Before the Great War my father, David Jones, was a driver on the Cambrian Coast railway. He began his career by selling newspapers on Machynlleth station for W. H. Smith, and I have a photo of him holding a placard announcing the end of the Boer War.

At the outbreak of war in 1914 he was called up immediately, being a Territorial, and came to this part of Northamptonshire with the 7th Battalion, Royal Welsh Fusiliers for a short period of training before going to France. After the war he came back to Rushden, having met and married a local girl, as had several of his friends. They decided to remain here as work prospects in Wales were poor, and father became the engineer for the Rushden Electric Light Company, in charge of the steam engines which drove the generators.

Whenever these Welshmen met the talk was always of 'home' and the first week in August, then Bank Holiday week, saw the annual return to Wales of the exiles and their families. For weeks before, the rival merits of different trains and routes were discussed. We always went on the Friday evening so as to get an extra day there, and our luggage was sent forward to await us at Machynlleth. One of my early memories is of riding on an open-topped bus with orange painted wooden slatted seats to Northampton to catch our train. We walked from the bus up to the Exchange Cinema at the top of Market Square, and had cups of drinking chocolate and our own corned beef sandwiches in the cinema cafe before going to the station.

Going by this train we had a wait of over four hours at Stafford, so grown-ups settled themselves on the horsehair covered sofas in the general waiting room, to chat and doze, sometimes with a fire as it could be chilly at night, even in August. Often my brother and I had the station to ourselves, and we could play safely until our train came in the early hours. Probably the porter was in his own room, as we never saw him until the train was due.

We tried all the chocolate machines, tugging at drawers and kicking them in hopes of getting a bar of Nestles Milk in its red and gold wrapper without putting in pennies. Once, greatly daring, I jumped down on to the track to get a penny I had spotted.

We jumped on and off the weighing machines, we read all the adverts, Stephens Ink with its huge blue-black blot, Swan Pens, Swan Vestas, Monkey Brand, Epps Cocoa, and many others. We raced over the footbridge to other platforms, exploring empty waiting rooms and jumping from the footbridge steps. On every riser of the steps was a yellow enamel plate advertising Astons of Birmingham. Astons for curtains - carpets - furniture - china - galssware -cutlery, in fact some proclaimed Astons for Everything. We shouted to hear the echoes, rattled the fire buckets with our wooden spades, and in general, were a thorough nuisance. They got fed up with our noise and we were told to come and sit down and be quiet for a few minutes. So we sat, finishing up any refreshments left, then gathered up bags, buckets and spades in readiness. A few people changed at Oswestry or Welshpool, but we went all the way to Machynlleth, where our grandfather was always waiting for us in the early morning.

Sunday was a dull day. We went to church where father had sung in the choir before King Edward VII, then we were dragged round various relatives who made disparaging remarks about us "losing our Welsh" or now we had grown or not grown, and couldn't I play with my cousins instead of having my nose in a book always, but we got through the day sustained by thoughts of train trips in the week ahead. Weather permitting, we went on the train almost every day, first the short ride to Dovey Junction, then on to Aberdovey or Towyn or Barmouth. I liked Towyn; my uncle had a dairy farm there, and the Tal-y-llyn railway ran close to his fields. It was not so much a tourist attraction in those days, but an ordinary means of transport, and we might go two or three stations up the line and walk back to Pendre. Sometimes we walked along the beach from Aberdovey to Towyn, train back, or vice-versa. When we went to Barmouth father told the tale of when he was driving over the bridge during a winter storm and the waves were so high that stones in them smashed carriage windows. He also told how he sometimes had to wait before crossing the bridge because the end section, over the river itself, was open for the passage of ships bringing down slates, and they had to catch the tide. I think the swing section is still opened once a year, though no tall ships now, only speed boats and other small craft use the river.

Barmouth bridge has not changed, but sadly the junction has. Because occasionally people got out at the junction thinking it was Barmouth itself, the name was changed to Morfa Mawddach. The line to Penmaenpool and beyond has gone, and is a nature trail, the signal box is an information centre for bird watchers and walkers, and the line from Ruabon has gone. All the waiting rooms and the lovely little refreshment room have gone, one track and platform have gone, and on the remaining one is a kind of bus shelter, and you stop the train by putting out your hand, paying when you are on the railcar.

Well, to get back. Sometimes we went south from Dovey Junction to Berth, with its superb beach, or to Aberystwith with its rocky and gravelly one, and its narrow gauge track up to Devils Bridge. My earliest visit to Aberystwith was in May 1920, when I was eight months old. I know, because I have a strip of aluminium punched with my name, date and place. Later, my mother told me that father had held my hand under his so I punched the strip on the machine at the station. We just got within the maximum permitted for 6d.

Occasionally, we walked over the Dovey bridge towards Corris, and back along the track of the narrow gauge slate railway, which I understand is now being restored.

On one never to be forgotten trip we went on a charabanc tour of North Wales. I can remember rattling along narrow honeysuckle-scented lanes, hood down, dust flying, until we got to the Menai Bridge, where the driver stopped for us to see the bridge and the view over the Straits. Everone got out, and father grabbed my brother and me by the hand and ran us over the bridge so we could saywe had set foot in Anglesey, then ran us back again, a treat I did not appreciate, not being built for speed. It was raining hard when we got back to the charabanc, and the driver was struggling to put the hood and side screens up, and he and father had a furious row in Welsh because they had to waitm for us. We came home on the Saturday, sad because we would not be back for a year. We came to Wellingborough Old Station, had a cup of tea in the little refreshment room near the level crossing, and then caught a bus for Rushden.

In 1932 father bought a 1926 model Austin 7 Tourer, and from then on we made the journey by road.

Stella Reynolds.