The red brick of the booking-office looks redder and more staring under the fierce light.

The door is locked, and there is no waiting-room in which to take shelter; nothing but a projecting roof over a part of the platform.

On the lintel is the stationmaster's name painted in small white letters, like the name of the landlord over the doorway of an inn.

Two corded boxes lie on the platform, and near them stand half a dozen rusty milk tins, empty.

With the exception of a tortoiseshell cat basking in the sunshine, there seems nothing living in the station, and the long endless rails stretching on either side in a straight line are vacant.