A comically ugly building with tall twisting chimneys and wrought-iron decoration. A tiny Victorian railway station, a relic of the great steam days, a scrap of flotsam washed up by a long-gone tide. A sign reads: GRATTON HALT.
The entrance is as gothically ornate as the doorway of a church. A blank noticeboard for train times. A paling fence kept neatly painted.
Beyond the little station is nothing. Only a few rough shanties of tin and scrap a short way off.
There is a single railway line.