( On the platform )
A plaque on the wall outside the tation marks this as the start of the Essex Way. K is a little suspicious of 'countryside', being at heart a little street urchin with grubby knees. C, being an Essex lad, offers to show K 'the Essex Way' up close and personal...
Our lovely old bus took us up to North Weald to meet the train. Until the mid 90's the Central Line went out as far as Ongar on a branch line from Epping but was closed due to falling numbers making it uncommercial. However thanks to a local railway group the line has been re-opened as a heritage railway operating only on Sundays and Bank Holidays to trundle people back and forth for no particular reason other than you can, and the view out the window is pretty. Today staff were dressed in Halloween silliness with the usual crop of witches, monsters, reapers and knives through the head. Little paper and glitter bats flutterd in the carriages and carved pumpkins spelt out the station names. Real ale was available on board, and I'd brought pastries and satsumas for a picnic atmosphere as we headed through the autumnal forest, beautiful even in the drizzle.
We rattled back to Epping, stopping 800m from where we'd got off the tube. There are plans to build a picnic area here and possibly to connect up to the station at Epping. Currently the train just stops for a bit, then starts on the way back to North Weald, and on to Ongar in the other direction. We get out at Ongar, the furthest one could get. Our train is only going to be in the station for a few minutes so it's either five minutes in Ongar or an hour. We decide to have a look around, even in the rain, and maybe find a pub. After all, when are we next going to be out beyond the city limits? We stride off to find a rather lovely church, actual Tudor buildings now the home of a balloon shop, and a closed suburban town enjoying a quiet Sunday afternoon indoors in the warm.
The chap manning the railway shop was expressive in his disgust at just how much the bloody pumpkins had cost this year. Sainsbury's should sponser them perhaps? But the pumpkins do add that final touch of Halloween jollity.
I suspect vampires live here, guarded by human slaves.
My shots of Ongar itself were dark so, for a different perspective on the day![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif)
failing_angel has a set up at flick here:
After a short sojourn in the pub we took the train back to North Weald and the bus back to Epping. On board, we asked the easiest way to get into the forest itself and the driver offered to drop us off on route back to North Weald for the next train out. However, time was marching on for me, and I had a different connection to make at Paddington, so would need to leave my companions to kick through the leaves, play on pretend speeder bikes and build witches houses without me. However, we only really processed this information only once the bus was underway, meaning I was heading the wrong way for a long wait at North Weald. So taking advantage of the Routemasters unique advantage over modern buses, one last time, I waited till the bus was stopped at traffic lights and blithely hoped off, waving goodbye as I trundle back down the hill to Epping station. God I miss those buses!
I did briefly toy with the idea of taking an Epping train all the way to West Ruislip which is the furthest one can travel on the London Underground in a single jouney - 34 miles taking 81 minutes, but it would be cutting it close to get back from West Ruislip to Paddington. I had time, but perhaps notthat much time, so instead contented myself with collecting one more station, Loughton, before the homeward journey
All told, I shouldn't have got so cold and wet out in the rain, but a lovely day of talking nonsense with friends on a silly Sunday adventure into the windy wilds of Essex. Two proper stations collected, and two closed stations, last seen on the official map here in 1986.
We rattled back to Epping, stopping 800m from where we'd got off the tube. There are plans to build a picnic area here and possibly to connect up to the station at Epping. Currently the train just stops for a bit, then starts on the way back to North Weald, and on to Ongar in the other direction. We get out at Ongar, the furthest one could get. Our train is only going to be in the station for a few minutes so it's either five minutes in Ongar or an hour. We decide to have a look around, even in the rain, and maybe find a pub. After all, when are we next going to be out beyond the city limits? We stride off to find a rather lovely church, actual Tudor buildings now the home of a balloon shop, and a closed suburban town enjoying a quiet Sunday afternoon indoors in the warm.
The chap manning the railway shop was expressive in his disgust at just how much the bloody pumpkins had cost this year. Sainsbury's should sponser them perhaps? But the pumpkins do add that final touch of Halloween jollity.
I suspect vampires live here, guarded by human slaves.
