Cheshire Railway Modellers

Page 1 (1-10) 1. Good exhibitions.   2. Layout information.   3. Standards.   4. Talking to the public.   5. Wagon loads.   6. Exhibition performance.   7. What is black?   8. What sort of show visitor are you?   9. What happens when we're gone?   10. How much does it cost?  

Page 2 (11-20) 11.Visiting the colonel.   12. Are you a secret modeller?   13. Getting trained.   14. train simulation.   15. The quality of shows   16. Extending the layout   17. Involving the public   18. Are you consistent?   19. Trains for children   20. When modelling is done

The other weekend Fred had again been a demonstrator at the Farthing Gate show.  He recounted a conversation he’d overheard at the next table between a boy of about nine and a chap building a bridge from metal sections.  It went something like this …

“Whayer doin?” asked the lad, in a half-bored tone.

“I’m soldering,” the demonstrator replied.

“Whazat?”

“Sticking two pieces of metal together using solder.”

“Howd zitwurk?”

“Do you make models from card at school?”

“Yez.”

“Did you stick the bits together with glue?”  The lad had.

“Well, solder is like a glue.  But to become sticky, it has to be so hot that it melts.  When it cools and goes back to being solid, it holds the metal together very strongly.”  He then showed the lad and invited him to pull apart the bits he’d just soldered.  He couldn’t.  The lad was most impressed.

The demonstrator went on to explain how the metal was thoroughly cleaned to provide a good bonding surface and flux applied to prevent the metal from reacting with the air when it got hot.  The young fellow started to ask quite pertinent questions.

He quickly appreciated that different materials have different melting points and so molten solder can run between pieces of metal without them melting.  Later he realised that by using solder of different melting points fresh components could be added without other bits becoming unstuck.  He even grasped the use of a block of metal as a heat sink.  However, nobody could explain why solder actually sticks metals together.  After a while, he was allowed to solder some parts to the bridge.

Later in the day, he returned, this time with his father in tow.  “Thazbits ayedid,” he announced with pride, pointing to several cross-members of the bridge.

“Don’t be silly,” was the curt reply.

“Ayedidem, dinaye?” he appealed to the demonstrator, who confirmed the youngster’s achievement.  Father was most surprised.  The lad then went on to explain how it was done.  The parent was dumfounded at his son’s newly acquired knowledge and skill.  He admitted that he thought soldering was a black art completely beyond him.

“Kid’s can pick up things so quickly,” Felicity observed.  “They haven’t yet learnt that some skills are supposed to be difficult.”

“Do adults just need to give them the opportunity and encouragement?” the chairman mused.   “We should never underestimate what youngsters can accomplish.  It would have been so easy to ignore that boy.  No doubt that incident raised his self-esteem.  Perhaps as a result, he’ll become one of the leading railway modellers of the future.”  And none of us could find a reason to disagree with that.

Some local clubs raised their eyebrows when they heard that the Nether Hamblins show had secured a grant from the Regional Board for Promoting the Arts.  It seems they had bid for funds under the ‘Inclusion’ heading for a summer holiday project involving teenagers and a local artist.  The resulting ’work of art’ would be a model railway to be displayed at their next show.

“Bully for them,” cheered Jane.  “It’s about time modelling railways was recognised as an art-form.”

“Why should they get cash and not a proper model railway club?” Peter asked.

“May be it’s because the Hamblins show team is more imaginative than the modelling clubs that traditionally put on events,” Jane suggested.

“Less imaginative?” Paul sneered.  “They don’t build anything, they just put on shows.”  We all smiled to ourselves.  Paul first started saying he was building a layout about fifteen years ago.  In all that time we’ve seen nothing of it, or even bits for it.

“Anyway, what’s ART got to do with model railways?” he demanded dismissively.

“Whether they realise it or not, builders of models railways follow the same rules as other artists,” Felicity explained.  “They select the key features, re-combine and re-position them, as well as compress time and space to make a meaningful representation.

“They create a stage-set, so it’s theatre,” she went on.  “They include cameos that record little incidents – the scenes of a play.  And the train movements provide the principle story-lines that bind everything else together, so that makes it a drama.  And if the moves are well-choreographed, then that’s equivalent to ballet.”

This analysis of railway modelling came as a shock to Peter and Paul.  Their jaws slowly dropped when they realised that they might actually be accused of being … ARTISTS.

