A quick history of Britain’s railways

Britain’s first railroads revolutionized the country, in a profit-making sort of way. Goods–coal, fruit, newspapers, stuff–could now speed around the country. So could people. Time was standardized. Once people could move fast enough, they noticed–or at least cared–that different places were using slightly different times.

Companies formed. Track was laid. Stations were built. More companies formed, laying track parallel to where some other company had already laid track. Money was made. Money was lost.

We’re talking about frenzied amounts of money here: £3 billion between 1845 and 1900. In 2025, that would amount to £216.5 billion, give or take a few million, because who cares about the small change? 

That’s based, in case you care, on the 1900 value of the pound and I recklessly used artificial intelligence as the calculator. Sue me if it’s wrong. I’ll happily refund the money you spent reading this free post, although I draw the line at paying for your computer, your internet connection, your time, or any other background expenses.

At the end of that frenzy, Britain had something like 120 railroad companies, a lot of them in direct competition with each other, maintaining parallel tracks and parallel infrastructure and parallel administrative structures. 

Irrelevant photo: crocuses

 

World War I

Then World War I started and the railroads were put under state control. Not nationalized–the businesses still made the business-type decisions and pocketed whatever profits they made–but under the control of a government committee, the Railway Executive Committee. 

If your eyebrows just shot up, you can let them float gently back into place. The same thing happened in France and Germany. It was wartime. War has an odd habit of making the politically impossible possible. All those troops and their supplies had to be moved from here to there, and that took priority. Timetables were revised, civilian travel was curtailed, and priority was given to the military, to keeping the country fed, and before long to moving the wounded to hospitals on ambulance trains, because war, you may know by now, has certain unfortunate side effects.

After the war, the chaos of the old system was visible enough that nationalization was considered, although that’s as far as the idea got. Instead, but in the name of efficiency, the 120 companies were consolidated into 4 regional monopolies–Southern; Great Western; London, Midland & Scottish; and London North Eastern–and left in private hands.

 

World War II

Cue another world war and In 1939 the railroads went back into government control. The number of passenger trains was reduced. Seat reservations, restaurant cars, and some reduced fares disappeared. It was all about moving soldiers to ports, evacuating civilians from cities, and keeping the country fed.  

How many people are we talking about in those evacuations? In 1939, 1,334,360, mostly of them kids but some adults. That involved 3,823 special trains. In four days.

After the 1940 disaster at Dunkirk, when retreating allied troops had to be rescued from the beaches by an improvised flotilla of small boats, no one had any idea how many soldiers would be landing or where they’d land. Trains were put together from the rolling stock from all four companies and waited at central locations so they could be sent where they were needed as soon as somebody figured out where that was. They ended up moving 319,000 troops while still evacuating children. 

Add bombing raids to that picture if you would. 

Enough numbers. You get the point: the trains were crucial and the logistics were–I’m guessing here–a nightmare.

 

Nationalization & Dr. Beeching

By the end of the war, the rail network needed serious investment and the rail companies were in no shape to do it. The system was nationalized and updated. That included replacing the steam engines with diesel and electric and repairing bombed-out track.

It’s not all a happy story, though. By now the system faced competition from roads–for passengers, for freight, and for public funds. It was losing money, and in 1962 a guy called Dr. Beeching was appointed to head the newly formed British Railways Board and make the trains profitable.  

Yes indeed, folks. It was time to Make the Railways Great Again, only MRGA isn’t pronounceable and nobody embroidered it on a hat. I don’t think baseball caps had discovered Britain yet in any case.

His solution was to shrink the service, closing smaller lines and stations, and to lure more freight off the roads and onto the trains with a faster, simplified service.

And passengers who’d been served by smaller lines? They could take the bus. 

The trains did attract more freight, although I can’t find a clear answer to whether it worked as well in reality as on paper. I’m not convinced anyone has a clear answer. What is clear is that Beeching overestimated the savings he could make. The trains continued to lose money. Cars and roads were the hot new technology.  

Some 5,000 miles of track had been closed and more than 2,300 stations closed. Beeching is still hated today. 

 

A couple of reversals

Time staggered forward, as it will if you turn your back on it, and in 1993 the network was privatized into a system that’s too complicated to explain, creating a ticketing system that’s even more complicated than that. 

