Probably even older than me, this ancient and crumbling wooden monument to a bygone age ends its days in sad and lonely isolation beside one of the quieter and more remote sections of disused railway line in deepest rural Worcestershire. I can easily imagine though, how it would once have provided welcome shelter from the worst of the elements for many a railway maintenance crew as they huddled inside together for warmth during their winter lunch breaks and passed the time by playing cards and downing cups of hot, steaming tea poured from tartan-patterned Thermos flasks…. ….and I could almost swear, as I stood there ever so quietly in such a melancholy place and as I forced myself to listen very, very carefully, that maybe, just maybe, I could somehow sense the faintest of voices echoing across the vastness of time….The voices perhaps of those self-same, weather-worn and elemental men carried to me on the breeze from high above in the gently swaying branches of the nearby trees….and wasn’t that the merest hint of occasional laughter I could hear….and weary complaining too, about desperately low wages, the hardships of life and yet another day of biting cold and piercing rain to be endured?