A Hazy Summer Sunday at Catcott Crossing

Here we are back in the olden days on a hazy summer Sunday deep in the Somerset Levels at Catcott railway crossing.Mavis the crossing keeper wandered off a short while ago to inspect a suspiciously enormous marrow, leaving the gates half-shut and the kettle boiling itself into a fury indoors.Her husband, Arthritic Arthur, meanwhile, is convinced he’s seen a Highbridge-bound train made entirely of custard drift past earlier that morning, though this may well be connected to the moonshine-laced cider served at the church fête the evening before.Bees zigzag lazily through the foxgloves, the telegraph wires hum like sleepy banjos in the heat, and somewhere beyond the trees a brass band plays a version of “Greensleeves” that sounds as if every musician has learned it from a different dream.Nobody is in a hurry. Even the clouds seem to be loafing about.And if you wait quietly by the gate long enough, the locals say you might just spot the legendary Catcott Bog Express — a secret Sunday…