Want to buy the cheapest ticket? You’ll need a PhD. 

I could find you articles arguing that it wasn’t full privatization, but I won’t. They’re out there. I could probably find you articles arguing that they had to be on drugs to put the pieces together the way they did, but I haven’t looked. Pretty much anyone over the age of five could find reams of articles arguing that it’s been a disaster. In a 2014 poll, 60% of the public wanted the trains re-nationalized and only 20% didn’t. What about the remaining 20%? They were eating supper when the pollsters called and either hung up or offered them a few of their chips. 

If you’re American, those are french fries.

Four years later, that had risen to 64% and people were keeping their chips to themselves.

The main reasons people support re-nationalization seem to be 1) fares that have risen well over the rate of inflation and 2) service that on some lines is so bad you almost have to admire it as an art form, although there’s also 3) the companies making high profits while letting the system fall apart. 

How high are the profits? Using a study done under a Conservative government, the rail union estimates that £31 billion has flowed out of the rail system, mostly to shareholders, and that £1.5 billion a year could be saved by nationalization. The government estimates it could save an extra £2.2 billion a year by cutting waste.

I don’t doubt there’s waste to be cut, but I break out in hives lately when politicians talk about cutting waste. It means they’ll cut funding and then shrug when things fall apart. Or if you’re in the US, they send in a team of nutburgers with electronic axes. It’s so much easier than actually thinking about what might work better–or what might work at all.

But I’ve wandered off topic, haven’t I? You have no one to blame but yourself. Who did you think was supposed to keep an eye on me? 

The current government, before it was in office and when was still in campaigning mode, swore it would renationalize the trains within five years. Since the government licenses the private rail companies, that’s both cheap and, politically speaking, simple. They might even do it.

Meanwhile, trains have been making something of a comeback. In spite of high fares and poor service, more people are riding–9% more in 2024 than in 2023. You could also measure that in kilometers traveled, or in revenue, or in cups of tea consumed in transit, but instead let’s move on and go . . . 

 

. . . back to Dr. Beecham

The current momentum is in the direction of reopening branch lines and stations that Beecham closed in the fifties and sixties. It’s more expensive to drive than it used to be, and increasing numbers of people are counting the environmental cost of driving. 

So how many lines and stations have been reopened? Forgive me for getting technical about it, but it’s a fair number. 

Okay, I couldn’t find a number. The best I can do is refer you to a survey of the reopened line near me, impeccably conducted by Hawley’s Small and Unscientific Surveys, Inc., which reports that the line is well used. There’s even talk of extending it. There’s also talk of not extending it because the land was sold off. 

You can always rely of Hawley’s Small and Unscientific Surveys, Inc. We won’t discuss what you can rely on them for.

Taking the Train to London, or Adventures in Choice

I took the train to London.

That shouldn’t be the opening sentence of a tale, but bear with me, because I had choices to make.

Arrival time. Okay, sane enough thing to choose, but arrival time wasn’t so much about the time I needed to be in London but how much time I needed to allow for delays so I could be sure I’d get to London by the time I needed to be in London. Train problems? Let’s say half an hour. Tracks? Same. Signalling problems? File that with tracks. No floods at the moment. Someone throwing themselves on the line? Hours. Everything stops while the police do the whole crime-scene routine and finally release the train and its traumatized driver to finish the run.

Wild Thing and I were on a train once when this happened. After that, it’s something you calculate. Or decide not to calculate, which is what I did. I’d take my chances.

Irrelevant photo. The coast near Fowey, Cornwall.

Irrelevant photo. The coast near Fowey, Cornwall.

Having weighed all of this and chosen a time, I had to choose a website. Google offered me over 40 million results. I confess, I didn’t check them all, but every one of the promotions I did read claimed to be cheap, cheapest, cheaper, or more discounted, better looking, and thinner than all the others. I compared. I contrasted. I did my best impression of a careful shopper. But this wasn’t just about comparing sites, because trains on a single route are priced differently. Why? Because the train companies want to make us crazy. Not to mention because finding the cheapest possible ticket is a full-time job and most of us don’t have the time and dedication, so—hmm; they wouldn’t be making money from making us crazy, do you? Anyway, the question wasn’t just what time I wanted to be in London, allowing for as many delays as I was willing to allow for, but how much I was willing to pay to arrive at the time I wanted to arrive, or how willing I was to get there earlier or later if I wanted to save a few quid.

