The fields on either side of the line gave way to retaining walls. But would people rather abandon their island, frozen in time for so long, or modernise it, removing all the endearing quaint qualities that people on the mainland loved and were jealous of? Something else had to be at work. Even if Sodor went to the UK government, appealing for rights to be their own sovereign region or nation, there were no guarantees their case would be successful. All coal alternatives, wood pellets and the like, wouldn't have been voluminous enough, or efficient enough, to uphold a network of this size.
The phasing out of the household coal market in the UK impacted heritage railways, but Sodor's rail network relied on coal, and to a lesser extent diesel. I walked on, mulling over what was likely the case. If anyone remained, it would be there, and they could help fill me in on what exactly happened here after the planet succumbed to climate change. I aimed to hunker down there for the night, to scrounge around and get a feel for the state of the Island. It was about three kilometres by rail, easily walkable. Following the tracks would lead me to the biggest station on the island: Vicarstown. I pulled out my map, figuring I was on the far east point of the main line. Maybe it was real, or my mind was filling in the blanks with what I expected or hoped to find. An industrial, burnt aroma lingered all these decades later. My curiosity fully awakened, and my senses heightened in ways new to me. Nature had certainly found a home on the island.Įdging round the counterweights, my feet planted onto Sodor soil for the first time. Weeds, blown in from the sea breeze, had sprouted in nooks and crannies I wouldn't otherwise have noticed.
The bridge still felt solid, so I pressed on. They scratched under my sole with a noise that itched my nerves like a rash. My first step onto the bridge loosened flakes of rust. I had no clue what was waiting for me on the island. I walked towards the bridge, eighty litre backpack on my shoulders, the weight shifting as I traversed the uneven rocky road. Ballast scraped, shifting with each step I took, the first time it had moved for who knows how long.
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