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 Here is my review of what, twelve months ago, I was not-so-quietly hoping would turn out to be ‘my year’.
I suppose we all were thinking the same, as we always do, but for me especially 2009 had the potential to go only one way or the other.
I had recently changed jobs - a move which one of my then-colleagues ungenerously described as taking my career “the wrong way up the M4”- and for the privilege, had relocated my entire life 250 miles to the West in 47 stack-a-jack boxes and a Volkswagen Beetle. I had no friends or family living in Devon, and no guarantee from the BBC that my contract would last beyond six months. For the love of the West and the sheer hope of opportunity, I had taken something of an unusual risk.
All this, if only to justify the whole experience before I returned to my senses, called for nothing less than a memorable and significant year.
And so it has been. A four month dose of phototherapy at Paignton Hospital; a hard fought battle with Plymouth City Council over parking allocations (two-hundred-odd spaces for over one thousand permit holders – worth a fight); and a contract-race to win, or rather lose, the perfect house: mere threads in my great big 2009 tapestry, one of the richer and, yes, more unusual, I’ve sewn.
But certainly one of the better ones, too. Here are some highlights…
2009 was welcomed in traditional Sheppard style with 1540, our Bristol Lodekka, in action at the Winchester running day on 1st January, this year with more than just the customary gricers on board. Here are the Red Runners aboard a special journey to a mystery location (Hockley viaduct, we can now reveal), where we’d drop them and expect them to run home. Some of them may still be going…
 Back home in Plymouth, January saw the return of the Sheppard home-brewing plant, with new equipment supplied by the Hop Shop in Mutley. The first brew was started on Burns Night, and after weeks in the electricity cupboard downstairs, yielded in time for guests in March. 2010 visitors should brace themselves for a batch of Coopers (Australian) Mild which I’ll begin shortly.
February saw parts of the West hit by the worst snow it had seen for decades. An odd thing about Devon is that when one part takes a battering, a neighbouring village may be fine. Consequently, while hundreds of motorists found themselves stranded on the A38, I was without trouble in Plymouth. Radio Devon had a duty to perform, and our coverage of the inclements went on to win us Gold for “Breaking News” at the BBC’s Frank Gillard Awards in October. I’m pleased to have played a part.
The early months of 2009 were not to be a good time for health, it turned out. After a seemingly harmless sore throat, my entire body turned red and erupted into the worst outbreak of psoriasis my Doctor had ever seen. It turns out I had a rare infection of the streptococcus (not quite what it sounds), and the response of my immune system was to fight everything, especially my own skin. In a way I was lucky – it can often turn into pneumonia – but cosmetically it was a bit of a challenge to overcome. I was rushed onto a course of phototherapy – effectively sitting in a UV light box for just a few seconds each day – and gradually, quite miraculously, returned to health. I’m very proud that through all this, I didn’t miss a day of work, even though I was travelling 50 miles for daily treatment and had never looked worse; a perk of radio, perhaps.
Recovery was timely, and thus I was the only presenter sporting a tan in time for BBC South West’s publicity photos in April…
 Part of the motive for moving West was to do some exploring, and every spare minute in 2009 has been spent on a bus or train to somewhere. Jaunts to West Cornwall have been numerous, as have those to North Devon, as well as parts of Somerset and West Dorset: there are few towns west of Bristol I haven’t yet conquered, at least enough to know the local buses and the name of a good pub. A regular mini-jolly has been a trip over to Cornwall on the 81, which involves a ride on my now beloved Torpoint Ferry. Most evenings in the Spring were spent chasing Torpoint depot’s three Leyland Olympians across land and water…
And so it came as a bit of a boon in May, when I was asked to produce and present a documentary on Devon’s railways. I travelled most of the current network – recording pieces in Exmouth, Barnstaple, Bere Alston, and at the 150th Anniversary celebrations of the Royal Albert Bridge in Saltash – and covered many lost lines, too. A dubious highlight was wading through the muddy back-lot of a housing estate in remote Halwill Junction, looking for the only remains of what was once the Clapham Junction of the South West. I cycled along the route between Bideford and Barnstaple, and stood on the footbridge of the long closed Seaton Junction station, pickled in time.
