The westward train from London rounds a bend at Didcot and heads north to Oxford. For the twenty-two years I’ve lived in Oxford the cooling towers of Didcot power station have produced that comforting feeling that home is approaching and I have often taken blurry pictures of them through grimy train windows as the train sped on.
Ever since I’ve known that three of the six towers were to be destroyed last Sunday, I’ve wondered what the emptiness on that bend would feel like. This afternoon, on my way to London, the train did something I’ve never known it do before and stopped for a full minute, not in front of the trees nor the Asda distribution centre, but in clear view of the remaining three towers doing all they could to fill the space across the ripening wheat. It felt like a homage.
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