ran, it was hoped, according to an orderly scheme, through the flat lands to the Nene and thence out to the Wash.
Another of Bert’s treats was to drive us to March. March is the sort of place where the Flat Earth Society probably meets. The grand LNER railway ran through March, on its course between Liverpool Street station in London and Waverley station in Edinburgh. When the LNER was setting up speed records, the miles about March were where the recording took place. Bert and I stood at the level crossing to watch the trains rush by, straight as a die, horizon to horizon.
When The Flying Scotsman hurtled through Peterborough station on its way north, screaming its contempt for all immobile things, the station vibrated, together with everything in it. The noise seized and shook us. Such power would not be felt again until the first rockets climbed into space. I made a resolution – common to boys at the time – that when and if I grew up, I should become an engine driver on a steam locomotive.
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