Barry the Wet Island.

Barry The Wet Island.
Barry Island, so beautifully kiss me quick, but still showing the trappings of a rich Victorian port on the edge of the South Wales coal field. Only the dog walkers test the fine sand today, empty cafes and windy arcades of the glittering kind wont tempt the hibernating day tripper. Wet upon wet, stinging rain blowing in the blisteringly cold wind, 
Barry has had a huge transformation since the heady days of the 50s and 60. Rail enthusiasts will know all about Barry, Dai Woodhams , sidings full of rusting childhhood memories, and the Dock, vibrant and noisy. The sandy beach - not another soul will fit even in the smallest of corners, its the annual holiday for the pit men. Train after train arriving form the Valleys, children wide eyed, where do I look first, the sea or the Fairground.? The distant tannoy, "Can Mr and Mrs lost child please collect their child from the lost child office next to the promenade toilets."
The massive scenic railway  towering above all else , its brown cladding wearing away slowly over the decades, until it was no more. seen the moment you enter the town or crawl slowly over the causeway. crammed into an antique railway coach with no toilets.
It was a natural progression, the beach, fish and chips, watch the shipping as it waits patiently in Barry roads for the pilot men, to escort them into Cardiff Bristol or Newport. And then the fairground. No matter how full the stomach the sweet decadent aroma of candy floss, burgers and hot dogs, drenched in American  mustard and onions charred and unctuous, awaited the child , who clutched their copper coins.
Gosh, should it be the miniature roundabout? No that's for babies so what about the Ghost Train. So scary the spider webs brushing over the cheek bones and the skeletons and vampires. The screams and the low moaning of the spirits, do I really want to go into that dark place that without my big brother or sister. It must be scary , look at those courting couples their faces are very red.!
The slow trek began back to the B&B, to Butlins on the hill and to the station. The Western Welsh omnibuses and coaches warmed their engines, while thirst men broke out the brown ale for the trip home. The smell of steam crossed over the promenade and freshly prepared locomotives backed down off Barry sheds. To Ebbw Vale, to Tredegar to all points north of the flat lands. The heavier locos took the trippers back to the midlands, while we, sun touched and nauseous crammed in another candy cane donated from the corner shop for our annual street outing to Barry Island, 

Today the trippers sup tea from their thermos flasks wrapped safely in heated saloon automobiles, only the brave and dog walkers brace the freezing rain.

This year I shall make models that reflect the seasons, the summer rain, the autumnal frosts and the heat of high summer.