Former Mayo station manager recalls 'the darkest days' in Irish rail history

By Noel Hoban

Lest anyone run away with the ridiculous notion that I am trying to scare the bejaysus out of rail users, I want to point out that the truth is the exact opposite.

Iarnrod Eireann have a first-class track safety record far outweighing their counterparts in Britain and across the world.

This is due to intensive staff training, increased government and EU funding, coupled with learning from disasters in every corner of the world. It's incredible that seventy percent of railway deaths occurred between 1980 - 1983.

And in the intervening forty-plus years, there have been none. This is testament to the safety and planning by rail chiefs and ground staff, aided by excellent funding and working conditions.

However, lest we ever forget those who lost their lives through hair-shirt funding and human error bungling. Complacency is the key to disaster, and it's in remembering those less fortunate that we drive on to even headier heights in the future.

This is why we must never lose sight of “the darkest days”

BUTTEVANT

On 1st August 1980, when the Dublin to Cork Bank Holiday Express departed Heuston, life was oh so different back then. For a start, we had no silly yellow, orange, or red weather warnings to spoil the holiday fever.

There were no iPods, iPads, earpieces, or laptops. Just the Irish Press, Independent, and The Times for the toffs. For those blessed with an abundance of testosterone, there was always The Sun or Daily Sport to titillate the appetite.

And antisocial behaviour was likely to be the name of a horse in the 3.45 at Hexham.

The train itself was a twelve-piece hauled by loco 075, part of the 071 class, weighing 100 tons and manufactured in La Grange, Illinois, in 1976.

The two coaches behind the loco were timber, followed by nine alloy steel cravens. This format was to prove pivotal further down the line.

Departing at 10 a.m., the mood would be high on this very special holiday weekend in the calendar.

Passengers included visitors from Britain, Texas, and Philadelphia, along with two nuns from the teaching staff at Gortnor Abbey, Sr De Lourdes O'Brien and Sr Stanislaus Kelleher.

In all, passenger numbers were approximately 230 as driver Bertie Walshe clocked up to 75 mph on the three-hour-plus trip to Cork. The train deposited some passengers at Charleville before heading forward to the homestretch to Cork.

Buttevant Station closed to passenger traffic in 1975 and was now a Block Post. By that, I mean the station still retained a signal cabin and sidings important for ballast loading and track maintenance.

All of the trains would pass through at speed, with just the exchange of the staff performed.

All was not well in Buttevant that day; a set of points loading into a siding where a laden ballast was parked had not yet been connected to the signal cabin. Operating by hand on the ground, they had no signal or locking bar protection.

It is not this author's brief to lay blame or shame on any person or persons, as enough pain and anguish was suffered on all sides.

A light engine had arrived from Mallow, and the points were set to let it into the siding, oblivious of the fact that the express train was approaching.

To err is to be human, and when the signalman, to his horror, saw the position of the points, he slammed the home signal in driver Walshe’s face despite the outer home being in the off position.

Bertie Walshe applied full break, but you cannot stop 400 tons of hurtling metal at that speed on the back of a sixpenny bit. It takes at least 700 meters for this to happen, and he did not have that.

The train careered into the siding, crashing into the wagons, creating a concertina effect, where the alloy steel coaches mounted and flattened the two timber ones up front.

Eighteen people died, and over 70 were injured on this, The Darkest Day.

Among the fatalities were our two esteemed reverend sisters from Gortnor Abbey in Crossmolina. Doctor Finbarr Kennedy, who was held at the gates, was first on the scene and heroically triaged the injuries from coach to coach.

A shaky driver, Walshe, climbed down bruised as he was, and protected the other four lines his train wreckage had fouled while the driver of the light engine reportedly shut down stricken loco 075.

A lone helicopter flying overhead, unusual for its time, landed nearby and made many trips with the seriously injured to hospital. Locals came out to help with food and sustenance for emergency teams. A strange thing that day was that the last coach stayed upright and customers' drinks were not even disturbed off tables.

For forty years up to 2020, a prayer candle service was held in Buttevant Church in memory of those that passed that day. Bertie Walshe, on his return to work, had his first task of driving an express train through Buttevant Station again.

A man of courage, dedication and true resilience. Something like this could never happen again. But could it?

CHERRYVILLE — TRALEE TO DUBLIN

If Agatha Christie had six months of sleepless nights, tearing every strand of her lush, wavy hair from her head, she would have found it still difficult to match the events of 21st August, 1983.

As driver Tom Collins hopped up on loco 079 on this dreary end of summer late afternoon, I’m sure any thoughts of Jarveys, leprechauns, loudspoken yanks, and balmy summer skies were all but a distant memory.

Setting off for Dublin with over 300 passengers, all seemed well until approaching Mill Street when 079 began to fail.

All train drivers possess great knowledge to coax the best out of engines at this time, and by shutting off “The Dead Man,” and other manoeuvres, he managed to try to get to Mallow, where he hoped a spare engine might stand.

The Dead Man is a safety device in all locos where a bell sounds every couple of minutes, and by which the driver responds by depressing a pedal. If this does not happen, the train comes to an immediate halt.