“Why haven’t real clubs thought of this and put in their own applications?” Bill enquired.

“Lack of imagination,” Jane repeated.  “They don’t think about modelling as anything other than a craft.  They’re so engrossed with locomotives, scale standards, DCC and ballasting that they haven’t realised there’s a broader picture around what they do, or seen what’s going on the wider world and the opportunities that can be exploited with a bit of lateral thinking.”

“Are you saying we’re narrow-minded?” Paul demanded indignantly.

“Oh yes,” Jane replied, much to his surprise.  “Many model clubs just complain about how the world gives them a raw deal and a bad image.  But then it’s always been easier to moan than to get up, go out and search for new ways to promote the hobby and earn a good press.  It might even require doing something new.”

“That means going outside their comfort zone,” Felicity chimed in.  “Some folk are so set in their ways that they find it greatly disturbing to do anything new or unusual.  Good fortune is more often the result of hard work and imagination than any intervention by Lady Luck.”

“It strikes me,” the chairman mused aloud, “that there are sources of external support that we modellers really ought to consider.  Perhaps we should keep our eyes and ears open.  But above all, perhaps we should keep our minds open, so that we can identify potential in any opportunities that present themselves.”  And we all agreed with that.

A few weeks back, Graham brought his new layout along and taught Jim and Bill how to put it up in readiness for their trip to the Charr Hill show.  First he told them.  Then he showed them.  Finally he made them do it all for themselves, both the assembly, and equally important, the dismantling and stowage

When it wasn’t going to cause damage, Graham even allowed them to find out they’d made mistakes.  As he explained, through adopting this procedure they would remember things better, recognise the symptoms of problems and be able to resolve them when they arose.  It was a laborious process, but the layout went up and down several times that evening.

“It’s a good thing it’s a two-day show,” Paul muttered.  “At this rate you’ll just about get it running before the show closes on the Sunday.”

“You can’t even be bothered to learn,” was Ken’s swift put-down.  “At least Jim and Bill are willing pupils.  After a few sessions they’ll be really useful engines.”

“Who wants to be a really useful engine?” was Paul’s riposte, not recognising the reference to Rev Awdry’s stories.  “You become proficient and he’ll always be asking you to help him at shows,” he warned them.  “You’ll just get put upon.  I make sure I don’t know how to do these things.  That way I’m never asked to help.  Means I can get on with my own projects.”

The following week, Graham’s layout was up and running in no time at all.  The training had paid off.  Now the emphasis was on fluent operation.  They started with the basic moves until they were fully conversant with the control panel, and then they progressed to the more complicated moves where knowledge of siding capacity, clearance points and isolating sections became important.  After a while there were up to three locos simultaneously going about their business.  Again, Paul ridiculed the whole training process.

“There’s a great difference between operating one’s own simple layout at home and performing at an exhibition on a complex shunting layout,” Fred commented.  “At home, the solo operator makes one move, and then another, perhaps with the same loco or maybe a different one.  There is no pressure to complete a shunt in time for the departure of someone else’s train and mistakes don’t matter.  Moves that would, in reality, be made by two locos simultaneously are made in sequence.  And if an incorrect move is made, then it doesn’t really matter.

“By contrast,” Fred continued, “under exhibition conditions, there may be two or more engines moving round the yard at the same time.  Their movements have to be co-ordinated.  Control of a loco may be passed from one operator to another according to who has the best view of the relevant sidings.  Breaks to work out the best shunting procedure or to take a leisurely cup of tea are just not allowed.  The pressure is one.  Mistakes cannot be made.”

“The more layouts, locos or rolling stock you build, or the greater the number of layouts that you learn to operate, the more confident you will become,” he went on.  “This allows you to tackle new projects with less apprehension.  If you restrict yourself to what you’ve done before, then you’ll never develop and your modelling is moribund.  If applied to life, this philosophy would severely limit your activities.  Indeed, you might not have taken your first breath.  And then you would be dead.”

“I was brought up to believe that the more things a person can do,” the chairman observed, “the more use he can be to his family, his friends and the community in general.  Putting your time, skills and talents at the service of others is what differentiates humans from other animals.  And doing it as well as you can marks out a human being as a true friend.”

Part way through last week’s meeting, conversation dried up.  It wasn’t because the drinks were being served, or because the secretary wanted to make an announcement.  It was Ken talking about a show he had visited. 

As his story unfolded, even work on the layouts ground to a halt as more of us wanted to hear exactly what had happened.

