The train park

An essay about memory, place and a wee wooden train. Emphasis on wee.

The local park from my childhood was called The Train Park, and I had a number of grievances with it. Top of the list was the use of the word 'park', which felt generous, considering it wasn't a park.

To my young mind, parks looked a certain way. They were mostly green spaces, soft underfoot and unforgiving if you were to hit the ground. Which, when you're a kid playing in a park, tends to be most activities. Certainly the fun ones. If you weren’t hitting the deck every minute or so, what were you even doing?

Technically there was grass, but it was thin and wispy like a case of male pattern baldness, and thus barely qualified. Let's just say you could see through to the scalp, and the scalp was a patchy mix of orange gravel, brown dirt and assorted leaf litter. Large rocks sat in random piles as if someone had tried to tidy up and then forgotten about it. Tall scruffy trees stood around awkwardly, appearing not to know where they should be or what they were meant to be doing. The trees at least made the park feel somewhat leafy, but in an Australian bush kind of way, and overall, its rough and unkempt aesthetic didn't fit my narrow view of what a park should look like.

What it was, mostly, was an unremarkable open space that had a life-sized, wooden train on it. At least it had the ‘train’ part of the name right; no arguments there. But of course, 'unremarkable open space' doesn't roll off the tongue like 'park' does.

The key feature of the park - and what was doing the heavy lifting (or heavy towing rather) - was of course, the train; and I was not a fan of this either. Its first mistake being that it didn’t look like other standard playgrounds. And you might think a wooden train playground sounds quite idyllic, and if you were a kid with a big imagination, part of the deal was to create your own fun anyway. But perhaps one of the key reasons I found it hard to let my childlike wonder run free was because the train constantly stunk of piss. Probably, I imagine, from all the pissing that had been done inside of it. And after all the drinking that had also been done; cans littering the front part of the train, where typically the coal would have been shovelled into. This particular train instead being fuelled by cans, bottles and urine. And whilst I don't distinctly remember any graffiti, I'm sure it was there too. Public urination, drinking and graffiti - all part of the holy trinity of delinquent park activity.

I've since been on plenty of trains and hung around enough train stations in my life for this to feel par for the course. Cans, bottles and public urination can sometimes feel like an authentic train experience, not all train stations mind you, but perhaps at a young age, in order to preserve my childlike wonder, I wanted my train playground a bit more sanitised. In more ways than one.

Once you'd stepped off the piss train to nowhere, there wasn't a whole lot else. A small red handcar sat nearby, keeping its distance. Perhaps hoping to avoid getting dragged into the seedy park activities. It being a historical artifact, along with an old train signal pole, leftover from the fact that the train park was once the site of a real station. An area of importance and history; a connecting hub that made it easier for timber to be transported into the city, which transformed the prosperity of the area. To me though, at the time, it was just a bunch of old junk in an unremarkable open space that didn't look like any parks I'd seen anywhere else.

And I certainly never expected that the woman I would fall in love with and one day be married to, might also have been playing in the train park at the same time as I was. Not begrudgingly either, but in fact having a wildly different experience to me.

While I was totting up my list of grievances with the train park, KB on the other hand, was loving it. To her, growing up outside of the city in a remote area, visiting the outer suburban train park was wondrous, and conjures up happy memories. Of staying with grandparents, playing in the creek - all of which bordered the park - and also playing on the train. This is where our memories and experiences differ entirely. Occasionally, I'll gently tease her about what this might say about playground facilities in her small hometown, but actually it only serves to highlight what an ungrateful little punk I was.

I find it hard to imagine that at one point in the past, we might both have been there at the same time. Our paths crossing without knowing. Like two trains cruising by on separate tracks, veering off in different directions. Being so close, and then so far away. And many years would pass, decades even, before we would eventually come back together again.

It's Autumn of 2023, and it's my favourite time to be up this way. Up in the hills. And KB and I are back in the train park, carriages hitched together this time.

Everything is fresher and cooler, and smells better. It's the kind of place that can be difficult to love in summer, partly because summer is so long. After a while you wish someone would turn the lights down, because it's too bright, too washed out, and everyone's faces are lit up like criminals in an interrogation. Then Autumn finally comes around and puts some mood lighting on, the colour returns and everyone can have a breather.

