My first hands-on experience of loco driving came one summer evening in 1974. Four of us had cycled down to Moor Street, as we did most nights, and ventured along the path that led to the MPD or 'the loco' as it was known. Just before the MPD entrance there was a dirty old stream with a makeshift bridge made of old railway sleepers. As we crossed it we could see the train crew cabin with its collection of drivers, guards and second men. Leaning our bikes against the wall, we walked along to the foreman's office to ask if we could go round the depot. It was always a tense moment, as you never knew what the answer would be. A gruff 'No, clear off!' was the usual response - but this time we were lucky.

'Alright, wait there, I'll get somebody to show you round.'

Normally we'd end up with some miserable old chap who was just about to go home and eager for a pint or his bed. But the young driver who came out to us was full of enthusiasm.

'Come on then lads, let's take you round.'

We followed him round, scribbling down the numbers of the various locos on our pads. Once we had finished he took us over to a line of Brush 4s - or Class 47s as we know them today.

'Get up in the cab and I'll show you round,' he said.

Ding! He flicked a switch and we climbed aboard. We watched fascinated as he put in his key. A high-pitched whine came from the engine room. When that stopped he pressed a button and the big diesel engine roared into life. All the time he was explaining the various switches, dials and levers and which one did what. Eventually he unpegged the brake.

'One of you get in the seat then,' he said.

The four of us looked at each other with worried faces. Someone pushed me from behind and I couldn't help but take a step forward to 'volunteer.'

'Come on, don't be shy.'

I jumped into the seat and as my mates stood there grinning he gave me step-by-step instructions on how to drive the loco.

'Right, that there's the power handle. Pull it back towards you.'

I did as instructed.

'Not too much!' he yelled. 'Else we'll jump over the loco in front!'

I eased the handle back, more steadily this time and suddenly we were trundling along the road. I couldn't believe it - I was actually driving a railway engine!

'That's it,' he said encouragingly. 'We'll make a driver of you yet.'

After giving me instructions on how to brake he brought the lesson to a close.

'Thank you,' I said timidly.

He took over from me and drove the Brush 4 back to its original position and shut down the engine.

As we walked back to the shed buildings I told him about my uncle, Charlie Buckley, who was also a Burton driver.

'Charlie? Oh yes, we know Charlie. He's a bit of a character down here.'

If only I'd had a penny for every time I was to hear that statement in the years to come! After thanking the young man again, we collected our bikes and started back for Moor Street Bridge where the rest of the trainspotting crowd gathered. At the time I could have punched whoever had pushed me forward - but today I remain forever grateful for the memory. I call it the hand of fate!

As the years went on we got to know a lot of the men at Burton sheds. Sometimes we would help them by pulling the point handles for them - and in return we would get a cab ride down to the berthing point.

Burton sheds closed as a booking-on point in 1975. Many men - including my Uncle Charlie - retired from the railways for good, while others went to Derby or Coalville. Burton remained open as a fuelling point until late 1981, manned by just a shed driver and second man. But that's a story that I'll continue later...