as exemplified by two businesses called Prestige and Sizzlers. The two ladies behind me are having a conversation at an entirely unnecessary volume and I take heart they'll likely be getting off soon. Yes that's Lidl 3.
After half an hour we've finally reached West Croydon station which is the trigger for the start of the passenger exodus. Our onward route threads us past the trams and into the top of the high street, before bearing off at Santander to not quite hit the bus station. But we get stuck trying to enter Wellesley Road because traffic has backed up and because the driver of a 468 has selfishly nudged forward to fill the gap we needed to exit. Something on Scroll's phone induces an unexpected snort of laughter, then he lifts his baseball cap to reveal a mini man-bun and I have to keep my own snort in. Croydon's futuristic boulevard of dreams looks somewhat tired now, with even the old Home Office tower at Apollo House decanted and awaiting conversion to flats. If you're still reading, rest assured we're almost halfway there.
The 60 is essentially a route of two halves, one north of Croydon and the other south, conveniently bolted together to avoid taking up parking space in the town centre. There is thus a full turnover of passengers here, myself excluded, as those heading for the shops alight and those who've finished shopping get on. The exodus is complete by the time we reach the deconstruction zone, the civic centre's empty heart that's still mostly holes and scaffolding, and no indication it'll look any better any year soon. I was last here on a birthday bus in 2015 when I astutely noticed "it seems I'm doomed to spend every milestone birthday touring the Croydon one-way system" and that "the town and I may be looking somewhat worse for wear by 2025". Alas at least one of those is true.
My new companion at the front of the bus is a black-clad young woman whose face is a dot-to-dot of piercings. Together we aim for the Croydon Flyover, which we fly under, and yes there's our second Coughlans. This road is Croydon's official High Street and at this end I'd say it's mostly chicken shops and solicitors. As we merge into South Croydon the number of sit-down restaurants increases, proper places with menus and very much the sort of locale you can imagine Terry and June heading for an evening of wining and dining. Not to the Wetherspoons obviously because that's closed, and not The Swan and Sugarloaf either because that's now a Tesco Express. Amid all this is a 16th century half-timbered property occupied by a shop called Just Flutes which genuinely is the UK's largest specialist flute centre, although they also sell piccolos so their name is somewhat misleading.
From here you can take your pick from half a dozen bus routes to Purley, and thankfully this time the 60 is one of the direct options. This involves passing in front of the prestigious Whitgift School and its playing fields rather than round the back, where it seems VAT is about to shunt the boys' termly fees precipitously close to £10,000. The headmaster certainly pays his groundsmen well. The terraces we're passing all date from the 1880s, and a little later from the 1890s because that's generally how town expansion works. South Croydon bus garage is where vehicles on route 60 are stabled so I steel myself for an annoying driver change, which thankfully doesn't materialise. Hey presto Coughlans number 3. You don't need to ding the bell seven times to alight mate, once will do.
It feels about a mile too early to be naming a pub The Purley Arms, but this area's notionally Purley Oaks so that's OK. There's also a Toby Carvery should endless roasts be more your thing. The street ahead has two very distinct flanks, one heavily redeveloped and the other still mostly the foothills of 1930s suburbia, topped off by my auntie's house. As we head south we jockey for position with a 466, sometimes us ahead, sometimes them, and they will almost certainly get to Old Coulsdon first. The recreation ground on the right is called Rotary Field, I presume because it was donated by charitable businessmen and not because it turns round. The Rotary Club are also responsible for the town clock at Purley Cross, although I see that's now missing one of its faces.
Purley's true arrival is heralded by a lengthy sequence of banners flapping from lampposts promoting inPurley.london, the online brand of the local self-obsessed BID. The retail offer here includes the impressively tiny Downlands Shopping Precinct, one last surviving building society and Coughlans number 4. There's also that giant turrety Tesco, still the town's greatest draw, although it's not so big that anyone flags us down to carry their groceries home. I do however have another top seat companion and annoyingly she's already on the phone, handsfree, blabbering on about Ubers and her friend in the probation service. I learn that her job is changing, then thankfully the call ends, she unwraps a lemon sherbet and shuts up. One hour down, fifteen minutes to go.