My shots of Ongar itself were dark so, for a different perspective on the day
failing_angel has a set up at flick here:After a short sojourn in the pub we took the train back to North Weald and the bus back to Epping. On board, we asked the easiest way to get into the forest itself and the driver offered to drop us off on route back to North Weald for the next train out. However, time was marching on for me, and I had a different connection to make at Paddington, so would need to leave my companions to kick through the leaves, play on pretend speeder bikes and build witches houses without me. However, we only really processed this information only once the bus was underway, meaning I was heading the wrong way for a long wait at North Weald. So taking advantage of the Routemasters unique advantage over modern buses, one last time, I waited till the bus was stopped at traffic lights and blithely hoped off, waving goodbye as I trundle back down the hill to Epping station. God I miss those buses!
I did briefly toy with the idea of taking an Epping train all the way to West Ruislip which is the furthest one can travel on the London Underground in a single jouney - 34 miles taking 81 minutes, but it would be cutting it close to get back from West Ruislip to Paddington. I had time, but perhaps notthat much time, so instead contented myself with collecting one more station, Loughton, before the homeward journey
All told, I shouldn't have got so cold and wet out in the rain, but a lovely day of talking nonsense with friends on a silly Sunday adventure into the windy wilds of Essex. Two proper stations collected, and two closed stations, last seen on the official map here in 1986.
psychonomy. I don't get to go dancing much and I wasn't missing out on the full splendid sillines of the Damned at top volume for something as transient as getting my piccie in a magazine. So, Sunday was to see the conquering of Essex, starting with a group met up at Stratford on the Central and DLR. I'd previously parked my luggage at Liverpool Street, and arrived a little early, so popped outside to have a scout around. The weather had turned wet and wintry, making a stroll round the station environs rather grey and grim. Back in the mists of the early 90's I'd pass through Stratford a lot, and yet I recognised nothing. Since the advent of the DLR, the station was now a curved wing of glass and steel and the bus station outside artfully canopied.
Directly outside, there were also what seemed to be two clocks standing right next to each other, even though one seemed to think it was twenty-five to six in the evening. I was puzzling over this proximity, and taking pictures when a chap in a royal blue tracksuit and bad teeth took an interest in my interest in Stratford and wandered over for a chat. Nice to know The Nutter Magnet I had installed is still pulling them in. He couldn't explain the two clocks to me either, but did say the place had gone downhill - he was there visiting his mother, and opined that people here were all selfish and that ' if your leg fell off and you had one eye hanging out they'd just step over you in the street' . Now there's an image. Apparently it was all different in 1976. We then fell to a jovial interrogation of why I didn't dress like everyone else (and bear in mind that for once I was in a tweed jacket and jeans) and the word 'goth' was mentioned, which turned out to be a magic word for my interlocutor, who suddenly became positively excitable.
It was at this point that ![[info]](http://stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif)
failing_angel, wandered up, in time to witness said chap in a royal blue track suit open the top of his head and let all the crazy stuff about how much he covets hot goth death chixs in black latex just pop out. Hilarious. This is why chaps in royal blue track suits aren't allowed into goth clubs, because their poor little brains would explode and it makes a mess on the wallpaper. Indeed, this one seemed quite upset that he'd not been able to find any hot goth death chick in black rubber hanging around Stratford Bus Station. Which lead to a plaintive, and slightly desperate appeal to us as to where we were all hiding...I told him to try the internet, but this was not the answer he was after, and having collared an insider he wanted specific information, like a detailed map, or timetable of when and where we could be spotted, like the rare and secretive birds we are. I told him to go to Whitby, where flocks of delicate creatures in corsets descend in vasts numbers, twice yearly. Amusing as interacting with the local wildlife was, the rain was picking up, and we had other friends to find, so we left our new friend go wistfully into the drizzle with his head filled with new dreams of where his latex-clad vampire bride in black might be lurking. If he ever does turn up in Whitby, I sincerely apologise.
failing_angel, wandered up, in time to witness said chap in a royal blue track suit open the top of his head and let all the crazy stuff about how much he covets hot goth death chixs in black latex just pop out. Hilarious. This is why chaps in royal blue track suits aren't allowed into goth clubs, because their poor little brains would explode and it makes a mess on the wallpaper. Indeed, this one seemed quite upset that he'd not been able to find any hot goth death chick in black rubber hanging around Stratford Bus Station. Which lead to a plaintive, and slightly desperate appeal to us as to where we were all hiding...I told him to try the internet, but this was not the answer he was after, and having collared an insider he wanted specific information, like a detailed map, or timetable of when and where we could be spotted, like the rare and secretive birds we are. I told him to go to Whitby, where flocks of delicate creatures in corsets descend in vasts numbers, twice yearly. Amusing as interacting with the local wildlife was, the rain was picking up, and we had other friends to find, so we left our new friend go wistfully into the drizzle with his head filled with new dreams of where his latex-clad vampire bride in black might be lurking. If he ever does turn up in Whitby, I sincerely apologise. 