Things look different these days. Time brings that about regardless. And over the years since we were both here as kids, the park has had some work done.

For starters, apparently the park is called Morgan John Morgan Reserve. Maybe it was always called this? The locals have always called it the train park though, this much I know. But either way, it feels a bit like being invited to a party with an old friend, and you turn up and they have all their new university and/or city friends there and they say to you 'Oh how do you know Morgan?' And you bristle slightly and say 'Morgan? You mean, Morgs? Morgsy? Captain Pisspants?'

And that's when you start to notice ol' Morgsy has changed a fair bit.

The big news is there is proper grass these days. Real grass. The entire park is a long rectangle shape and at either end, there are two small sections, two lush green toupés grafted into place amongst the natural ground covering. It's the grass I always wanted, and I have to say, it looks smart, albeit slightly jarring.

There is terracotta coloured gravel that has been mixed into the natural colour, providing the tracks running through the park with a bit of a sharpen up. A touch of fake tan that gives it just a wee glow. There are BBQs with undercover picnic tables, a basketball court and a huge climbing frame. And a brand new playground, made of steel, with multiple carriages (non-industrial, mostly carrying sandpits for children to play in) all being towed by a shiny, clean, steel train.

People gather here now for parties and picnics, and parents bring their kids down to play, and sometimes there are events with food trucks and live music. Back in the day, if there were more than 10 people in the park, it would have caused suspicion.

It's all quite the transformation.

Today, as we walk through it, the park is foggy and damp, and the trees lean over, resting in the early morning. It’s April 2023, and in a week we will be setting off overseas, so we're both soaking it all up.

As we follow the main walking track, I notice something glowing up ahead slightly beyond the train, and my own foggy brain struggles to piece together what I'm looking at. Until we eventually get closer and I see a giant TV screen sitting on top of a pole amongst the tall trees. In the low light, the extreme brightness of the screen - about the standard size for a family room these days - is completely dominating. Advertisements flick through showing information about local events and general notices. Everything around it, the beautiful surroundings, disappear, and it's all I can see or focus on. Like someone has pulled out their phone in a dark movie theatre.

And I cannot believe what I'm seeing. I'm snapped out of my relaxed state and start ranting about the sign, including everyone involved or even mildly associated in its installation, and then onto humanity as a whole. Then finally, myself. Because I didn't appreciate what I had until it was gone.

We can spend years wishing for something to be a certain way, only to realise our great mistake when we finally get it. How it was, was fine. Perhaps even perfect.

By trying to fit everything in the same box, we end up with homogeny and then find ourselves bored with all the sameness.

Looking back at old photos of the train park recently, I'm surprised to see more grass than I remember. And the train looks more quaint and charming than I remember too. It occurs to me that this might be what KB saw, and what I wasn't able to. And so I'm left with these conflicted memories. The felt experience, the smell - my God the smell - and now the melancholy of seeing these photos.

Left: My brother centre, and me on the very right of frame literally running away from the train (at least I remembered that part right). Right: Dad, my brother, Me and Mum (with my youngest brother yet to arrive) posing in front of a pile of rocks that someone forgot to tidy up.

It is, of course, partly the trick of time. What was once undesirable and rough around the edges becomes charming with age. Sure, ol’ Morgsy was scruffy and had a pong about him, but what glorious days they were. Take me back there, back when life was simple!

That's not quite where I'm at, but I suppose you can find yourself stuck in the middle. Not wanting to go back, but also feeling melancholic for how things were, and lamenting all that has changed. And perhaps all of it is just the weight of time. Feeling the loss of all that has come and gone.

Thoughts like these can sit like a knot in a muscle. Sometimes there is no great revelation, just a slow coming to terms. A gentle pressing over time until something shifts inside of you, and the thought breaks down.

Nothing stays the same and change happens regardless. This is not a profound insight, but it's the gentle pressing away of this thought and others over the past few years that has helped. And the eventual understanding that, whether that change is for better or worse - that either is tinged with sadness. And it's this that I find comfort in. It frees me up to let go and just see things as they are, here and now. To be here now.