Perhaps best of all, I indulged my fascination for the long-lost Lynton & Barnstaple railway, closed in 1936, not just with a ride along the revived section at Woody Bay, but with an impromptu guided-tour of the entire remains of the route by a driver of the 310 bus.
“I know what you’re looking for”, he said, beckoning me to the front.
“On Track” was finished off overnight during one of those accidental 48-hour shifts, and went out on the weekend of the Devon County Show, prompting (to this day) a bombardment of requests for a repeat. So far, the BBC has resisted.
 June saw something of an unusual purchase by my standards, not least because it has no wheels and its connections to transport are few. For weeks, the art gallery across the road had been sporting a marvellous painting of Plymouth Sound, the stretch of coastline which is just a few seconds from my front door. On closer inspection, it was more reasonably priced than I’d expected (what do I know about art?), and I eventually made the move. I explained to the artist responsible that I’d had enough of seeing it from my front room window everyday, and he immediately offered a discount because I was “obviously a local”. At last, the ultimate gesture of Devonian acceptance, even if it was from a Yorkshireman.
Sarah Walker - my very good friend and Radio Berkshire soul mate (cell mate?) of old – became Sarah White in July, in a ceremony that had us all reaching for the tissues…
…and the glasses, as you’ll see from this shot in the grounds of Aldermaston Manor (unlikely to be confused with the nearby Atomic Weapons Establishment). It was a wonderful weekend, and a chance to catch up with people I’ve missed over the past year. Must get better at visiting in 2010.
July also saw the annual bus rally on Plymouth Hoe, again just seconds from my door, this year celebrating the 80th anniversary of the formation of Western and Southern National. The day was one of the wettest I can remember, and required several costume changes… but made for some nice atmospheric shots in the rain.
Bring on sunshine for the annual trip to the Edinburgh Fringe in August, where I joined Bryony Ryan and her parents (from New Brighton Lighthouse) for culture, food and drink in reverse order. Here they are, between performances, visiting the Commissioner of Northern Lighthouses to settle the small matter of some erroneous expenses claims…
Among the highlights were Alastair McGowen in “Cocktails with Coward”; “Almost 10”, a touching monologue about being a child; my friend Chris Cox, the mindreader who can’t read minds; but ultimately the lasting favourite of the group was the weighty and thought provoking performance of the Scottish Falsetto Sock Puppet Theatre Group...
By contrast, August also found me up to my knees in mud and oil, rescuing lumps of buses from a scrapyard in Gunnislake. Having heard that some of the final Cornish Olympians were awaiting their fate at Henry Flashman’s yard, I phoned Mr Flashman himself to try and secure some trinkets. After several hilarious conversations (Flashman’s broad Cornish accent, coupled with his sheer amazement that anybody should want number plates from a bus, made for understated comedy), I was invited to go up and collect “what was left” of his latest victims. Once again, I encountered that nerve-wracking question of where to park one’s car when visiting a scrapyard…
 September arrived, and I realised that although I’d spent much of the year admiring beaches from a passing window, I’d not really sat on one for long. Such was my excuse for a whole hour spent (between buses, naturally) in picturesque Sennen Cove, about a mile from Lands End. It turned out to be an ideal day for rolling around on both the beach and First’s open-top Volvos…
Speaking of beer, as the reading matter clearly was, September conveniently combined a trip home with the Headington Beer Festival, just outside Oxford. Hosted in the back room of The Mason’s Arms – a seemingly small pub which brews some fine beer of its own – there were literally hundreds more than we’d expected. Fortunately, Guy, Laura, Tim and I were up the task.
