POSTCARD FROM BUCKINGHAMSHIRE

Bob Barton remembers a ghostly train journey, enjoys some wassailing and fulfils a long-held ambition of attending a lawnmower festival

- Bob Barton

Snow has such an effect on me I always have to get out and see the transformed landscapes. One snowy January afternoon in 1981, I took an extended lunch from my office job near London Marylebone station for a ride on a favourite railway journey. I jumped on one of the rattly British Rail diesel units that ran from the then almost deserted terminus.

Diving beneath Lord's cricket ground, we were soon flying through suburban Ruislip and, before long, rolling through a beautiful slice of the Chiltern Hills. There were views of woodland, manicured golf courses and uplands, all muffled under a snowy blanket.

The snowfall got heavier, station platforms were quickly covered in the white stuff. My dark blue train kept to time as we paused at almost empty stations with names like Denham Golf Club and Seer Green & Jordans.

There was only one other person in my carriage, a smartly dressed, elderly gent with a thin, rather gaunt face. After a while we struck up a conversation and I told him about my clandestine escape from a very quiet office.