At least
failing_angel was able to explain that the original source of my puzzlement was not a pair of clocks but in fact a clock and a countdown to the Olympics in days, minutes and seconds. It also says thank you to South and East Londoners, which by implication means all other Londoners can just f*** off. I do love the twisty clock though...
Having gathered our merry band, we waited for an Epping Train as the weather got steadily worse. Across from our platform was evidence of all the building going on around here.
Rain, rain and more rain...
Slightly dubious about the wisdom of tramping through woods in the pissing weather, we eventually board an Epping train and are on our way beyond the M25!
Above ground, Marble Arch is of course one end of the shopping mecca that is Oxford Street, and especially Selfridges.
Selfridges was one of the first proper department stores in London. In the mid-nineteenth century, department stores were new shopping emporia designed to make leisured middle class women feel at home enough to spend their husband's money - previously shops were not so female friendly - and of course the new transport links into town meant women dwelling in more outlying areas could travel into the centre with ease. I have several very interesting books on the development of 19thC shopping habits, none of which I have on me today, so we stick to mucking about on the platforms which, like Finsbury Park have a range of bright and cheery fascias.
A surprising number of trains arrive and disgorge passengers as we document each of the different designs.
( fascia montage )</div>
One stop further up is Lancaster Gate. I've been through here only once before.
A large chunk of my degree was paid for temping for a large company that held its annual Christmas Conference here. It's a very male-orientated company, built around 'direct marketing sales', which is jargon for 'people knocking on your door and bullying you into buying stuff'. One year I was invited to the conference as the guest of the Edinburgh team manager.
T'was surreal experience. Firstly, even by eight in the morning the Glasgow team had run up a bar tab of over eight grand and were fighting with each other, fists clenched around wads of fifty pound notes over who was paying for what. Even at hotel bar prices that's ridiculous and one of them was later hospitalised with alcohol poisioning. It seemed to be some form of badge of honour for the Scots guys to outdrink the English.
In the actual conference hall itself, of the 700 attendees, I was one of only three women. I walked in and felt the eyes of all of them turn on me, and you could feel the testerone level rise. I'd spent much of the previous three years travelling around the country from hotel to hotel teaching pretty much everyone in the room how to use the companies new EPOS system on a two day course I'd helped develop. It was one of my more entertaining jobs. The guys I taught are of my father's generation, not comfortable with being in a classroom with a computer, not happy about being taught by a young, blonde girl, and of course let loose in a hotel overnight with expenses. As well as learning a lot about teaching methods, I also learnt a lot more about ego-wrangling, and developing a nifty two-step in order to keep out of the clutches of randy middle-aged salemen. I strongly suspected that there was some kind of book open within the teams to see who could bed me. None of them won, despite the late night knocks on my door, the stuffed animals or seductive notes. I stamped on any number of footsies under the dinner table... I learnt a lot on how women travelling on business are treated as well.
And so, with the book still open, there I was stuck in a room with bloody all of them, all tipsy on champagne cocktails for breakfast. It's no exaggeration to say that after the speechifying, and more alcohol, I was literally mobbed in the hallway by several hundred guys wanting a Christmas kiss and a hug. It was terrifying...a stampede of drunken double glazing salesmen advanced towards me with a hungry look in their eye...I had bruises by the end of the day. Like many a gal before me, I took refuge in the ladies, but hell those management skills have certainly come in handy over the years.
There were other women at the function, only they were 'dancers' dressed in teeny little santa outfits, who mingled between tables, and they had a different look in their eyes. They stared daggers at me and the only two other women there as we wouldn't be tucking a Christmas tip into their white furry garters. Women police women. A very very odd day...and not necessarily an experience I'd care to repeat.
new manicure...
From here one more stop to an even more exclusive shopping area, Bond Street. Bond Street has no surface building of it's own, disgorging instead into a shopping centre.
Great place for shopping for shoes. There's a button shop nearby that sells incredible things from 17thC onwards. It's one of those incredibly old fashioned shops where everything is piled on shelves in brown cardboard boxes, run by a tiny old chap who knows every piece of stock amongst the thousand upon thousands of tiny items in the inventory. But we don't hang about, instead we go back downstairs & switch to the Jubilee Line for Waterloo for the trip to Bank.