“I slowly realised that there were several chaps there with notebooks,” Ken reported.

“Nothing unusual in that,” Bill commented.  “Serious modellers are always on the look out for good ideas.  At some shows there are more than you can easily remember.”

“They were systematically moving from layout to layout,” Ken continued.  “Looking intently at the scenery.  Examining locomotives.  Inspecting rolling stock.  Diligently checking signals.  Carefully watching every movement.  Discussing matters in hushed tones.  And then they wrote copiously in their notebooks.  Others were taking photographs and filming videos. After a while, the hall seemed full of them.

“Then I noticed that the operators were becoming quite edgy.  They were increasingly ignoring the ordinary visitors and concentrating on operations whenever these people were near their layout.  The atmosphere became quite very tense.

“These strange people were noting unnecessary moves, repeated coupling and uncoupling of the same pair of wagons, and superfluous running round by locomotives.  They were logging signals passed at danger, signals that were permanently on, signals that were in conflict with the lie of the points, signals that did not return to danger after the passage of a train and the absence of any signals whatsoever.  They were recording head codes that did not match the train behind the locomotive, rakes of carriages with tail lamps at both ends, and trains without any tail lamps at all.  The operators were becoming increasingly paranoid.

“It was then that I caught a glimpse of the wording on the front of one of their notebooks.  It read ‘Model Railway Inspectorate.’  We were caught in the middle of a raid by the Miniature Transport Police.  They were collecting evidence of ignorance of prototype procedures and the incompetence of operators.”

By this time we were beginning to wonder just where Ken had been.  But he continued his story unabated.

“Then they went round and gave out the awards for the least prototypical track formation, the most incongruent juxtaposition of scenic features and the most reckless driving.  There were trophies for implausible train make-up, ludicrous combinations of liveries and for hazardous operation.  No layout escaped their reprimand.  Many were severely criticised.  A few were subjected to a tirade of admonishment.”

By this stage it had dawned on us that Ken was recounting a dream he’d had.

“It might only have been a nightmare,” the chairman cautioned, “but most dreams start out with a basis in reality before they develop into something fantastic and frightening.  The errors you’ve highlighted are all too common, even on outstanding layouts at prestigious exhibitions.  If we’re to truly model railways, then isn’t it incumbent on us to take the time to understand and replicate how real railways operated and the landscape through which they were built?”

As we locked up the clubroom than night, the chairman wished us a safe journey home, followed by sweet dreams.  And we all agreed with that, most sincerely.

he other week, our conversations turned to control panels.  Jim had been helping at the Dillerstones show.  Because his driving skills were well recognised, he’d been put on lunchtime relief for the solo owner-operators.  He said that on one, the panel had a rather tatty track diagram with stud contacts for changing the points.  The probe was just one of several loose wires dangling below it.  At the bottom of the panel was a bank of switches.  A couple had arrows vaguely pointing to lengths of track, but there were no indications of their functions or what any of the others were for.  As soon as Jim reported for duty, the owner rushed off, leaving him to discover what things did on own.

He could get a rail-motor to leave the bay platform, but could not persuade it to go beyond the platform ramp.  He could move a freight train along the hidden cassette, but it stalled on emerging into public view from under the bridge and had to be hauled back by hand.  In the end he gave up and just stood there, feeling totally mystified and embarrassed that he couldn’t actually run anything.

“Have you discovered its quirks?” the owner asked on his return, grinning broadly.

Another layout Jim helped was quite different.  There was no control panel.  Points were worked mechanically by rods along the back.  It was quite clear which one moved each point.  The visible part of the layout was one electrical section, with isolating points to the sidings.  Only the fiddle sidings could be switched out.  The owner took time to explain the set-up to Jim and stayed around during his first shunt, just in case he had problems.  It was a pleasure to operate.

Jim noted that on another layout, two youths from the host club were in charge over lunch-time.  The panel was well-designed.  The function of every switch was clear.  Coloured LEDs showed which controller was connected to each section and the lie of every point. He dubbed the young operators ‘bingo drivers’.  They flicked a random selection of switches.  If the loco didn’t move or go where they wanted it, they haphazardly flicked more switches.  Their trains scuttled backwards and forwards seeking the right route in a very unrailway-like way.  The lads had no idea of the relationship between switch positions and what might happen.  In some cases, their chaotic approach derailed stock that they’d left standing over points, but they never spotted this until the vehicles fell over during a subsequent manoeuvre.  They may never have realised the cause of these mishaps.

