A Scene of unusual activity – Two people on Ditchford Station platform at the same time.

Ditchford Closes Down
Tiny Station that had an Average of Three Passengers Daily
A signal near the little branch-line station is down; the level crossing gates are open; and the branch-line train draws up by the narrow platform. A porter shouts “Ditchford!” and looks along the line of carriages. No one dreams of getting out; there is no one to think of getting in; and the train goes on its way, leaving the station to slumber again.

Such was the scene many times enacted during past years at the dreamy, dreary little station of Ditchford, on the L.M.S. line between Wellingborough and Irthlingborough. Such—alas!—is the scene that has ceased to be enacted, for Ditchford Station, like Wembley, closed last week.

Bent on discovering The Truth About Ditchford, or Why Stationmasters Leave Home, our representative visited Ditchford Station this week. A directory does not recognise such a place as Ditchford, but nevertheless, a mile ot two from Rushden, such a place does exist. A porter at the station, when sufficiently recovered from the shock of seeing a human being, answered a question to that effect by pointing to the station premises and saying, majestically, “This is Ditchford.”

So this was Ditchford! A building about the size of one of the Government houses included: 1, the stationmaster’s residence, 2, the booking office, 3, the waiting room, and 4, a general waiting-room, signal-box, level crossing control box, weighing office and store-room. A very narrow platform, with two lonely-looking oil lamps, bearing the legend “Ditchford” and another tiny platform on the opposite side of the line, with a hutch-like building representing a waiting-room shelter, gave an atmosphere of dreariness. Dreariness was everywhere; on a dark, rainy night the rails would gleam cold and bright in the light of the platform lamps; the lamps would gleam out desolately over the flooded meadows round this spot of man’s creation. Ugh! Even the crisp, bright autumn could not banish the atmosphere of desolation.

There was a time when this station served as a jumping-off place for Rushden inhabitants. Business men would drive to Ditchford if they wished to go to Peterborough or Northampton, and (let it be said with shame) newly-weds would escape to their honeymoon via Ditchford. Now a stationmaster and a porter are sufficient to deal with all the traffic that comes along. Up to last week Ditchford boasted of about three passengers per day, and had five regular trains; and if a passenger wanted to catch a train not due to stop, the porter had to resort to the expedient of setting the signal against the train. Then would Ditchford swell with pride.

Ditchford, then, is closed to passengers, and only goods traffic is allowed. What a blow to the district! Mention of Ditchford brought a smile to the face of anyone who knew the district. No longer will passengers look out of carriage windows and ask the guard why they were stopping, and where was Ditchford anyway? The magic legendary that has surrounded the station will disappear.

But, with all these tragedies, Ditchford will still have its curiosities and adventures. The mere fact, for instance, that the platform is so narrow that one has to lean back on to the platform railings to allow trains to pass, gives a spice of adventure.

Only the other day, a dog dashed down the hill leading to the level crossing, rushed through the crossing gates—just as a train passed. Amid tense excitement, pieces of the dog were found further up the line.

Attaditchford!