The road ahead is once again the A23, now broader and lined by larger Tudorbethan homes and other white-fronted detacheds. The throwback vibe is only jettisoned when the road veers slightly to launch off round the Coulsdon bypass, and we of course turn off into the town centre because a bus route is a public service. Here too food and beauty is the focus but with a smarter vibe, so the supermarket is a whopping Waitrose and internal design is courtesy of 'The Magic of Amadeus Flowers'. The inevitable Coughlans Bakery is our fifth and final, well ahead of any tally of Greggs or Gail's. Our last boarders are either loaded with shopping or are off to the sixth form college on the hill, understandably preferring a bus ride to a a protracted uphill climb.
We flee the town centre by passing underneath the bypass and the Brighton mainline. We're now so far south we've escaped the ULEZ, its boundary drawn to exclude these outermost avenues whose residents can drive vehicles as choking as they like. On passing the recreation ground I'm surprised to see ten lampposts still adorned with red poppies, but it's not patriotic amnesia it's because the park contains the ever-proud Poppy Cafe. There follows a gentle ascent along Chaldon Way, then a steeper climb up Mead Way where our driver could really have done without the hill start after meeting another 60 coming the other way. These borderline avenues are flanked on both sides by gabled homes with characterful porches and diamond lattice windows, and we thank the City of London for ensuring that not all of Farthing Downs ended up like this.
The gradient gently eases beside a small green bursting with daffodils. Here begins a short loop to allow the terminating 60 a chance to turn round, there being no convenient roundabouts in Old Coulsdon. Tollers Lane was once a remote narrow rural track, and now it's peripheral suburbia with a direct nightbus service from Tottenham Court Road. The postbox on The Crossways is as far south as any of my birthday buses will ever take me, and two stops later we're pulling up at the terminus outside the Tudor Rose in the heart of the village. I wonder what Old Coulsdon will be like?
• Route 60: route map
• Route 60: live route map
• Route 60: route history
• Route 60: route history
• Route 60: timetable
• Route 60: The Ladies Who Bus
Friday, March 21, 2025
(this is the follow-up post to tomorrow's ride on my birthday bus route)
If you climb aboard a number 60 bus in Streatham and then step off at the far end in Old Coulsdon, it's like entering another world. A quiet well-to-do suburb on a hill, all broad avenues, backlanes and green tendrils reaching out into rolling chalkland on the edge of the North Downs. It's barely London at all, indeed Old Coulsdon's the southernmost suburb in the capital and could/should easily be in Surrey. And if you climbed aboard that number 60 with your age in mind it's quite evocative, not least because even the place name begins with Old.
Coulsdon emerged in the 12th century meaning ‘hill of a man called Cūthrǣd’ and part of its parish church is even older. In the 19th century the centre of gravity starting shifting to the valley where the turnpike ran, later the railway, and eventually lowly Smitham Bottom took on the mantle of Coulsdon proper leaving the village on the hill to become Old Coulsdon. One looks down on the other.
When you alight the 60 you find yourself outside the Tudor Rose, a country pub with barleysugar chimneys. But it's only pretending to be old for effect, indeed it's really a Mock Tudor Rose, and has during its lifetime been a pubby hotel and a Harvester. After a recent refresh it's now more restaurant than cheery local, somewhere you'd head for rotisserie pork belly and a nice white wine, so I really wasn't tempted.
The parade of shops opposite includes the Next Level Barbers, Wyatts Cafe and Stella's Emporium, which it turns out is an unlikely mix of Greek deli and Gift Shop. The cafe knows to tend to traditional palates, but more old lady than white van man, as hinted by the cooked breakfast pictured outside having a side order of orange juice. The smell of bacon wafting out was properly evocative, in my case like inhaling the 1970s.
