I’ve always been a bit of a closet train spotter. Growing up in Ealing, I was always dragging one of my siblings down to the Broadway to watch the Express trains thundering through on their respective journeys. Maybe it was the sizzle of the tracks as the train approached or the explosion of colour as the brightly painted diesel engines, belching smoke, emerged from the tunnel, hauling their clattering carriages below me – it was a pastime I truly loved.

As a youth growing up in the late 70’s into the mid 80’s, before I got my first car, getting the Train was always a cheap and enjoyable option. There was nothing better than setting out on a long journey. Returning from Sheffield where I was a student at the Polytechnic with a can of Strong-bow and an insipid Ham sandwich (standard fare in those days) and wiling away the hours, gazing out of the window, as the country unfolded before me was worth every penny.

My parents had moved to Exeter in the early 80’s and I loved the trip West. As a family, when I was just a nipper, we often took the car train (which travelled at night) from Olympia to St Austell for holidays in Cornwall; it was so exciting. As a 20 year old, surfing with my head out of the window, taking in lung-fulls of diesel fumes and the tang of the country as we headed out of Taunton, towards Devon’s finest, I would get that same feeling – it was always a massive hit of nostalgia.

Many years later modernisation and privatisation changed the railways for the worst. No longer could you just turn up and  jump on a train because the price prohibited it and the romance of a journey disappeared. New rolling stock meant the slam doors disappeared meaning no more hanging out of the windows and the customary smell (not of overflowing toilets) but of an age gone by, started to disappear.

Although I still had my moments with my son Connor, watching high speed trains carer pass, just feet away beside the Exe estuary or further down the line at Dawlish, the onset of Multiple Sclerosis and it’s progression towards a wheelchair meant travelling by train lost its appeal, largely due to the problems disability incurs.

Peace of mind for a stress free journey – every one takes military planning, and financial savings, resulted in rail journeys becoming a rare event. I’d reminisce  watching the news of the Flying Scotsman’s return to Edinburgh and joked with my wife Julie about my hidden secret.

Since we met 12 years ago, we’ve made it our mission to get on with life as you only get one hit at it. This has resulted in a good few holidays in the sun, some quite exotic – the perfect tonic. However, 3 years ago, we inherited a West Highland terrier called Lo-lo, whose owner Val had passed.

Although we’ve got Julie’s parents as dog sitters if required, we’ve changed our holiday habits and have started to stay more in the UK – delving out disabled/dog friendly accommodation.

It’s difficult to find somewhere perfect, with the bonus of good weather. However a recent stay in West Somerset came pretty close. Julie had found a cosy self contained accessible 2 bedroom bungalow with a lovely enclosed garden, over looking Blue Anchor Bay. It offered dramatic views of the Severn Estuary and the distant hills of Wales beyond.

Dotted with quaint little villages and rolling countryside, dominated by nearby Exmoor and The Quantocks, West Somerset kept us busy. We found some good accessible walks notably the Wetlands Trust near Hinckley point and encountered a man playing bagpipes (badly) in Watchet, which had everyone reaching for their ear plugs.

The jewel in the crown though, was at the bottom of the garden. I’d happily idle away, my ears cocked for the sound of a whistle, gazing 150 yards below to The West Somerset railway line. Part run by a charitable trust and covering less than 23 miles, it operates a service using heritage steam and diesel trains. I thought I’d died and gone to heaven as I watched those beasts of old, trundling back and forth, taking me back to my childhood.

We waited a few days before I couldn’t take it anymore dragging Julie down to nearby Mine-head to board the 12:30pm to Bishops Lydiard. The Trust are well geared up for the disabled and one carriage on each train was adapted for wheelchairs. It made for the experience, as we entered a time warp of old signal boxes, retro advertising and stations with everything but the fat controller.

Returning to Mine-head later after a refreshing beer in Bishops Lydiard, the train pulled into Williton and that was when the de-ja vu really started to kick in. In the stations immaculate sidings, stood the ‘Western Campaigner’ in its dark red livery. A class 52 diesel it had actually pulled our car train to St Austell all those years ago.

It made my day, thinking of my Dad standing on the platform at Olympia waiting for the final moment to board the train, before the hell of 3 excited kids and 10 hours on a train to Cornwall. Travelling then was a different class and the West Somerset railway replicates it well. You don’t have to be an old anorak like me to enjoy its enchanting magic – just sit back, stop, look, listen and breathe in that nostalgia.