If this device is not working, a member of staff must travel with the driver and act as the Dead Man.

In this instance, checker James Looby acted as Dead Man from Mill Street to Mallow, where driver Collins encountered spare loco A-class 009, proudly standing in the siding. It took twenty minutes to hook up, and with Mr Looby returned to checker duties, driver Collins notched up 009 for the trip ahead.

As night fell and approaching Cherryville at the spot where the Waterford line joins the main, an advection fog had arisen from a boggy marshy area extending its murky veil over a wide area.

At all our training courses, the two enemies of rail travel were outlined as fog and falling snow. As the train rounded a sweeping curve on a decline, the usual loud rumble of an A-class motor became a gentle whisper and then nothing.

The loco had been ticking over idle for 32 hours in Mallow, and now the mine piece train was stuck in a precarious spot with the signal showing a green aspect as it was fouling the section.

The A-class in service since 1955 had an experimental phone that would not function that night. Driver Collins walked back to discuss with the train guard, and in the dark/mire/fog, set out to find a line-side phone.

That too was not functioning in the degraded conditions that prevailed that night. It was decided rightly so the danger was from behind. So they set out to set detonators to warn oncoming trains.

Unbeknownst to them was earlier at Portarlington, the Galway driver proceeded past a red signal at 15 mph as per an ambiguous rule that existed back then when no contact could be made with the controlling signalman.

He also encountered the thick fog that resulted in him turning the lights off due to the glare. We must remember that when diesel was introduced in 1955, the locos had no lights whatsoever.

When the two men noticed that the train was approaching, they felt it was to assist them. Instead, the driver of the Galway train caught a glimpse of a green signal and turned lights on full to see, to his horror, the back of the helpless Tralee train.

Even at such low speed, the impact was immense, crumbling a timber coach and starting a fire in the dining car. 7 people died, and 55 were injured on that fateful night in late August. It was the last of its type in Ireland, and Irish Rail’s pre-1980 impeccable safety was restored to this day.

One of the most chilling reports came from a guard sergeant who visited the site after midnight and reported no fog. It had cleared after the accident, as is the nature of the advection fog beast. Rather than an accident waiting to happen, it was more akin to a happening waiting for an accident.

KILTIMAGH TRAIN CRASH

Fog raised its ugly, shrouded head again on a dark, dreary late evening on December 19th 1916.

The location was outside Kiltimagh and involved an empty cattle wagon from Tubbercurry en route to Tuam and a laden ballast train from Limerick en route to Tubbercurry.

The cattle train was collecting soiled wagons at each station to take them to Tuam for washing and disinfecting for the next cattle drive.

The plan to cross trains at Kiltimagh went slightly skew-ways after a delay with the ballast at Claremorris, which had difficulty mounting the rise out of Claremorris.

Another engine was used to push the train to more level ground. The ballast train had a heavy load of 21 wagons and two brake vans. The van behind the engine had 10 per-way workers ready for their challenge.

However, the Limerick driver missed a red signal approaching Kiltimagh because of fog, rain, and being unfamiliar with the line.

The two trains collided about half a mile outside Kiltimagh, close to the back of where the Cill Aodain Hotel stands today.

Six of the workers in the van were killed, while heavy cranes were deployed to lift the engines back on track again. The line reopened two days later, but the Burma Road had truly earned its name.

CLAREMORRIS CATTLE CRUSH

Tommy Blackwell’s last day as a driver on 24th September 1989 would have weighed bittersweet on his mind.

A highly respected diesel and steam loco driver, Tommy was one of life's gentlemen.

Having lost his son tragically in Camden Town 20 years previously, here, he was taking a Knock Special to Claremorris on his retirement day.

I'm sure he anticipated no trouble on board, as all passengers were en route to a Knock pilgrimage in honour of our blessed lady. No antilocal behaviour here, nor alcohol, with Rennies being the strongest drug of the day.

Rounding a curve at Ballygowan, a little outside Claremorris, the train encountered a herd of cattle, and the resulting crash caused a major derailment of loco and coaches, with many of the cattle killed.

To be honest, the scene looked an awful lot worse than it ultimately turned out. RTÉ sent their ace reporter of the day, Charlie Bird, to the scene.

But the great swift work of emergency services and Irish Rail staff meant the train had been evacuated within an hour and a half, with eighty-nine reported injuries, mostly superficial cuts and bruises.

By day's end, Castlebar Hospital could report just ten people kept overnight with no critical injuries. Our blessed lady of Knock was surely by their side that afternoon.

But for Tommy Blackwell, it was a sad, frantic end to a brilliant railway career. As I know, retirement day can be emotional enough, but this was taking things to a whole different level.

KNOCKCROGHERY (DUIDIN CITY)

When driver Alan Hughes and train guard Kevin Moran left Athlone on time on Saturday morning, the first week of November 1997, they were, I'm sure, looking forward to an uneventful journey and an early lunch.

I had just completed a long stint of night duty in Castlerea and was getting a few hours’ well-earned rest. Suddenly, the phone rang, and it was a friend of mine inquiring about his daughter in a train crash in Roscommon.