On the train I chose, the 11:40, the cost of an advance ticket with no rail card ran from £46 to £46. I was grateful to have done my comparison shopping, because it was going to save me big bucks. That was, of course, before taking into account that many of the web sites charge for using a credit card, using the web site, using your own keyboard, and breathing air. I bought my ticket from the train operator, First Great Western, which is what I would have done if I hadn’t done my comparison shopping.

Another confession here: I do have a rail card, and I use it, which reduced the cost of the ticket by quite a bit. It had damn well better, because I have to pay to have it. But that’s a whole ‘nother story.

I made more choices: Quiet coach? Noisy coach? Morris dancing coach? Forward facing or rear facing seat? Aisle or window? Inside out or upside down? Enter your credit card details and prepare to be boarded by pirates.

My tickets came the next day.

On the day I was traveling, I left an extra half hour to get to the station because I live in the country and it’s easy to get caught behind a tractor or a herd of cows. I got caught instead behind a garbage truck, which is less romantic. It lumbered its way along the highway at ten miles under the speed limit, but eventually I found a straightaway and passed. But in Exeter, traffic was backed up to—well, it was backed up to where it’s always backed up to and I thought I’d allowed for it but I hadn’t.

If you miss your train, you can always buy a last-minute ticket for the next train, I told myself.

This was supposed to spread inner peace throughout my being, but I’ve read about the cost of last-minute tickets, so it didn’t. No one understands the pricing system, but we all understand that buying last-minute tickets is insane. Everyone complains and agrees that we’re getting ripped off.

I fretted about the traffic, reminded myself that I could buy a last-minute ticket, fumed about the cost, bumped forward a few car lengths, checked the time, rehearsed parking problems I hadn’t had yet, and generally enjoyed my tour of Exeter. Which, if you’re in the mood for it, is a beautiful city.

I wasn’t in the mood. It was ugly.

At the station, I used a phone-in/credit card system to pay for my parking. The alternative was to plug the machine with more coins than any normal human is physically able to carry. The phone-in system gave me another choice: I could pay for 48 hours and be pissed off because I needed—allowing for brake problems and signal breakdowns on the return trip—let’s say 28 hours, or I could pay for 24 hours and risk a ticket. I wasn’t offered the choice of 24 hours plus four. Having chosen to measure in days, I seemed to be stuck measuring in days.

I paid for 48 hours was pissed off.

I had ten minutes before the train was due and stopped at the departures board. Where I didn’t find the 11:40.

Now, I raise numerical incompetence to the level of high art, so the night before I’d checked the departure time on my ticket at least three times. It might have been more. I don’t really trust myself to remember the number three. Still, I was almost sure my train left at 11:40, but there I stood before a board listing exactly two London trains, and one at 11:55 and the other was at 12:13.

Fine, I thought. Either I’ve mixed up the time or it’s been rescheduled. Just get on the 11:55 and don’t worry.

And even as I heard myself think that, I remembered newspaper articles about people catching the wrong train for one reason or another and having to pay the full, absurd, last-minute fare as well as a penalty fare. Punch “wrong train ticket” into Google UK and you get 3,480,000 results. Approximately. The 8 or 10 thousand (okay, the 1 or 2) that I checked personally are testimony to how intricate and incomprehensible the system is. People write in and ask, “What happens if I catch the wrong train?” and are warned about penalties and unpaid fare notices and the possibility of prosecution.

Do not get on the wrong train, the saner part of my brain warned.

It’ll be fine, the other part said. I’m always being taken for a tourist. I’m expected to be an idiot.

The last two statements were true—my accent is unchangingly American—but the first was not, so I thought I’d ask the man at the ticket barrier about my train. He’d helped me and half a dozen other people get through when we put in the wrong ticket and the barrier didn’t open. You should understand that every passenger gets two tickets, and they look almost identical, but only one of them opens the barrier, so it makes sense to pay someone to stand there to keep people moving through.

