One of the best things about being a journalist is the variety. No two days are ever the same – it sounds like a cliché, but it’s true. 

I started last week traipsing around Stithians showground in the pouring rain, marvelling at how everyone was putting on a brave face in challenging conditions. Trust me: you haven’t lived until you’ve seen a grown man dressed as Fred Flintstone, chasing after an enormous pig and bashing it with an inflatable mallet. For an audience. In the rain. (No pigs were hurt in this pursuit). 

A couple of days later, in much nicer weather, I was standing in the middle of a field of elephant garlic in West Penwith when my mobile phone rang. I answered it as it was from one of my daughter’s friends, on a school trip to London, trying to find her in the Natural History Museum. Needless to say, I wasn’t much help. 

On Thursday, I found myself on the station platform at Par, heading towards the signal box and a group of Network Rail workers in hi-vis orange jackets. They had gathered to celebrate the handover of the keys to local staff, the main function of signalling having been transferred to Exeter St Davids’ digital control room. 

As I approached the box, I could hear the “ding-ding-ding” of the bells inside. “Bless them - they’re having a play,” laughed the comms man who was accompanying me. 

In fact, these were all highly experienced signallers who took great pride in their expertise, and had a heck of a lot of love for this unassuming box that had been a workplace to so many of them – and was as much a character as any one of them. “This box really looked after us,” said one chap, with the kind of sentimentality one might reserve for a really close friend. 

There was a general feeling of bonhomie – a railway family. These were blokes (and one woman) who had shared many a cup of tea over the years, and worked hard together to keep the trains running on time, and safe. 

While the box is no longer connected to the network, it will be used as a “sandpit training facility” – a charming name meaning that apprentices can “have a play” in a safe environment before being let loose on Cornwall’s remaining operational signal boxes.

It was a lovely story, and I might even have had something in my eye at times. This is partly because my grandparents met on the railways – Grandad was a driver, Nanna the station announcer. Were it not for the railways, I might not be here at all. We didn’t have a car and travelled by rail whenever possible, courtesy of the employee’s free pass. 

As a child, I rather fancied working for British Rail, but Grandad made it clear that driving was not a woman’s job. He would have been horrified to see the lady driver who pulled up at Par station and opened the door for a chat with the assembled Network Rail crowd. 

There is something really rather romantic about train travel. Think of all the films that revolve around lengthy journeys: The 39 Steps, Murder on the Orient Express, Strangers on a Train, The Railway Children (starring Cornwall resident Jenny Agutter). 

Consider the heritage railways revived and staffed by unpaid enthusiasts; the crowds that gather whenever a steam locomotive makes its way down west carrying train buffs and tourists travelling in style; the country stations titivated by green-fingered volunteers. 

The trains might look different these days, but there’s an enduring appeal. I’m sure I spotted someone on the station platform taking pictures and video footage – although to be fair, they might have been thinking the same about me as I raced around, filming the 14.27 to London Paddington coming in for the Voice’s online archive. 

I went home with the inner glow of having been part of something really special – they even let me have a go on the levers - which is yet another of the great privileges of being a journalist. 

The 2024 Olympics will soon begin to great fanfare, and our screens will be filled with wall-to-wall sport of all kinds. Last week’s Radio Times cost 50p extra - a special issue of almost biblical proportions, it lists every spit and cough of the Parisian fixtures. 

At times like this, I wish I liked sport. It’s been wearisome having to put up with football and tennis for the past month, although I did win the family sweepstake by drawing Spain in the Euros - Daughter drew England, and pouted until I offered her some of my winnings (a box of Ferrero Rocher). 

Fortunately, I also have a concert-by-concert guide to the Proms, so I shall take musical refuge in a cosy room with a decent set of speakers, until it’s all over.