In praise of the much-missed Axminster to Lyme Regis railway line - known as "The Bluebell Line"

A poem by Dick Sturch

From Millwey Rise to Axminster station is a somewhat lengthy p`rambulation. And as we enter its green panelled doors our footsteps clatter on the chipped tile floor of a room redolent with soot and polish, layered with wafts of raw carbolic.

We stand in front of the ticket booth`s glass and out peers a man who politely asks. "Where are you going and how many tickets?" "Two and three halves, for Lyme Regis. Your cheapest." "That`s thirteen shillings and sixpence please."

And from under the hatch our tickets are teased. We walk `cross the platform `neath arcaded shade. From the top of its footbridge the station survey. Inhaling the steam when vented valves blew as the west bound train from the station drew. 'Whushing' and 'Shushing' its boiler struggling to the clangorous tunes of carriages coupling.

Descending the steps on the furthest side, for the up-line to London and the branch line to Lyme. Crowded with people and luggage stacked barrows 'neath a hot summer sun that gives little shadow. Though all is forgotten when a whistle is heard. A green signal rises. The passengers stir. And into our view from Abbey Gate way, Lyme Billy`s old engine and carriages sway. Gradually slowing with grating squeals. Stops to the sound of screaming steel. Hissing plumes of exhausted pressure. A brief respite `til more endeavour.

There`s very few travellers alight from the train so it doesn`t take long to fill up again. We sit ourselves down in a third class carriage. No corridor, loo, and by years now ravaged. Brown tinted pictures and net luggage racks, which soon with our bags are completely stacked.

Excitement grows as the doors bang shut. Boxes, crates and parcels pushed; into the goods van attached at the back and the last thing on is a Royal Mail sack. A green flag waves. A whistle shrieks. Carriages sway - and rumble - and creak. Combpyne station our only stop before the Cannington viaduct. At the end of the line we arrive in Lyme Regis, but the walk to the beach, always seemed to take ages..

This poem is taken from Dick Sturch's book "The Camp" which is still available from the Archway Bookshop in Axminster or the Library.