Ride Report – Christmas Party Train Trip

By Ian Paterson

The branch Christmas party train trip to Tarago didn’t exactly get off to an auspicious start for this little black duck. Lyn arrived early to pick us up and, with Sally still out at a wedding, I had to answer the door in my jocks. Lyn is obviously immune to such gruesome sights because she didn’t bat an eyelid or even gag.

The three of us eventually piled into her Commodore, picked up Butch and Jan and made it to the train with time to spare. We found the rest of the 25 Ulyssians ensconced in the luxury of car 2 with its deeply sprung seats, dining tables, polished woodwork and opening windows. It would have reminded me of the Orient Express had I ever been on that train.

Our conductor warned us not to stick out heads out of the windows because they were liable to drop closed at any time, giving the journey a distinct French Revolution flavour.

The Historical Railway Society train, manned by volunteers and pulled by a class something or other diesel, comprised a variety of cars, including (most importantly) a galley and a bar, which we made a dash for as soon as we were under way at 6:30pm. It was very relaxing, sipping on a glass of cab merlot while the Molonglo River gorge meandered past.

A big platter of appetisers was followed by a main course of roast chicken breast with caramelised onion, scudalia potatoes and vegies as we passed Bungendore in the fading light.

We got to Tarago about 8:30pm and all 250 passengers piled out and made a beeline for the hall, where a band was playing – some of us even danced! – and tea and coffee was served. The crowd spilled out onto the street which, of course, is not just a suburban cul-de-sac but the main road from Braidwood to Goulburn. Drivers had to brake and swerve when their headlights were suddenly full of plastic chairs, eskys and revellers. The pub was also a popular destination.

We piled back onto the train about 10:30pm and made our way back to Canberra, stopping at every level crossing and blowing the whistle to wake up all the locals so they could come out and wave at us. The band had followed us onto the train and the music car was the place to be on the return trip, except for some of us older and wearier passengers who just sat and talked and told jokes in between naps.

No prizes were awarded but if they had been, the trophies for best-dressed man and best-dressed woman would have gone to Flip and Peter, who were startlingly attired as a pair of Santa’s elves, in outfits that would have confused the crap out of anyone who was red-green colour blind.