Looking at a steam train from East Hill, Corfe Castle, with Penny, a cure for melancholy

Last Saturday, I walked upon East Hill with Penny - we went up the easy way, along the path from Challow Farm - we skirted a newly tilled field - the soil was ready for late planting - the last time we'd come this way, the field was a sullen quagmire - there'd been weeks of rain -

My spirits lifted when I stood upon the high chalk ridge - I looked out across the lagoons and creeks of Poole Harbour - I could see a trim yacht with red sails - I thought of Theseus, forgetting to change his sails -

Sheep picked at the short grass - cows sprawled in the warm sunlight - between East Hill and West Hill, you could see the torn walls of the castle, the shards of towers -

Then I heard a whistle - I saw a long plume of white smoke - it was a steam train, with five green carriages, gathering speed - I felt like whooping for joy -

The engine was jet black - it pulled its carriages swiftly away from my sight, through quiet fields, past old farm houses with thick stone walls - soon, seagulls would swoop above its smoke stack - waves would splash upon fine yellow sand -

I longed to be on the foot plate, perhaps with Len - Len would be expertly hurling coals, exactly where they were needed, into the fire box - he would be using a narrow shovel - he had to keep a keen eye upon fire, steam and water - 

The secrets of steam were subtle and tricksy - but Len was mastering this new craft - when we spoke of the railway in The Salt Pig, his enthusiasm was catching - what would it be like, to adjust the regulator, to feel the engine quivering with steam, to hear its wheels pounding upon the rails?

How could you be sad, or anxious, whilst you were beguiled by steam?

Turner knew a thing or two, I thought -