And that starts to feel like a way forward.

And yet..

..you try to be in the here and now but it's hard because someone thought it was a good idea to install a giant TV screen in the middle of nature, and how could that be ok? Like, can we just have nature be nature? Is anyone walking through a forest and thinking 'God, I really want to know what local events are coming up this weekend, and I desperately need to know now, and for that information to be blasted at me at canopy level'.

Yes, I've been known to slag off the park and I have a lot of grievances about it, but also, it's my park. And how dare you do that to poor ol’ Morgsy. And actually while I'm at it: ‘Morgsy, have some self-respect would you? I've been sitting here quietly in the corner sipping a drink watching you carry on with your uni friends with that fake laugh, and it's pathetic actually. Ok. Really, have a look at yourself.’

'Yes, I am going to go outside and have a breather, actually. Also, I'm sorry for my rant. I regret it immediately. I just get very protective.'

Almost every big move and life change for me has somehow or other occurred in May, with one deviation in April, when May happened to be booked up at the time. It's as if, somewhere along the way, a long term arrangement was made with the calendar that all major life events be conducted in Autumn.

And so as per the arrangement, KB and I are currently gearing up for another move this coming May. And so it feels fitting to be back up in the hills, and yet again, walking through the train park.

KB and I equally enjoy the train park these days, even more so for me because of something I discovered the other day, when I happened to be driving past and I looked over and noticed I couldn't see the giant screen.

I'd slowed down so I could properly scan the area, and searched through the trees to check if it might have been obscured. Surely I'm just not seeing it. Surely not.

It wasn't obscured though. I couldn't believe it. They removed it. They actually removed it. There is common sense after all! It was a huge relief. And despite how small and insignificant a moment it was in the context of everything else in the world, I felt like some of my faith had been restored in humanity.

I knew you had it in you Morgsy, you ol’ bastard. You really had me going for a minute there!

Without realising it, the train park of all places has somehow ended up being a permanent fixture in my life. A constant across many years. A place I've returned to on my own, and then together with KB. Each of us bringing our own memories, and then forging new ones. Especially on the walks we've been on that bring us back here, and so the shared history that we have with this place makes it feel extra special. We still sometimes wonder if we might have crossed paths without knowing it. KB aboard the train or playing in the sandpit, while another child sulked nearby, wanting to leave.

And now it feels fitting that we are setting off again on a new adventure. From the station at the train park.

That's the thing about trains, I'm not sure if you were aware, is that unless you are at the last stop - and I hope I'm not - they famously move forward as well. There are the places you've been and all that has come and gone, but there is still more to come. But mostly there is now. Lots of now. And what a great station to stop at and enjoy the waiting. It comes quite easily to me now to say that the train park really is a beautiful park. It is a unique, special place and I am grateful for it.

Left: the train today. Pretty schmick, and not a can or bottle in sight. Right: the main walk track into the train park on an Autumn morning. How beautiful, right?

And so, as KB and I approach the train, and wanting to mark the occasion, I consider climbing aboard, popping open a can and hoisting it out the open window; a spirited 'cheers' to the park. And then, signing off in the only way that feels fitting, by urinating all over the train. Just like the good ol’ days¹.

But I don't want to embarrass Morgan in front of his new friends. Or myself. And so I just give a nod as we go past.

And we pull away from the station. Off again once more, until we can return again soon.

Hi, I hope you enjoyed that. It was quite a deep dive for me that one, and a topic close to my heart. If it connected with you in some way, I would love it if you could give it a like or a share. And if you’re not a subscriber, pop yourself aboard the Life Crumbs train.

A reminder as well, my calendar is still open for the next few weeks for anyone who wants to book a quick call with me to say hi and have a chat. I’m looking forward to catching up with those of you that have booked in already. And a quick shoutout to Alan who I caught up with earlier - it was lovely to meet you and thanks for the great chat!

Finally, let me know in the comments what you thought of the post. Whether it struck a chord, or felt relatable. Maybe you work in the public transport sector and strongly disagree with the baseless claims about trains and public urination. All discussions welcome.

1. Just to be clear, I never urinated on the train. A sentence I never imagined I might have to write one day.