The Flying Scotsman

Big Ben strikes ten, depart Kings Cross. Squeal of tight wheel, where lines criss-cross. Clickety-clack. Clickety clack. Now heading north-bound on fast track. Leave city sprawl in grey and grime for now we're on East Coast mainline in rural space, expanse of green, where all around, countryside scene. My window view is flashing by, too fast for focus of my eye. Field after field, farming landscape. Golden barley, bright yellow rape. Wood with coppice, hedge and hawthorn. Few grazing sheep looking forlorn. On steep hillside, deserted farm, red-brick decay falling down barn. Whistle warning, speed through stations, each one gone in just two seconds. Now reach Yorkshire where engine built. Accelerating to full tilt. Non-stop on straight, all clear ahead. And now we hit the full hundred. Still at top speed and close to coast. Through industry, of the North East. Now parallel to Roman road, to Edinburgh with full payload. We're nearly there and right on time. Now slowing down for station line. Clickety-clack. Clickety-clack. Over the points to platform track. Arrive on time in the city, the clock showing just six thirty.