glasshope

where the line splits. the branch goes west and downhill toward the coast; the main carries on north through low fields and a long cutting. trains uncouple here in the middle of the afternoon and couple again in the evening, with a noise like a careful door closing.

the village of glasshope is half a mile off, set back among walnut trees, four streets crossing in a square. there is a post office, a baker, a chemist who is open on alternate weeks, and an inn whose sign nobody can read. the inn keeps a room for stranded travellers and charges almost nothing.

the stationmaster is two people: a woman in the morning, her brother in the afternoon. they speak to each other only in passing, at handover, in the corridor behind the ticket window. nobody is sure they get on.

field note: the western platform smells faintly of salt, even before the train arrives. the eastern platform smells of nothing at all.