The undisputed highlight of my autumn was the Kingsbridge Running Day. Using all the right buses on all the right routes, a 1960s timetable was recreated in surroundings which are largely unchanged, at least in character; the closest I’ll ever get to being in all the photographs I collect. Star of the show was Colin Billington’s Bristol H, newly finished (just!) for the day, a bus I remember when it first turned up as a derelict husk. I was honoured to be among the specially invited guests on its first run, to South Pool…
Though not quite as old as the H, David Sheppard senior celebrated ‘a special year’ in October; co-incidentally, that month also marked twenty years since we collected our Lodekka from a dealer in Kent, the first free bus ride I’d ever had. Henceforth, all Mr Sheppard’s bus travel will be free of charge…
I came of age myself in November, and the house which was to be my gift to myself (though really from the Bank) didn’t quite materialise, ending instead in a race to sign contracts – which I lost. After all the hassle, I’ve decided to wait until the New Year is warm before I even think about speaking to an estate agent again.
November did bring some cheer. After years of this-and-that, I’ve finally been offered a daily radio show (yes, daylight!) by the BBC, a long-awaited sign that I might have been doing something right these past few years. I say finally… at twenty-eight, I’ll actually be among the youngest on the books, but when it’s something you’ve wanted so much for so long, it can’t come soon enough. I’m humbled, delighted and very, very grateful for the opportunity. More news on that in the next few days…
And so to December, the fag end of which is mustering its final embers as we speak. Personally, I’m too exhausted for even one last draw. In a month which has seen me doing (effectively) three people’s jobs, time and patience wore thin in the run up to Christmas – hence the lack of cards this year. (Thanks for yours, though.)
There was some sadness, too. December 18th was the day I’d been dreading for years, the day the bits between the music died: the final “Wake Up to Wogan”. As Ken Bruce so masterfully put it, we’ll never see his like again. Indeed it was like saying goodbye to a friend, a man whose mornings I’m proud to have shared for seventeen years, and the inspiration for what I decided to do with my life. It truly was the end of life as I knew it.
Ironically a day later, I was saying goodbye to my own small band of loyal listeners, as my final Saturday late show drew to a close. As I told them, I’ll miss their camaraderie on a Saturday night, that close-knit band sprawled across the most enormous territory from Swindon to Penzance and the Channel Islands, some of whom haven’t missed a show. That’s the wonderful thing about late night radio, and the reason it’s my favourite time to be on: they may be fewer, but the people actually listen. But onward, and the great opportunity of daylight beckons - I’m really looking forward to what one listener termed ‘my promotion to the premier league’.
Earlier in December I managed to join the ‘raiding’ party at the recently closed St Austell bus depot (one of my favourites), where we managed to recover some useful tools in our quest to keep old buses alive and well. Ah, yes – saving buses. Now here’s a thing… Meet 420, the defining thing of 2009 for me.
They say you should never buy yourself something before Christmas, in case Santa has the same idea. On the basis that there aren’t that many SU coaches left in the world for him to find (there were only 38 of them built, and the Sheppard family already owns one of them), I thought I’d make an exception.
That’s a rather coy way of explaining what is, without doubt, the most significant and proud solo-purchase of my life. I’ve always known that the first bus (actually, coach) I would own myself would be an SU, and given that when I started collecting photographs of them as a boy of eleven, a shot of 420 was the first one I bought, it’s rather fitting this should be the one. Of all the SU coaches, this one has perhaps the most colourful history – it was the only one to operate for Devon General, in poppy red and white, and it also moved around the depots more than most: Kingsbridge, Plymouth, Taunton, Trowbridge, Exeter, Newton Abbott, Weymouth…
 First thing’s first, I’ll need to sort out an MoT in the New Year. And then I’ll need to learn to drive it, crash gearbox an’all. I’ve enjoyed some trial runs up and down the (private) lane where it’s kept, and I think I may be winning. Then, a few cosmetic jobs, a full repaint (by hand), and I hope we should get to a good many rallies in the West Country this year. All gradual stuff, as and when I can afford it; I’m counting on the homebrew to save a few quid…
 So it seems to be paying off then, this ‘risk’. My eschewing of London’s lights and gamble with the westbound carriageway has, after one year, made my life a richer thing, more contended and not at the expense of my career – quite the opposite, I hope. So whilst 2009 probably did turn out to be ‘my year’, thank Gould, I reckon it might have set some foundations for a pretty decent 2010 and beyond.
I really hope yours was good, too. To you, my pals, Happy New Year. |
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