![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
As ever, I am slightly unsure how much point there is trying to describe a trip away where much of the time was spent sitting on trains, because the reader will either respond to the idea of the scenery, or will find the whole idea utterly pointless and/or painful. Oh well, here goes, as far as it seems useful...
Friday was much the most travel-intensive day, containing a trip more or less from one end of the country to the other. Certainly the ultimate destination – Inverness - was pleasingly remote.
The first train, to Peterborough, and the majority of the second, to Edinburgh, did not have much to shout about in terms of scenery. Given its status as the UK’s most important rail trunk route, you’d think the East Coast Main Line could afford some better scenery... Still, the rains of Friday morning abated just in time for the pretty bits, which are in order: a fantastic view of Durham cathedral and castle, the bridges and new buildings of the Tyne at Newcastle (the Sage remains one of the UK’s most striking edifices, whether or not you like its style), and the run along the coast on either side of Berwick-on-Tweed. The view of Berwick is one of my favourite townscapes seen from a train – the extravagant swirl of the coastline, and the tall viaduct floating in a graceful curve over the Tweed. It’s a town I keep meaning to spend some time in, but never getting round to – one day no doubt I will.
I got to Edinburgh a little late, but still with comfortable change time, and enough to grab some food, and take in the view from Princes Street across the Old Town. One of the many wonderful things about Edinburgh is the way that you get the whole dazzling effect at once – climb Waverley Steps, turn left, look round, and the whole thing is laid out in front of you, begging to be explored. Time enough for that later – I had a train to catch to go even further north.
The last time I did the route to Inverness I got it wrong, because I was already punch-drunk from the West Highlands, Skye, and the Kyle of Lochalsh line, so the run through the Cairngorms back down the Edinburgh wasn’t enough to grip me. This time it was to be the first stage of the Highland wanderings, and thus I could appreciate it afresh. As with the equivalent line in the West (which we will get to in due course), the southern part of the run is nothing to write home about, other than the pleasure of crossing the Forth Bridge, which is one of the world’s most gloriously over-engineered structures. Not until we were north of Perth did the landscape make a determined effort to get wrinkled and interesting, but once it did, the views were splendid, and well worth the wait. Particularly notable was the area round Dalwhinnie, where the snowfall had been heaviest, and the world was a pristine white. This is not surprising, as Druimachdair Summit, just south of Dalwhinnie, is the highest point on the UK main rail network, at a lofty 1,484 feet above sea level. Also around that area is Aviemore, the heart of the Scottish skiing industry – it’s a strange sight to be passing through the UK and find oneself surrounded by Alpine skiing lodge affairs (though given there is a hotel in Bracknell designed on the same architectural principles, I suppose Aviemore is comparatively sane).
I got into Inverness at just after five, a total journey time from Ely of around nine-and-a-half hours, including two changes, which wasn’t bad going for 500+ miles. I was ready for some fresh air, however, especially after three hours in the company of a group of Ladies of a Certain Volume, who had been with us since Kirkcaldy.
I am now faced with one of the more difficult tricks in my arsenal of travel descriptions, which is trying to explain Why I Like Inverness. I’ve tried a couple of times, and never really succeeded, so perhaps it’s easiest not to bother myself overly much, and just explain what I did. After being somewhat peeved to discover that the Whisky Shop had closed early, I stumped up the Market Brae Steps, and found my B&B, which proved to be more than adequate, and run by a man with a fondness for single malts, which is always a good sign. I got my stuff sorted and went out to, if not Hit The Town, then certainly to brush up against it in an unobtrusive manner.
First stop was Shapla, a curry house which I had read about in Iain Banks’s delightful book Raw Spirit, and had been meaning to try. It has a wonderful location, right above the Ness Bridge, looking out over the river, and as it was early, I was able to get a table by the big picture windows. A largeish and most pleasing curry was then despatched, which helped to ground me, or at least to anchor me yet more firmly to the ground.
That done, I was ready for a nocturnal walk along what I call, without a hint of irony or sarcasm, the Seine of the North. You see, the River Ness is just a brilliant river, a real flaneur’s delight, and walking along its banks, watching the water flow fast and noisy, is one of my greatest delights in Scotland. It also has some of my favourite footbridges – they are grand Victorian suspension bridges, and if you jump up and down of them, you can feel the whole walkway roll. Childish, but fun... I walked from the Old Town, with its parade of grim-faced churches, all the way down past the cathedral (and the heart-stoppingly ugly Eden Court Theatre) to the Ness Islands. I was slightly nervous about walking through the Islands at night, but with the bridges and the trees strung with multi-coloured lights, I couldn’t resist. The bridge leading to the islands had spirals of gold lights along its shafts, making the place look like, if not Fairyland, then certainly somewhere outside the normal realm of human experience, which is how islands should be. It was a most enjoyable walk, with stars shining down bright, as they do in the Highlands, even in Inverness. It’s one of those cities I could occasionally see myself living in – in fact, I think I’d go nuts being so far away from everyone and everything, but when I look at the big houses on the riverfront at Ladies Walk, I could quite see myself safe inside one of them.
Back at the B&B, having failed to find a pub I fancied the sight of (Inverness boasts the Hootenanny, widely regarded as Scotland’s best traditional music venue, but I lacked the energy), I took over the Resident’s Lounge (as I was the only resident, this seemed reasonable), and settled in for QI. One of the marks of a really fine B&B is the presence of a decanter of sherry for the use of guests, and thus I was able to relax in some style, and watch Fry et al rattle on expansively about La Belle France. After that, roaming the satellite channels, I was equally delighted to find a very early episode of Drop the Dead Donkey (Thatcher was still PM when it was made), and giggle for half an hour, whilst thinking moderately chaste thoughts about the beautiful Haydn Gwynne.