“Is there a relationship,” Fred wondered, “between the clarity of a control system and the quality of planning?  Does not a good control panel indicate the thought that has gone into a layout before any track is laid or wiring connected?”

“Being a solo operator implies that someone else will be covering over lunch-time,” Bill commented.  “Shouldn’t builders who exhibit this way make sure that their control systems are crystal clear.  To do otherwise is just plain thoughtless.”

“Whatever arcane systems a builder may be prepared to endure at home is a private matter,” the chairman observed.  “If there is an experienced team at an exhibition, then they know how to get round the nuances of a badly designed panel.  But if a solo operator expects lunchtime relief, then surely his track sectioning and control panel should be quickly understood, easy to operate, and definitely quirk-free?  And shouldn’t a club’s relief operators also know what they are doing?”

“Perhaps we should take the quality of panels into consideration when deciding which layouts to invite to our exhibition?” he asked.  And we all though it was a good idea.

Then there was the large postal sorting office next to the station.  One visitor noted the classes and liveries of the locomotives.  He then pointed out that by their era, the Post Office was using automated sorting.  The windows of the building would have been painted over to stop daylight upsetting the first generation of such equipment.

At another show a comment was made about the number of overhead wires carried by an electricity pylon.  The model showed four – two feeds and two returns.  However, it seems that in real life the tall versions carry high-voltage cables in multiples of three, one for each of the three phases of alternating current.  Collectively each triplet of feeds is known as a circuit.  The common return for all of them is through the earth and a thin seventh wire.

“But how much of what you’re told is correct?” Paul questioned.  “You don’t know anything about the background of the chap who’s pontificating.  For all you know, he could be making it all up.”  We all smiled.  Paul is so good at sharing his immense knowledge with us, and is most affronted when sometimes we neither accept his word as true, nor act upon his advice.

“But what is truth?” Felicity asked, raising our discussion to a higher philosophical level.  “Ask half a dozen painters to depict the same scene, and you’ll get six different pictures.  Ask half a dozen modellers to represent a length of railway, and again they’ll all be different.”

“But the key thing is that none of them need any be any more right or wrong than any other,” Fred chipped in.  “They are just different representations of reality and, barring major anachronisms, equally valid.  Just like Monet and his haystacks and cathedral paintings.”

“But what about individual models?” Peter piped up.  “Accurate models of a particular locomotive should be identical, especially if they’re to the same scale.”

“They might look the same,” Fred insisted, “but the motor might drive a different pair of wheels.  The exact colour might vary depending upon the condition of the loco and the distance at which it is to be viewed.”

“Model railways are always wrong,” Bill stated with a mixture of provocation and pragmatism.  “Your diesel and stream outline locomotives are driven by electricity.  The little passengers never board their coaches.  The ballast never gets crushed by fast and heavy traffic.  The whole thing’s a sham.  An enjoyable sham, but a fake all the same.”

“Surely when we’re alerted to a possible error in our modelling, shouldn’t we seek further information?” the chairman mused, trying to avoid a row.  “But it’s always been a challenge distinguishing between those facts that are actually true, and those that the majority hold to be true but actually aren’t.  When we criticise layouts, let’s remember that each modeller has his own vision of the world.  Shouldn’t we judge the layout on those terms alone?”  And we all had to agree there was some truth in this approach.

A tangle that would embarrass a cat.  That’s how Bill described it.  A few weeks ago he’d been asked to sort out an old gentleman’s layout.  It seems the chap’s young great nephews had been allowed into the railway room provided they didn’t touch the models.  They didn’t.  Instead they made a den underneath the baseboard.  Unfortunately, in the process, they’d caught the wiring.  There were festoons of wire and loose ends hanging down everywhere.

“The fellow was quite distraught,” Bill went on.  “He’d paid a self-styled professional to build the layout, but the builder hadn’t left a wiring diagram.  There were no labels on points, track feeds or switches.  Ends of wires were just twisted together, not soldered.  In some places there were five different colours going into the same untidy screw of insulation tape.  Elsewhere runs of wire changed colour every couple of feet or so.  I guess it was quite a mess even before the children did anything.”

Bill went on to explain that the track plan was very basic.  Just two ovals, a small goods yard and an MPD, set amongst simple scenery

“Hardly a model of a railway then,” Peter sneered.  “Not worth bothering with.”

