Hereford Bound (well, almost).

Or, no I did not say Cornwall!
(I completely forgot about posting this earlier!)

Snapshots of a journey by rail.

Rooftop after rooftop flits by, marred only by the scratchy blur of naked trees.
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A burnt-out, rusty orange car (V.W Bug, I think) lies precariously on a hill - almost lost amongst the sun-drenched orange of autumnal bracken - its bonnet permanently forced into a gaping smile.
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The young signaller at Westgate, who could be sixteen as easily as late-twenties, seems remarkably responsible in his long jacket and peaked hat as he stands to attention and the train flies by, the powerful smile of a caretaker behind his eyes.
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Endless track streams in front and behind, so full of possibility.
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As the trees bow to the wind, one lone woman battles across shadow-cast fields, her collar high as she recalls a curious dog to her side.
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B'ham New Street:
(let it be noted: Horseradish and Sour cream crisps are bizarrely delightful)

Woman with her hair in tight-pulled, fading bun, watches me with interest as we await our trains, until I look back and try to lend a smile. She quickly looks away, resolute and stern.
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A gentleman turns head as he charges for a train, in his trendy woolen business coat and matching flat cap. I wonder how the style came back into fashion, and how it works on one so young.
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Hereford route:
2 small children imitate the train as it flees from their excitement. I can almost hear their their 'whistling', even through the toughened glass.