In 1963, I was thirteen and full of mischief. One evening, I led a group of mates onto the local railway sidings, curious to see what we might find. We pried open a guard’s van and discovered a box of railway alarm detonators—small, round devices with lead strips designed to strap onto rails. In thick fog, trains would crush them, triggering loud bangs to alert the driver. Naturally, we saw this as an opportunity for chaos. There was a short rail line sloping into an engineering yard nearby, and we decided to test the detonators in the most dramatic way possible.
We placed a generous number of detonators along the track, spacing them like firecrackers. Then came the hard part—releasing the brake on a rail wagon and coaxing it to roll. Those wagons are massive, and it took all our strength to get it creeping forward. Once it gained momentum, we bolted. Hearts pounding, legs flying, we ran to the nearby park and waited. Moments later, the silence shattered. The detonators went off in rapid succession, echoing like a machine gun across the town. It was terrifying, exhilarating, and utterly unforgettable.
We didn’t stick around to see the aftermath, but I’ve often wondered what the workers in the engineering yard thought. The slope was gentle and flattened before the yard, so I believe the wagon simply rolled to a stop. No damage, no derailment—just a chorus of bangs and a mystery for anyone nearby. We never got caught, and no one ever traced it back to us. It was one of those childhood escapades that felt like a movie scene, reckless and thrilling in equal measure.
Looking back, I’m amazed at how casually we handled something so dangerous. Those detonators weren’t toys, and the wagon could’ve done real harm. But at thirteen, the thrill of discovery and the lure of a loud bang outweighed any sense of consequence. We were just kids chasing excitement, unaware of the risks. It’s a story I’ve rarely told, partly out of guilt, partly because it feels like a relic from another time—when curiosity often collided with danger.
Now, decades later, I remember that night with a mix of nostalgia and disbelief. It was a moment of youthful rebellion, wrapped in railway lore and adrenaline. The sound of those detonators still echoes in my memory, a reminder of how far we’ll go for a thrill. I wouldn’t repeat it, but I wouldn’t erase it either. It’s part of the patchwork of my youth—loud, reckless, and undeniably vivid.
So no, it wasn’t dull. Sorry, not sorry. It was one of the wildest things I ever did, and it still makes me grin. If you’ve ever had a moment like that—where curiosity led to chaos—I’d love to hear it. Just maybe keep the detonators out of reach.