After a few calls, I found out the dawn morning train to Westport had potentially derailed west of Knockcroghery, a place we affectionately called Duiden City for its history in the manufacture of clay pipes. The last four carriages turned into an embankment, and thankfully, no one was seriously injured.

Train loadings were light, and the accident site looked far worse than it was. CEO Joe Walshe was quick to point out that rail travel was still the safest form of travel, as four hundred people had lost their lives on roads that year.

But this incident was the game changer, the one that put the Mayo line on the map. Immediate investment in track and signalling followed so quickly that less than two years later, the state-of-the-art track and signalling had reached Westport.

Ballina Branch followed quickly, and through NDP funding, it was safe to say Cromwell was told to mount up. It was no longer ‘Hell or to Connaught.” The poor relation had been called to the high table.

Pylons replaced signalmen. Automatic barriers replaced gatekeepers. Hy Macs replaced milesman, but of all the positions replaced, no staff ever were left go, but rather were absorbed in other roles.

Such was the kindness of Irish Rail as an employer. And the upgrade of the Mayo line did not go unrewarded, as in 2019, it was the fastest-growing line in the network.

SELF-HARM

In a country that boasts such wealth and progressiveness, it's galling to witness a nonexistent mental health service with people waiting years for appointments.

I researched and raised funds for the cause in 2014 through my songs/songwriting, and, sad to say, it's worse today than it ever was.

Over the years, self-harm involving trains has become all too common and is traumatic for train drivers and staff in general.

Years ago, when barriers were secure, crossing control staff turned off monitors, as they had witnessed some horrors on the suburban line.

Signs for the Samaritans at every station are now common. Yet some expert groups advised people not to mention the word, as it may encourage ideas.

Even I'm guilty of airbrushing the word suicide by using self-harm in this article. Also, when there's a suicide on the tracks, the company issues a statement to the effect “due to an incident on the line,” which usually garners unwarranted criticism.

Of those of us who worked there know what that incident refers to. So don't mention the elephant in the room. Same with migration, which we are told has no effect on housing services, and the emigration of our best brains to Canada/Australia. Another elephant in the room. Or the twenty five percent increase in unexplained deaths since the COVID vaccine rollout, another elephant in the room. So then, what are you left with? A room full of elephants and every circus without its star performer.

Sometimes, a tad more information can bring out the good in people, as my last story explains.

On that very subject, I relate my final story of this six-part social history of railways in Ireland.

It was the early shift, and religiously, at 0728 each morning, the train would poke its nose around the corner at Salleen, and away everyone went, on their merry way.

This particular morning, in my last year before retirement, no train appeared, and after 15 minutes, I contacted Westport to be told the train was stopped a half mile from Castlebar.

A stalled train, phone to my ear, wearing an Irish Rail uniform with no explanation, with a baying pack of customers eyeing me up angrily. Well, you just don't want to be me. At that stage, I didn't want to be me either.

Making my way sheepishly to the office, I made the dreaded announcement of the train being delayed, and that I will keep everyone updated. And then it happened!

Experience tells you what happens next, and the banging on the window started. Tentatively, I lifted the curtain to the queue, and it started. “What about my meeting at eleven thirty?”

“I have a flight at twelve forty-five.”

“My hospital appointment is at eleven.”

“My granny is dying in the Mater.”

This is when your acting abilities kick in, and you assure people everything will be fine when you haven't a clue yourself. I’d have made a wretched ecology doctor.

To add further insult, we no longer sold tickets, so I had no refunds to offer. My deck of cards were thinly stacked. As the voices of the maddening crowd grew louder, a phone call confirmed my worst fears. There had been a fatality on the tracks.

So, after gathering my thoughts, I made an unusual decision. I announced that due to the fatality on the tracks, the train would be further delayed and asked for their patience and prayers at this sad time. Expecting shards of glass to come in the next round of knocking, I was shocked to say the least.

The silence from the platform was deafening. Everything went silent. Everyone, including myself, suddenly realised that whatever we had going on in our lives failed in the insignificance of that morning.

A life had been lost. Quietly, the man with the flight walked to his car and drove away. The man with the meeting decided on Zoom, and the man with the hospital appointment went by train eventually, and maybe Granny was only putting on a show all that time.

The empathy of people was just amazing that morning. And it's something I will carry with me to my grave. It also goes back to my earlier point of telling things as they really are.

When the train finally arrived, the passengers boarded quietly, many with their heads bowed. Some gestured to me in the form of thanks or sympathy. But it was not my loss that morning.

Neither was it theirs. However, we were all affected and connected in a family's grief, albeit over something that started over a train that was delayed.

THE END

Epilogue

As this is the sixth and final rail article in my series, I wish to thank the following. Sean Browne and Ray Newman for some photos. Mr Bernard Hughes for accommodating me to bring my stories to you; and last, but not least, “yourselves,” kind readers, for your positive feedback at all times. Bless ye all.

* All podcasts relating to my rail memories can be accessed online via CRC Radio 102.9.

(Noel Hoban is former station manager at Castlebar Railway Station).