Sort of. I seem to remember reading the privatizing the trains was going to get rid of inefficiencies. And give us choice, which is a good thing because it gives us choice. But those are serious issues, so never mind.

Before I had time to bother him, I spotted another column of numbers on the board. Numbers are like that for me. They can be right in front of me and stay invisible.

The new column was the time the trains were scheduled, and there was my 11:40, delayed until 12:13. I left the man at the ticket barrier in peace and made my way to track 5. Which I checked twice, although the London train’s always at track 5.

The later train, the 11:55 pulled in, but those of us who were booked on the 11:40 couldn’t get on without incurring the wrath of First Great Western and of the Great God of Railway Tickets, who is an angry god and afflicted with obsession-compulsive disorder, so lo, although we looked on longingly, we waited.

The train doors closed. The train sat. It sat a while longer. A man got off, pursued by the angry and, I should mention, invisible God of Railway Tickets.

“I got confused,” he said to the milling crowd.

He was not fined or penalized or beheaded, presumably because the wheels hadn’t yet turned.

I have no idea how he found out he was in the wrong train. Maybe he tried to claim his reserved seat and found someone else had a better claim.

A couple with tickets for the later but earlier train—that’s the 11:55 in case I’ve confused you as much as is appropriate to this tale—appeared but weren’t allowed to board because the doors had closed. The platform guard told them they were required to be on the train two minutes prior to departure.

They argued: They’d used the elevator that allows the disabled to cross the tracks, and it was slow.

It is slow. I’ve used it when my partner was recovering from ankle surgery.

“The doors close two minutes prior to departure,” the platform guard said.

The train started to roll, ending the argument. They now had two useless tickets. They could return them for a refund, minus a booking fee, but they couldn’t use their tickets on our earlier but later train because they weren’t for that train. They either had to go home and forget the whole thing or buy two outrageously expensive last-minute tickets.

Thank god privatization freed us from the stranglehold of bureaucracy.

I don’t know what they did because I headed for the café, where I bought a cup of tea to take on board, because the café on the platform gives you a full cup but if you buy it on board a full cup is too dangerous—you get about three-quarters.

Don’t ask.

I passed a man whose tee-shirt said, “Forever Delayed.” I figured him for a regular rider.

Our train pulled in. My seat was in the last row, just in front of the train manager’s compartment, so I got to eavesdrop on the conversation when a woman knocked on the door and asked if he’d sign her ticket so it would be accepted on a later connecting train.

He did. What would happen, I wondered, to all the people who hadn’t ask him to do that? Maybe, knowing a train was delayed, the train managers would be kind. And maybe not. Maybe since the system is now broken up, they wouldn’t know that a train run by another company was delayed.

Two women ahead of me began a cross-aisle conversation about whether one of them would get to Gatwick in time to catch her flight. She was Spanish-speaking, and I got into the conversation half to help out and half for the pleasure of speaking Spanish. Her connection was tight and she was worried.

I knocked on the train manager’s door, and he talked her through the two trains she could catch—one direct but later, the other a involving a transfer but earlier. He recommended the later, easier train, but she was too worried about her flight to take the risk. We discussed platforms and staircases and the name of the stop where she had to change trains, all in a mixture of English and Spanish.

Mercifully, we the gaps in our vocabularies didn’t match.

Although she lived in Spain, she was from Colombia and her Spanish was as beautiful and easy to follow as any I’ve heard. She was also extremely tense. If she missed her flight, her ticket would turn to ash.

The train manager printed out two bits of paper that looked like cash register receipts, detailing her route. I asked if he needed to sign her ticket and he said no.

I didn’t ask if he really needed to sign the last woman’s.

After the Colombian woman left the train, I got into a conversation with the man in the seat next to me. He lives in Plymouth and his wife travels to London for two days each week. He’d become a ticket geek, he told me. The cheap tickets are released twelve weeks ahead of time, so he’s up early on Saturdays to buy one before they sell out. We’d both read that it’s sometimes possible to lower the cost of a trip by booking separate tickets on a single train—Exeter to Reading, say, and then Reading to London, all without getting off the train. He’d never gone that far. It’s a system that begs you to make mistakes. I’d end up putting myself on different trains, or on the same train on different days.

“Choice,” he said, shaking his head.

It is indeed a wonderful thing.