Now many of you may indeed scratch your heads at this choice, as at Bond Street we were already on the Central Line, a mere 5 stops from Bank in a straight line; why travel three stops Southwards and change lines? Because, from Waterloo one can use The Drain, the colloquial term for the Waterloo and City Line, coloured a fetching shade of aqua on the map. I've already 'done' Waterloo, so getting to Bank via the Central Line would mean I'd not ever travel The Drain as it consists of a link between precisely two stops: it goes only between Waterloo and Bank and is the shortest line on the network...and it has travelators!
T'was surreal experience. Firstly, even by eight in the morning the Glasgow team had run up a bar tab of over eight grand and were fighting with each other, fists clenched around wads of fifty pound notes over who was paying for what. Even at hotel bar prices that's ridiculous and one of them was later hospitalised with alcohol poisioning. It seemed to be some form of badge of honour for the Scots guys to outdrink the English.
In the actual conference hall itself, of the 700 attendees, I was one of only three women. I walked in and felt the eyes of all of them turn on me, and you could feel the testerone level rise. I'd spent much of the previous three years travelling around the country from hotel to hotel teaching pretty much everyone in the room how to use the companies new EPOS system on a two day course I'd helped develop. It was one of my more entertaining jobs. The guys I taught are of my father's generation, not comfortable with being in a classroom with a computer, not happy about being taught by a young, blonde girl, and of course let loose in a hotel overnight with expenses. As well as learning a lot about teaching methods, I also learnt a lot more about ego-wrangling, and developing a nifty two-step in order to keep out of the clutches of randy middle-aged salemen. I strongly suspected that there was some kind of book open within the teams to see who could bed me. None of them won, despite the late night knocks on my door, the stuffed animals or seductive notes. I stamped on any number of footsies under the dinner table... I learnt a lot on how women travelling on business are treated as well.
And so, with the book still open, there I was stuck in a room with bloody all of them, all tipsy on champagne cocktails for breakfast. It's no exaggeration to say that after the speechifying, and more alcohol, I was literally mobbed in the hallway by several hundred guys wanting a Christmas kiss and a hug. It was terrifying...a stampede of drunken double glazing salesmen advanced towards me with a hungry look in their eye...I had bruises by the end of the day. Like many a gal before me, I took refuge in the ladies, but hell those management skills have certainly come in handy over the years.
There were other women at the function, only they were 'dancers' dressed in teeny little santa outfits, who mingled between tables, and they had a different look in their eyes. They stared daggers at me and the only two other women there as we wouldn't be tucking a Christmas tip into their white furry garters. Women police women. A very very odd day...and not necessarily an experience I'd care to repeat.
new manicure...
From here one more stop to an even more exclusive shopping area, Bond Street. Bond Street has no surface building of it's own, disgorging instead into a shopping centre.
Great place for shopping for shoes. There's a button shop nearby that sells incredible things from 17thC onwards. It's one of those incredibly old fashioned shops where everything is piled on shelves in brown cardboard boxes, run by a tiny old chap who knows every piece of stock amongst the thousand upon thousands of tiny items in the inventory. But we don't hang about, instead we go back downstairs & switch to the Jubilee Line for Waterloo for the trip to Bank.
Now many of you may indeed scratch your heads at this choice, as at Bond Street we were already on the Central Line, a mere 5 stops from Bank in a straight line; why travel three stops Southwards and change lines? Because, from Waterloo one can use The Drain, the colloquial term for the Waterloo and City Line, coloured a fetching shade of aqua on the map. I've already 'done' Waterloo, so getting to Bank via the Central Line would mean I'd not ever travel The Drain as it consists of a link between precisely two stops: it goes only between Waterloo and Bank and is the shortest line on the network...and it has travelators!
G goes to hide in the Bush Garden Cafe while I get my nails done, get ghetto fabulous, which takes longer than planned. We walk back towards the tube station via the market, and buy striped socks, a staple of goth attire...
A sunny morning at the far end of the Central and District lines, after a hearty breakfast at the rather wonderful Walpole Cafe with velvetdahlia, artnouveauho and psychonomy. Stuffed myself with mash, bubble and squeak and lashings of gravy. There's an elephant buried under one of the streets we trundled our luggage past.
Tube line used to go all the way out to Slough in earlier years.