And the parade gets even Old Coulsdoner as it curves round. A wine bar that'll also try to upsell you houseplants. Fish and chips from Danny's, a proper friendly fryer that started out when I was half my age. The most unIndian looking of Indian restaurants. A salon for perms, rinses and other hairdos. A pharmacy with an oldschool 'CHEMIST' sign above the doorway. A funeral director, perfectly poised to deal with an above average level of departures hereabouts. And the glorious Tudor Bakery.
A proper bakery makes all its own wares on the premises, not on a distant trading estate. A proper bakery lays them out with love, not as prim squares on sparse trays. A proper bakery makes loaves without gimmicks and spreads them across long higgledy shelves. A proper bakery makes squishy buns and iced cakes from traditional recipes, even OMG gipsy tarts. A proper bakery has regulars who queue and gossip while they wait for today's plump bagfuls. A proper bakery has ladies who look like they've served here for decades and will gladly enter into conversation about the rock cakes they just made. And a proper bakery will sell you the largest sugariest flakiest bath bun for a mere £1.15, then twist it politely into a white paper bag. There are no improper bakeries in Old Coulsdon, only the Tudor Bakery, and if I lived within walking distance I fear I'd be back every day.
And yet Old Coulsdon is all about teenagers because they're everywhere. A large sixth form college exists just down the road, barely two minutes distant, thus a steady stream of learners nips out mid-timetable to stock up on urgent snacks. Lanyards dangling they all head into the Morrisons Daily, which must do a roaring weekday trade, emerging with drinks and packets to sustain them through English Lit, Sociology or Digital Media. And from what I saw not one of them ventures into the Tudor Bakery because that's the old people's shop and ne'er the twain shall meet. I want to shout "do you not realise what you're missing?" but instead I realise that's my childhood talking and each generation has its own carbohydrate heaven. For now the Tudor Bakery has sufficient local clientele of sufficient age but one day it'll falter and be replaced by something that no longer gladdens my heart, and that makes me feel even older.
The park across the street used to be Bradmore Green, and in the corner by the cricket pavilion is the building that truly ages me. It's the Old Coulsdon Centre for the Retired and it has pride of place in the centre of the village, even a priority parking space for its minibus immediately outside. On previous visits to Old Coulsdon I've ignored it as irrelevant but this time it screamed to me "this is you now, they wouldn't blink if you went inside".
Pop In At Any Time You Are Very Welcome says the sign outside. And people have, I can see them at the tables inside probably having tea, perhaps taking advantage of a light snack or lunch. Want To Get Out More? says the sign outside. I already do thanks, but for many this must be a social lifeline, a rare chance to meet others. Fed Up With Staying Indoors? says the sign outside. I never do thanks, and I proved this by striding off towards Happy Valley and climbing the chalky flank of Farthing Downs. But the sign reminds me that one day I might be less mobile and a well organised centre run by lovely volunteers with a minibus might be as adventurous as it gets.
I caught the 60 amid the modern hubbub of Streatham, then passed through the once-futuristic town of Croydon before ending up in the old-school heart of Old Coulsdon. I admired its cohesion and community, its vibrancy and tradition and its evocative selection of tip-top cakes. But mainly it reminded me of being younger and thus made me feel older, and this is why I ride my birthday bus every year because somehow it always delivers.
Thursday, March 20, 2025
I've been testing the extremities of my new 60+ Oyster card.
The most northerly station you can reach with a 60+ Oyster card: CHESHAM
The far end of the Metropolitan line is the furthest north you can get by train on a TfL service, hence the northernmost point my 60+ card will take me for nothing. At 25 miles from central London, that's a very long way. This Buckinghamshire market town is a small delight, as I well know because I've been many times but I can go more often now. The joy starts as you rattle off down the single track spur from Chalfont & Latimer, a gap in the foliage opening up Betjemanesque views across the rolling Chess valley. I did however make the mistake of arriving just after school chucking-out time so the platform was awash with Dr Challoners' homegoers, clogging up the ticket gates and jumping into Daddy's car. Next time I'll come at a quieter time, stay longer and maybe head off for a Chilterny walk, what a treat.