“Not up to anything like Fred’s standard,” Bill replied, “but it provides the owner with a great deal of pleasure just running short trains behind different locos.  So it’s perfectly valid as a model railway.”

“What did you do?” Paul asked.  “Cut it all away and start again?  Or tell him to go back to the builder?”

“Why should you help him at all?” Peter enquired, dismissively.  “It’s not as if he’s a club member.  It’s not your job to sort out the mess left by a cowboy, or by those brats with their den.”  Out of kindness, Bill had sorted it out and the old boy was delighted.

“The gentleman may not join our club,” Graham observed, “but he could well bring his great nephews to our next show, which all adds to the takings on the door.  And when he and the boys chat with their friends, the word will spread.”

“I’ve seen a layout where the wiring was immaculate,” Fred continued.  “Every end was crimped before it went into a terminal block.  Everything was clearly labelled.  Wires were colour-coded.  Groups of wires were clipped to the underside of the baseboard when they weren’t in trunking.  It was so tidy and methodical.  A work of art as well as engineering.”

“What’s the point of that?” Paul asked.  “As long as it works, it doesn’t matter how untidy the wiring is.”

“What happens when it doesn’t work?” Fred countered.

“Tidy wiring shows care is being taken,” the chairman commented.  “That suggests that the installation has been planned, itself the result of clear thinking.  A well-thought out layout is less likely to fail at an exhibition than one that has just grown.  Faults should be easier to find and rectify.  I wonder if exhibition managers, when deciding which layouts to invite to their shows, should inspect the underside of baseboards as well as observe what happens on top?”  We agreed it was an idea well worth considering.

 t a meeting a few weeks ago, Jane pointed out the variety of attitudes that clubs have towards traders at their shows.  She started with the cost of space.

“Some charges are reasonable - a tenner a table - while other shows consider traders to be cash cows, charging them exorbitantly,” she explained.  “I’ve heard one trader was asked £400 a table for a single day at a three-day event.  When you consider the cost of transport and accommodation, together with time involved, it’s not surprising that the trader declined.  Some traders are becoming very choosy about which shows they attend.”

“It depends upon whether the event is primarily a trade show or an exhibition,” Fred added.  “For shows targeted at a specialist segment of the hobby, I would expect a significant number of relevant traders to attend.  However, for a mixed show aimed at the general public, too many traders can be off-putting.  After all, the public are paying to see a model show, not visit a shopping arcade.”

“What about the shows where almost every trader is stocking same ranges from the major manufacturers?”  Bill asked.  “This strikes me as poor policy.  Competition might drive down prices a little, but the traders won’t be happy.  Ideally there should be no more than two stalls selling the same sorts of stuff.  Shouldn’t the organisers take the lead in negotiating what each concentrates on?”

“And when you see how some show teams treat traders, I’m not surprised that they give them a miss,” Felicity commented.  “I’ve come across exhibition teams that will help traders load and unload.  But there are others who consider it beneath their dignity to get involved with sordid commerce and leave traders to struggle with heavy boxes and trolleys.”

“What about having stalls with second-hand stuff of dubious quality,” Ken observed.  “I bet there’ll be some disappointed customers when they try to run it at home.  It may put some off the hobby for ever, considering it a rip-off.”

 “There are some good traders,” Graham countered.  “There’s the one who removed the centre car from a DMU set because the chap only had space for the two-car version.  And another stall-holder who sold a chipped loco for the price of an unchipped one.  I’m sure the buyer will seek out that trader for his future purchases.”

“And then there’s the non-railway stalls,” Paul said.  “Tombolas that lack anything to do with model railways.  Hand-made cards that don’t depict railway subjects.  Sticky sweets and gooey cakes create so many messy fingers.  Totally unsuitable.”

“At some shows the traders are provided with free drinks and hot meals,” Jim observed.  “They’re treated just like the other exhibitors, while at other events they’re treated as lesser beings and expected to bring or buy their own food.”

“Have you noticed that it is often the smaller shows that are the most considerate?” Jane asked.  “There’s a couple where the treasurer regularly goes round and makes sure traders are not stuck for change.  He’ll even arrange reliable stall-sitters to cover for meal and comfort breaks.”

“Doesn’t it all boil down to matter of thoughtfulness, consideration and courtesy?” the chairman observed.  And we all agreed with that.