Callington Town v Helston
Saltash United v Witheridge
This was one of those quickly re-arranged days out. Originally it was a Friday game at Cullompton, followed by an overnight in Hele and then an early game in the South West. However, an overrunning meeting on the Friday went I couldn't get there in time so it was a self-contained day out on the Saturday.
A trip to Cornwall was chosen, as the additional Summer Saturday trains make it a lot easier to get to and from in August. So it was the 0711 off Swindon. Uber train cranks may notice the Train information screen has white writing, the only one in the UK to do so, all the rest having yellow writing.
Through the Vale of the White Horse and the morning haze starting to clear.
Into Reading, with the new viaduct disappearing into the distance. It would s the UK's longest concrete viaduct and was opened a couple of years ago to take the main lines over the freight lines that come up from the south and were causing congestion due to the huge increase in freight liner traffic from Southampton docks to the north. The unseen consequences of Mancs wanting dishwashers.
With 20 minutes to spare and a four hour train journey ahead, it was a chance to get some sustenance, but what a quandary. Today I was rolling with the East Cornwall massif, but the only hot food was West Cornwall.
I compromised by using the West Side, but not getting a pasty, as that is what the turf wars are really about.
And so it was, the 0804 summer Saturday's only, Great Western service to Newquay.
Soon out of Reading, and passing bridge works at Ufton. This is just down the hill from where I grew up and I spent many happy hours of childhood here, fishing in the adjacent River Kennet, whilst checking on the trains at the level crossing. However, in 2004, it was scene of a tragic accident when a well known local sex case, killed himself by parking his car on the crossing. It got hit by an HST, with grave consequences as the train then derailed on the points just after the crossing. The ensuing pile up killed nine people, including the train driver, who was buried alive by ballast that entered the cab as the train slid along on its side. There have since been a series of copycat suicides at the crossing, so Network Rail are in the process of replacing it with a bridge.
Now I've got that feel good factor into the report. The line follows the Kennet and Avon Canal for much of its initial length. Although this is considered the direct route to the West of England, it was intact a late build of connections between other lines, meaning it is far from straight. It is just as quick to go via Bristol.
Obviously, it would be impossible to do this route without a picture of a hillside white horse, so here you are. The photo was taken from the Westbury avoiding line. During the economic downturn of the 1930s, the government funded local job creation schemes to stimulate the economy and get people away from poverty. The original GWR took advantage of this with a number of schemes on this route, to straighten it out, divert around congested stations, or create flyovers at junctions.
Into Taunton, and the iconic start to the West Country, the Taunton freight concentration yard water tower, still with its original British Railways signage, previously isolated since the goods yard shut many years ago, has found itself surrounded by hideous new build flats. The equivalent for the north is on departure from Sheffield, where you get to see what letters have fallen off the British Pewter Company building.
Heading along to Exeter, and the railway parallels the M5. On summer Saturday's, this used to be at a standstill. It is perhaps a sign of the times that these days it is relatively deserted on such days.
Any trip to the West Country has to include a sea wall shot at Teignmouth.
All too soon we were into Plymouth, marked by the trip along the Plym estuary.
I left the HST for its journey onto Newquay.
My move onward was the Gunnislake branch unit.
The branch starts by carrying along the main line, but stops at the wayside shacks, with their local names. Firstly Devonport.....
....then Dockyard.
Then alongside Devonport Dockyard.
The branch itself starts at St Budueaux, with the driver obtaining the token which permits access onto the single line. There are two stations here, this is Victoria Road, the mainline station of Ferry Road is up on the left.
The line gives an unusual view of the Tamar bridges, going underneath them.
Looking back down the estuary, with the road and rail bridges across into Cornwall.
The line continues to Bere Alston. Since it left the main line, the branch has been on the old Southern Railways main line to the west, which went overland across Dartmoor, but currently terminates here. There is pressure to re-open the line throughout, as the coastal Great Western route is prone to being shut due to damage from the sea.
The train reverses here, it has arrived from Plymouth on the left hand line, and heads into Cornwall on the right hand line.
The line starts dropping down, as it has to cross the Tamar. This is done on this spectacular viaduct.
The Tamar below….
….with the village of Calstock alongside.
This stretch of line is very much a branch line. It was built to 'light railway' principles, whereby the line could be steeper, have tight curves and less robust track, which meant a great reduction in building costs, but restrictions on speeds and weights of trains. The distance between Calstock and Gunnislake is a mile direct, but the meandering railway does it in three. It also does it at a leisurely 10 miles an hour.
The level crossings have neither barriers nor warning lights. Instead, the train comes to a halt, sounds his horn, the driver has a look around, and if all is good, on he goes.
Despite the switchback route, there is still a very challenging 1 in 38 gradient, which takes the line high above the Tamar Valley.
Into Gunnislake, the current terminus of the line. Road wise, this area is very challenging, being mostly country lanes and no crossings over the Tamar. This is why the branch survived, as buses could not fit down the lanes. The line did use to carry on to Callington, but the line was closed from here onwards.