The next five: Cheshunt, Epping, Theobalds Grove, Crews Hill, Amersham
What are the chances that TfL's two most northerly stations would both start with 'Chesh'? Chesham only marginally beats Cheshunt by a few hundred metres with Epping not that far behind. Before 1994 North Weald would have been an easy winner, and before 1981 Blake Hall, but obviously they didn't have 60+ Oyster cards back then.
The most easterly station you can reach with a 60+ Oyster card: SHENFIELD
The far end of the Elizabeth line is the farthest east you can get by train on a TfL service, hence the easternmost point my 60+ card will take me for nothing. Importantly you can only travel free on a purple train, anything Greater Anglian is only valid as far as Harold Wood. I was still surprised that the ticket barrier rejected me with a code 57, 'Location not covered', but that's because it turns out staff have to let you out manually, which they did with a nod and a smile. Outside the station is a very Essex high street with multiple refreshment options, beauty parlours and a tanning studio, plus a line of taxis waiting to whisk away any rare residents without cars. I suspect I'll be exiting at Brentwood more often, but perhaps using Shenfield as a bridgehead for cheaper fares into Suffolk and Norfolk.
The next five: Brentwood, Upminster, Dartford, Upminster Bridge, Harold Wood
I did the journey between Chesham and Shenfield in one trip, on two trains, changing conveniently at Farringdon. I believe this journey has TfL's largest maximum journey time, i.e. the period you're allowed to spend between touching in and out before they thwack you with a maximum fare. Officially it's a 20-zone journey, this because you count every zone once on the way in and once on the way out (in this case 9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-A-B-C). The permitted time allocation on a weekday is 4 hours 20 minutes, which was once specified on the TfL website but alas they've since simplified the page and hidden it. I did it in 2 hours 5 minutes, amazingly, which just goes to show how generous these maximum journey time allocations are.
The most southerly station you can reach with a 60+ Oyster card: CATERHAM
TfL don't have any stations south of West Croydon but a 60+ card allows you to head beyond on National Rail services, well into Surrey. The actual boundary is the edge of zone 6, a ticketing fiefdom that kindly spreads beyond the edge of London up four specific branch lines. Most southerly of all is the terminus at Caterham, a lengthy off-piste wiggle down a dry valley from Purley. Trains pull into a set of buffers beside a Waitrose, generally every half an hour, serving a central platform brightened by wild flowers, daffodils and a bright iron canopy. Egress is past the inevitable coffee indent, then out into a high street bustling with florists, off licences and a well hidden Morrisons. The town in the valley is younger than the historic hub up the hill, aided and abetted by commutability, and although you can get to both by red bus it's much faster to nip to the edge of the North Downs by train.
The next five: Tadworth, Kingswood, Whyteleafe South, Tattenham Corner, Upper Warlingham
All five of these stations are in Surrey, mostly on the wilfully sinuous Tattenham Corner line which I look forward to exploring more closely. It takes until ninth place before the first Greater London station appears, which is Coulsdon South at the foot of gorgeous Farthing Downs. Normally I'd say it's pretty stupid to go to Chesham, Shenfield and Caterham in 24 hours flat, just because I can, but I had good reason to be this far south because the number 60 bus terminates in the vicinity and I've also managed to fit that in too. It's about time.
The most westerly station you can reach with a 60+ Oyster card: CHESHAM
If you have a Freedom Pass you're allowed all the way to Reading, and that's 15 miles further west than this. But with a 60+ card the edge of validity is only West Drayton so the Metropolitan line wins again westward speaking. The tube map might suggest Amersham is further west but in reality Chesham (just) edges it, which is great because I've already been there. To test the extremities of a 60+ Oyster card you only need visit three stations, and I already have.
The next five: Amersham, Chalfont & Latimer, Chorleywood, Heathrow T5, Uxbridge
