WHAT is it about men and steam engines? I'm not one of those people who thinks there's an unbridgeable gulf between men and women. I don't think we're so different from one another that we can't begin to understand what makes the other sex tick.

But there is one thing about men that does puzzle me.

Put a male of any age anywhere within reach of a steam engine and he's immediately hooked. You won't get him away for hours, until he's inspected every detail of the thing several times over.

I can understand it, a bit, with men of my husband's age. He can remember when steam trains were the only sort there were, and since he was a child in those days they obviously have nostalgia value.

Except that he's no more mechanically-minded than I am, and I can remember steam engines too, and it's quite obvious they don't mean the same to him as they do to me.

And my son is much too young to remember the age of steam, but he likes them too.

As for grandson Jonah, at two years old the only steam engine he'd seen before this summer was Thomas the Tank Engine, who to him was just a character in a picture book.

Then he came to stay and we took him and his dad for a trip on the Weardale Railway. And there was a real tank engine, chuffing its way round the bend and out of the trees towards the platform at Wolsingham where we were waiting.

Jonah was enraptured. He stared in awe at the clouds of steam, the great working pistons, the huge wheels. His expression showed apprehension, wonder, utter delight.

He wasn't much interested by the journey itself, but once at Stanhope there was no question of getting straight into the car to go back home.

They were moving the engine up the line, across to the further track, then filling up with water. He wanted to watch every little bit of what was going on.

Then it had to be moved down the line again, returned to the nearside track and backed up to the carriages ready for the return journey.

Jonah stood for ages watching as men and boys, blackened with oil, coupled the engine to the carriages, struggling with massive metal loops and great oily hoses. He loved it when Grandad took him to peer at the footplate where coal burned with great hot flames. He loved the sound of the whistle warning that it was time to go. In fact, he's already well on the way to becoming a steam enthusiast.

While the menfolk stood worshipping all this noise and steam, I had a look round at our fellow watchers. They were nearly all men. No, correction, all those with their eyes on the engine were men, without exception.

The scattering of women in the crowd were mostly grans or mums watching that the little ones kept out of harm's way, since it was quite obvious none of the dads and grandads was going to be looking out for them - they were much too besotted with the train.

Middle-aged men were showing off their knowledge. "They're buffering up," I heard one dad say to his son as the engine backed up to bump gently against the first carriage. "That's the technical term."

"I'm not sure that's right," muttered my husband, fortunately not loudly enough to be overheard.

My son developed a theory about the appeal of steam engines. "The thing is," he declared, "you can almost understand how they work. Diesels and electric trains are just too complicated. But with this kind you can see all the working parts. They're simple."

But that still doesn't explain the male thing.

Not only were all the fascinated onlookers male, but so were the volunteers who ran the train. The older ones were, I imagine, retired railway workers most of whom, long ago, had driven steam engines for British Rail. But there were plenty of youngsters eagerly helping, learning the craft from men who remembered when every little boy's dream was to be an engine driver.

I remember a phrase I read once, I can't remember where. But for some reason it stuck in my mind: 'The Romance of Steam', it proclaimed.

To most women I'd guess the word 'romance' conjures up images of flowers, candles, soft words, beautiful surroundings. For some, maybe, there'd be galloping horses or pounding seas. But not, ever, a hissing oily monster standing by a railway platform. That's quite obviously a male thing.

On the other hand, I have to admit there was something about that steam engine. I wouldn't mind going back some time for another look.

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