I was at University in Plymouth. One year we played against a team in Gunnislake. Before the game we were advised by the opposition that the pitch was on the remains of a slag heap from an 18th century arsenic mine, and we were playing on it at our own risk. Whether this was true or just mind games, I don't know.
As there isn't much in Gunnislake, and there was an hour until the bus, I headed back on the train….
…approaching Calstock with another view of the viaduct.
Into the station, where I alighted.
The train departs across the viaduct, on its way back to Plymouth.
Calstock is a quiet little village that nestles by the river, although dominated by the viaduct (last picture, I promise).
I headed down to the football club to see if, on the off chance, they might be having an early season friendly. I found the ground ok....
....but it was apparent that there wasn't a game on.
Instead, it was a bikers festival. I’m shore they only chose this place so they didn’t have to suffix another place with ‘stock’, as all festivals seem to do.
...ate ice cream....
....or fed ducks.
…or revved their motorbikes. Which they did. A lot. My place is next to Swindon is next to a long, low, bridge under the railway. My place up north is next to a narrow, uphill street. This means I have to listen to these inconsiderate pricks revving their bikes at all times of day and night, just in case they forgot what it sounds like since they last revved it three seconds previous. Everytime I see some garage forecourt flowers sellotaped to a lamp post, I take some small comfort that there is one less of these arses out there, keeping myself and the neighbourhood awake.
Just when I thought revving hell couldn’t get any worse, the noisiest form of marine transport arrived in the form of a mini hovercraft.
Eventually my bus to freedom arrived.
This took us down various country lanes, up on to the main road. 200 years ago, the area saw a mining boom, with silver being the main target.
We now looked down the Tamar Valley, down onto the Hamoze and Plymouth Sound.
Passing the world's least successful car boot sale. 'Spread out, it will make it look busier'.
I alighted the bus on the outskirts of Callington.
I was heading for this.
Ginsters were a local baking family who in the 1960s, switched to the mass production of pasties, firstly selling them around the town, before branching out and selling them around the South West. In the late 1970s, the family sold out to the owners of Pork Farm sausages. Over the next couple of decades, these bunch of bastards really branched out, taking the soggy mess to every garage forecourt in Britain. They have tried to move production from Callington, but the Cornish Pasty now has designated origin status, and this is as far east in the county as you can go, so it's future looks secure. Pork Farms are privately owned by some bastard who goes to 50k Tory fundraisers, and who when the minimum wage came in, immediately ended premium hours for Sunday work, and sacked anyone who wanted Union involvement.
On trips out, I often stumble across interesting factories. I will often chance my arm to see if they will give you a tour. It is usually about 80/20 in favour of getting turned down, especially food producers (except pork scratching manufacturers where I have had 100% success). A highlight of an FA Vase game at Brandon was a tour around the adjacent largest toilet paper mill in the UK. But back to here, and I enquired with the security, who seemed to downplay the interest of the place, describing it as a large bakery. He did extol the virtues of the product development area, but this was shut at weekends. Instead, he compromised and let me visit the staff canteen, which is where new products are first sold.
Mid-shift, it was rather deserted, but I chose this soon to be launched limited edition.
It was then off into Callington itself. The town, along with most in Cornwall, claims to be the place where King Arthur's knights met. I think it probably was round about the 6th century when the town was in its prime, this shop being a good benchmark for the rest of the town.
It can’t be often that a signed advertising Canine Hydrotherapy isn’t the strangest one in the shot. Am I the only one for whom Equine Gastric Ulcer Awareness Month has passed them by? Fair play for them for going straight to production on the banner without any regard to spell check.
Obviously the previously mentioned pasty wars have made the town a no-go zone for ‘da gavvas’.
I headed to the football ground, which is located in the college.
There were tempting alternatives within the campus; the beauty college, tennis dome and especially the space centre, all enticing.
But soon we were at the ground.
Callington Town 2 v Helston Athletic 0, South West Peninsula, Premier Division.
Callington Town are a relatively young club, only being formed in 1989. They played in the East Cornwall league before moving up to the South West league in the late nineties. Two years ago, after 14 years trying, they won their first promotion up to the premier league.
Helston Athletic have been going since 1896. In the 1950s they joined the South Western league but struggled and had dropped back down to the Cornwall Combination by the 1970s. However, in 2011 they returned to the South West Peninsula as it now was, doing strongly in the first division and are now in the premier.
I visited the ground here when I was living in Plymouth. At the time Callington were in the East Cornwall league, and the ground was nothing more than a railed off pitch with changing rooms. I was interested in seeing how the ground had developed. The answer was, not a lot.
You here about paint still being wet on ground improvements when the season kicks off, but the far side took this to a new level. I arrived half an hour before kick off and a large digger and dumper truck were hard at work building something or other.
This area had been shut off from spectators…,
… but the benches still had to endure the dust and noise from the work. Good job they don't say anything meaningful.
