The miseries of house-hunting over for the week, we rewarded ourselves with a steam train ride.

I've talked about my infatuation with the Isle of Man's steam railway already on this blog, and I don't want to repeat myself.

But the tangle of emotions involved in railway-riding is still very powerful (and more confusing than ever this year somehow, as the house-hunting fiasco weighs on me). It's a mixture of child-like joy in the whole, wonderful, chuffy experience; of awe at the beautifully preserved little powerhouse that pulls our vintage carriages (the Loch, our engine for the day, is an extraordinary 151 years old, having been delivered in August 1874); and of sadness that childhood is long gone, and my mum (the companion of my earliest steam train rides) is long dead.

Let's move on to the pictures:















Having posted a couple of these pictures on Facebook, I received from my cousin a photo of my mum and his mum, standing with a couple of their friends in front of a steam engine. Another little poignant moment: