Sunday 19th November 2017

Some months ago, I signed Jools and myself up on a tour in another abandoned Underground Station, one I had not heard of before; Down Street.

Down Street was closed in the 1930s, due to lack of use and being close to both Green Park and Hyde Park Corner stations.

Although going in anywhere that has been abandoned for many years, and 80 year old decay of a tube station would be reason enough on its own to go down, there is its links to the war.

The station was taken over by the Rail Executive, to coordinate railways in the time of war, as it was central, bomb proof and had enough space.

Life must have been grim down there, living and working on an active tube line, with trains passing my every couple of minutes for 20 hours, lack of fresh air and a general lack of space.

They did eat well, even the lower ranks, and there was flushing toilets and running water.

So, and despite needing more than eight hours sleep, we were up and about at half six in the morning, making coffee, feeding the cats and grilling bacon to ensure we could leave the house by quarter past eight to get to Martin Mill, be bale to buy tickets, blah, blah, blah. And so on.

I even regretted that we were going to London, and maybe we might give it a miss, but then the tickets were so expensive, we may as well go and make a go of it. One last check to make sure we had everything, then into the car and to the station.

Already the sun had been up and hour, but being the season when there are long shadows when it does shine, the rays of the sun fell onto the trees the other side of the opposite platform, another fine sight for us. Jools had got the tickets, so all we had to do was wait, and turned out we were the only passengers boarding here. Maybe it would be a quiet trip on the train. I had noticed a note on Google maps that morning when I was looking to get to the tour, and saw that Regent Street had an event called "carnival of toys", but gave it no other thought.

At Dover, Folkestone, Ashford and Ebbsfleet, more and more families got aboard, all with chattering excited children, and talk was of toys, Kitkats and drawing books. Or at the least the two families numbering nine or ten members. I thought of the cost of the train, the Tube and all the other stuff a family day out in London would cost.

It was another golden day, the countryside was a riot of reds, yellows and golds. I was a feast of the eyes, and I was entranced, even passing through such familiar scenes.

We leap off the train at St Pancras, hoping to beat the families with buggies and assorted children through the barriers, which we mostly did. However, we then wandered over to Kings Cross so I could check to see if there were any Azumas waiting at the buffers. But, again, there were none.

So we went under the station into the Underground, walking to the escalator taking us to the Piccadilly Line platforms, where our train would take us the half dozen stops through the West End to Green Park.

Piccadilly (the street) runs down one side of Green Park looking towards Buckingham Palace, although the golden laden trees meant that it could not actually be seen. And now is lined with high-end hotels, including the one we had to be at in an hour's time. We dodge the traffic and cross over so to walk through the park, weaving through a group of Spanish tourists on a guided tour.

However, we were both hungry, and thought maybe we could get a coffee in the hotel, so after a walk of just a few hundred yards, we crossed back over Piccadilly and into the hotel, where we agreed to stump up for the most expensive continental breakfast it is possible to have. Mind you I haven't been to the Dorchester or the Ritz of course. But fruit, cereal and bread and preserves was fine, but not worth the price, obvs, but it did mean that we just had to walk up the steps to meet up with the tour.

We check in and wait until all twelve of us had arrived, and are then given a H&S brief, and the tour starts. Starts with some history, and why the station is down a narrow street, down Down Street. And why it failed to attract passengers and closed down after 30 years.

We were then lead out of the hotel, into Down Street to look at the front of the station, before being taken to a narrow door covered with all sorts of warnings, through that and down a narrow set of steps to the top of the spiral staircase.

We stopped again for another bit of education before we were allowed to walk down to the station level, 80 feet below.

In fact, the station was quite small, so when it was converted into offices and a control centre for the railway executive, rooms were small, and passageways just wide enough to allow a tea trolley through.

Photos were shown and then compared to where we were standing, shadows on the wall showed clocks or notice boards, and through these what it left can be matched to those photos. As after the way, the internal walls of the offices were demolished, so little remains, just where floors were levelled.

The big draw for Down Street is that for two months at the end of 1940, Winston Churchill slept here, and even asked that an office be built a little later, though probably not for him.

The platforms were bricked off during the war, and that is still the case, but the Piccadilly Line still runs past, and so every minute or so there is that familiar rush of air and the sound of an approaching train. Although just a sturdy door each side through which the lights of the passing train can be seen.

The tour doubled back over and over again, but was interesting.

The station is filthy, decades of grime and dust from the passing trains has been left, so that even brushing against a wall will leave you dirty. But it washes off, and makes it all the more photogenic I suppose.

All things come to an end, of course, and at the end we were left with the climb back up, 100 or so steps up to the surface, just about managed it without needing to stop and have a breather.

We collected our bags, and should we do something else, or go home?

Go home.

So we walk back down Piccadilly to the station, down the escalators and wait for a train back to St Pancras, where we had just enough time for a beer near to the Southeastern platforms, sitting on stools watching the world go by, before going up to the platforms and finding the train already in and door open.

And it seemed that the carnival wasn't over, as the train was less than half full as we pulled out. The journey you know, but for me passed with the sun low in the west as the day drew to an end.

We were back in Martin Mill just after sunset, and the day was getting dark. And cold. So in the car and up Station Road to Chez Jelltex, where the kettle and coffee pot put on and brews made, chocolate eaten.

Phew, what a day. What a weekend.

I listen to football as I cook chorizo hash, not a good game, but it passes the time, until half six when dinner is ready and we can uncork the wine and sit down to eat.

The weekend had slipped past again, and there is time to watch the football and have a shower, but before MOTD is over, my eyes are too heavy, and we call it a night.