The main development was a large wooden cabin has been built on the grass banking on the far side of the pitch.
Also on the far side, it appears hard standing had been installed in the close season, though it had an unexplained jaunty diversion at one end.
Two sides of the ground are shallow grass banking.
The ground is officially called the Ginsters Pasties Stadium. It is adorned with these pasty/football chant banners.
The agricultural clutter had been reclaimed by its foe, to the extent that I didn’t notice it and went arse over tit over a furrow.
The game was pretty even, but Callington took the lead just before half time….
….and added another in the second half to win 2-0.
I headed back in the centre for my onward bus journey.
This was the main A388 road between Callington and Plymouth, so was devoid of the chicanery of the earlier journey.
Passing the ornate but dysfunctional entrance to St Mellion golf club. A triumph for administration over hope for retrospective planning permission.
One of our lecturers at University used to come in from here. I always thought it sounded like the medical name for anal septacemia.
I jumped off the bus in Saltash, the brutal concrete fencing marking my second game of the day.
Heading down to the ground, through the suspiciously large police station car park.
Saltash United 6 v Witheridge 0, South West Peninsula, Premier Division.
After a series of other clubs in the town folded, Saltash United are another relatively young club, being formed in 1946. They joined the South Western league, where they were a strong force. This came to the fore in the 1970s, when they won the league and moved up to the Western League. They continued to be strong in this league, winning it three times in five years in the 1980s. However, come the mid nineties and travelling and finance had come too much (the Western League is predominantly Bristol clubs) and they dropped back to the South Western (which in those days, was Cornwall and West Devon clubs). They returned briefly to the Western in 2004, but have since been in the South West Peninsula (which is the old South Western League plus the Devon and Exeter League), where they have had strong finishes without challenging for the title.
Witheridge is a Devon village between Barnstaple and Tiverton. They were formed in 1920, originally with a married team and a singles team. They progressed through the North Devon and Tiverton leagues, reaching the Devon and Exeter league. They were a strong team in this league, eventually getting promotion to the Devon County, which in turn came the South West Peninsula.
I first visited them in the early nineties. My abiding memory was that they had brothers with them who’s names were Apple and Slug Suliaskas. Names not beaten on the Devon scene until the recent arrival of Exmouth’s Ace High.
Kimberley Park was opened in the early 1950s. I used to be a regular visitor for evening games as it was convenient when I lived in Plymouth. I always thought it was very basic for a Western League ground, and it hasn't changed since.
There is a main stand on one side, which is the only cover in the ground.
Two other sides are grass banking, which are great on a day like today, not so good in the depths of winter.
The club were quite keen to remind you of that.
The best view is from the raised warming up area behind the dugouts.
Non-league pitch surrounds never fail to amaze me with their differing innovation. This is a new one for me, being a thin steel wire inside a rubber hose.
At some time over the last couple of years, there seems to be an addition to ground grading criteria, that rubbish bins must be placed at the narrowest and most inconvenient part of the pitch side path.
The far end seems to have been given up with completely, being fenced off without any noticeable development underway.
The only development at the ground has been the creation of a second turn style, but the budget appears to have been blown on a ventilation system to rival the most advance office block.
This manager has over 450 league appearances and 12 England U21 caps.
Another short sleeved training top vice a proper keepers shirt, the Hayle keeper being similarly clad at the previous game. Is there a national shortage?
Saltash had all the play and scored consistently through the game.
This one made it four nil and they added a couple more.
It time for me to head off for my train, which was on the other side of town. The town is perched high up on the Cornish bank of the Tamar.
The Main Street gives a great view of both the famous bridges that link Devon and Cornwall.
In Saltash, everything seems to include a picture of the bridge...
....or Brunel....
...or some are just greedy.
Hardly any trains stop at Saltash, only occasional local ones between Penzance and Plymouth. However, when this one appeared, it was being worked by an HST.
This causes havoc as only one coach fits on the platform, the driver getting out to shut the doors.
Soon we were on our way, across the bridge.
This is the opposite view than earlier in the day, with the Gunnislake branch heading away alongside the estuary.
The branch passing under the bridges.
We arrived into Plymouth.
My onward move was a cross country service to Bristol, but this was only 4 car and was rammed full of jubilant Luton fans on their way home, so I flagged it for a unit over the hills.
Into Totnes with the old signal box preserved on the platform....
....for a London bound HST, with Totnes castle in the background. On the train up to London, the whole coach got to share the experience of nasal-voiced, west country pigmy Josh Widecombe, trying to get a pizza delivered to the train. After failing miserably at Tiverton Parkway, eventually he succeeded at Westbury, getting some sustenance to keep alive his luscious ginger afro.
I dodged the ongoing pizza shenanigans at Westbury, by making a plus three onto a unit to the hellhole Armageddon that is Bath station on a Saturday evening, though a platform full of tourists is still vastly preferable to obnoxious, self-righteous, inebriated rugby union supporters. Fortunately, a ten minute connection found me heading back to Swindon.
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