Text 2. Let the train take the strain

There are a few small rural railway lines left in Britain, and whenever I ride on one I ponder the miracle of the fact that it was ever constructed. If you announced today that you wished to hack down woodlands, gouge out cuttings through hillsides, drain water meadows and slice through fields with vast embankments like Roman fortificationsand then lay down two strips of steel track on which a great, stinking, smoky, fire-breathing metal monster would roar several times a day, the protest rallies would have begun before you even drafted the private bill to go before Parliament. It's not remotely possible that you would be allowed to build it, any more than you could hope to run a motorway down the Trough of Bowland or put up a multi-storey car park in Bourton-on-the-Water.

Of course, in the days when the railways were built, the countryside was not regarded as a place you might simply wish to admire and enjoy. Land was property and a workplace. The landowners who did object to the railways usually did so because they feared the line would reduce the value of their holdings and frighten the livestock. The biggest and richest sometimes had to be bought off with the promise of their own personal station, and so today your express north may well thunder past a small halt where the London train would once stop at the request of Lord This or Sir Somebody That.

Now, environmentalists regard railways as a thoroughly good thing, and fight against their closure with the same vigour with which they oppose the construction of motorways.

These thoughts occurred to me as I settled into a carriage on what must be one of the loveliest lines left in Britain — the track which runs from Whitby, on the North Yorkshire coast, inland in a great sweep to the industrial town of Middlesbrough. It travels through the Cleveland Hills, which have given their name to one of the new administrative regions of England, and is at the very top end of the North York Moors; indeed, the famous moors private railway links up with the British Rail Line at the village of Grosmont.

We set off from Whitby on a day that might be charitably described as 'bracing'. The first station, a mile or so out of the town, is at Ruswarp — cattle pens, fussily neat market gardens, flat meadows and the hills beginning to rise sharply from the coast. The line follows the River Esk. At Sleights there was apple blossom, small tidy houses with front gardens filled with flowers, pigs and lambs. Here the valley opens out and you catch a glimpse of the hills beyond; soon afterwards it closes in again, and the train and river run together through arching trees and banks filled with forget-me-nots.

At Grosmont, the junction with the North Yorkshire Moors Railway, there are old steam engines bright and gleaming in lovingly repainted colours. It's one of the few places on the line with a lot of tourists; for once we feel smug in the real train used by the real locals as we watch the visitors mill about looking for ice creams and tea.

We travelled a few miles further on, and climbed off the train at Leaholm. There is a pleasant enough pub here, a village green and a welcoming antique shop where my wife bought some jewellery which would have cost her twice as much in London. Then we walked high on to the hills to walk back towards Glaisdale, another near-perfect little village where even the signal box on the railway was lavishly decorated with potted geraniums. The day was still not warm, but we tucked our coats up round our faces and strode out. By the time we reached Glaisdale the weather had begun to clear and we stood happily on the humped Beggar's Bridge and walked through the trees by the river for a short way. After an hour or so, the train bucketed into the tiny station and we trundled back to Whitby.

The way in which the line appears to slide into people's lives, running past their farm houses, their back doors, their gardens and allotments, gives you a faint sense of being a voyeur – of having a glimpse of people who are unaware of you. It's not an uncommon feeling in this part of the world. Take, for example, the tiny fishing towns along the coast. Originally these were simply safe landing places or natural harbours. A thousand years ago few people lived on the coast because of the fear of attacks by Danes; after that danger passed dwellings were built right on the shore, often at the bottom of tall cliffs. There the villages were cut off from the world. The roads swept by them half a mile away; they had few reasons to leave, and few people visited them.

Now they have built car parks to discourage people from driving down, though you would have to be a fool to do so: a bicycle would have difficulty turning in some of the streets. We stayed in Runswick, which is really two villages — a nondescript collection of houses on the road, and then, down a short hairpin path, a group of homes clustered round each other, connected not by roads or streets but by tiny paths. There is hardly any space, and the houses seem piled on top of each other, impossible to tell where a garden ends and the path begins. If Runswick were on the Italian coast or even in Cornwall, it would be world-famous, but in this part of England only those who live nearby seem to know of it. They drive there for their Sunday lunch and to gaze out over the curved bay and the glowing yellow sand.

We headed north again towards Redcar and Middlesbrough. The approach to Middlesbrough is startling. The city was once the fastest growing centre in Britain, with a population which rose from 19,000 in 1861 to almost 100,000 at the end of the century. It's a steel and chemical town — the vast ICI Wilton complex is here — and from the main road it looks like some more industrialised version of Manhattan, except that instead of skyscrapers there are crowds of chimneys, fire stacks and cooling towers. Many of them are constantly pouring lurid smoke into the air. On the day we arrived there was a grey, lowering sky occasionally slashed by the sun, so that the smoke and sky together seemed to combine in forty shades of grey and orange. The centre of the town is, in fact, perfectly agreeable and some pleasant Victorian industrial architecture is still left.

Later we headed west towards the Georgian town of Yarm. Yarm was once an exceedingly important trading place, since it hadthe lowest bridge over the River Tees until 1771. It has a stunning setting on a great horseshoe bend in the river, and is dominated by a handsome railway viaduct which slices through the town.

Finally we drove into the lovelyCleveland Hills. Our circular route took us round to the handsome village of Great Ayton, then on to Newton, where we found a pub with a lavish bar menu. Round the back rose the splendidly named Roseberry Topping, the best known though not the tallest of all the Cleveland Hills.

Determined to lose the calories we had consumed in the pub, we set off from the small car park discreetly placed at the foot of the hill, and marched upwards, first through a wood thick with bluebells, then on to the steep open moorland. As we climbed, the view beneath us opened out, revealing the dull browns and greens of the distant hills, the occasional yellow scar of oil-seed rape fields. The height of the Topping is barely more than 300 metres, but standing there on the peak, the Cleveland Hills stretching out through the rolling miles, the keen east wind roaring in our ears, we felt as if we were on the roof of the world.

WHAT TO DO:

1. Give the Russian equivalents for the following words and word combinations:

Holdings, halt, inland in a great sweep to, a junction with, steam engines,to bucketinto the tiny station, to mill about, totrundleback,asteel track,to beperfectly agreeable,stunning setting, a horseshoe bend, a railway viaduct, to slice through the town, a circular route.

2. Explain what is meant by:

Vast embankments like Roman fortifications, to draft a private bill, to be bought off, the day might be charitably described as ‘bracing’, to feel smug in the real train used by the real locals, a nondescript collection of houses, the keen east wind.

3. Answer the following question:

1. What made the journey described in the text particularly enjoyable?

2. Why can travelling by train for some people simply be a way of getting from A to B or a positive pleasure for others?

3. What is your understanding of a railway journey?

4. Are you a railway enthusiast?

5. What is your favourite train route?