Saturday dawned bright, but bitingly cold, and after a decent breakfast, I was out for a last walk along the river, and a last bounce on the bridge, before heading for the bus station, and the next expedition.
Generally speaking, I find bus travel much more trying than train travel, but the run from Inverness to Fort William is an exception, because the scenery is so good. The route - which follows General Wade’s first road through the Highlands – is down the Great Glen, along the A82. Everything depends on sitting on the correct side of the bus, of course, but provided you get that right, the spectacle just keeps unrolling. It is the classic Highland vista – loch immediately to the side, mountains rearing up beyond. The loch in this case is mainly Loch Ness, and I will admit that the loch’s most famous, almost-certainly-fictional, resident is so deeply ingrained in my upbringing that I do find myself peering at the water, wondering if a strange head might appear. Two Japanese tourists on the bus got off at Urquhart Castle, a beautiful spot, but not perhaps the most rewarding on a bitterly cold January morning. I just kept rolling, enjoying the sights. Like all Highland scenery, the experience changes greatly depending on the time of day and the weather – early on this winter’s day (we left Inverness at half nine), the sun was low and brilliant, turning the water to sculpted steel, and the mountains to jagged silhouettes. Only on the rare occasions when the road drifted away from the loch did we get a panorama of what we had left behind, glimmering in the sun.
I have been told by local residents that the weather can be totally different, depending on which side of Invermoriston you are, and certainly it was true this day, with the western end of the journey marked by sweeping curtains of rain, and lowering clouds. This had a beauty of its own – there is a power and awe in a good storm in the mountains which you don’t get anywhere else – but by the time we got to my destination, it had been replaced by sunshine again.
Because the bus had been running a bit late, I didn’t go on to Fort William, which is in any case a dump of a town, but got off at the tiny village of Spean Bridge, which gave me a comfortable change-time onto the train. On the other hand, it also gave me plenty of opportunities to hurt myself, as the gritting lorries had not penetrated to this far outpost, and the pavements were not so much icy as solid ice. I bought a sandwich from Spar, and made my way in an exceedingly slow shuffle toward the railway station. I actually managed to get there without falling over, though there was more than a little undignified flailing to be seen along the way. Worst of all was getting across the bridge to the southbound platform, which I achieved like a first-timer at the ice-rink, hand-over-hand along the fence. After all this exertion, I was too tired to be surprised by being confronted with a father and daughter from my home area of Teesside, in the one small shelter from the sudden squall. We get everywhere, you know...
The train arrived on time, and I set off on the third and final of the three scenic journeys I had planned. And boy, it’s a good one. The bus journey from Glasgow to Fort William is pretty good, especially when it passes through Glencoe, but the train journey is in a league of its own. Though generally less highly regarded than the Kyle to Inverness line, or the Settle to Carlisle, for my money the run from Fort William to Glasgow (or at least as far as Garelochhead) is the most beautiful rail line in the UK. What really makes it is the stretch from Tulloch to Tyndrum, about 50 miles through utterly unspoilt Highlands, without a road or a house in sight. Neither Corrour nor Rannoch stations serve any visible community (Rannoch is at the end of a minor road, and Corrour exists solely because of a shooting lodge and a bunkhouse, as far as I can see), and the landscape shrugs off humanity with ease. It’s a constant delight, along the eastern shore of Loch Treig, and across Rannoch Mor. This trip was made doubly impressive by the snow, which made the scenery even more beautiful, and almost unearthly. At one point I saw, atop a small crag, a stag surveying the ground, and I could feel a faint tremor in the earth as Sir Edwin Landseer rocketed from his grave and reached for his easel. The Monarch In Winter – a gorgeous moment. If I had to pick out one favourite spot from this transport of delight, it would be the great semicircle that the line makes just north of Tyndrum, at what appears to be a junction of four glens, with the composition of mountains and rivers absolutely perfect.
The line never quite regains the same beauty after the absurdly rail-heavy village of Tyndrum (two rail stations serving a population of a few hundred), but it is still no scenic slouch as it runs out of the Highlands at Crianlarich, and along the shores of Loch Lomond and Loch Long. Crianlarich station is one place where the smoking ban hasn’t really been pursued with the same fervour as elsewhere in the country – with people having travelled an hour and a half from Oban, and up to three-and-a-half from Mallaig, turning a blind eye to the odd quiet gasper while the trains couple is probably a safer course than the mass murder which might otherwise ensue. It is, after all, another two hours to Queen Street.
Unfortunately, the views go downhill steeply in the last hour, with the grey monotony of Faslane naval base, the fairly uninspiring town of Dumbarton, and then a long, slow pull through endless suburbia into Glasgow Queen Street.
With the arrival into Queen Street, the seriously scenic part of my trip was over. However, the social part had just begun. Almost immediately I was on a train back out, toward Falkirk Grahamston (via a twenty-minute change in Polmot, which I could probably have lived without), and the delightful company of![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
randomchris and ashfae (plus, in the event, a splendid bonus of wildeabandon. I even made it briefly into the centre of Falkirk, which wasn’t quite as awful as I had been led to believe, and amazingly still had a branch of Zavvi in operation, from which I acquired the last series of Yes Prime Minister, and a very silly book explaining pop lyrics in graph format. Then into charming company, and a fine Burns Night supper of haggis, tatties, and various roasted vegetables (including neeps), followed by Proper Chocolate Cake. And whisky, of course. Much was spoken of, naturally, though I don’t remember a word of it, and, wildeabandon having departed for the late train back to Edinburgh, the day rattled (or rather wobbled) to a close somewhere around midnight, which seemed appropriate.
I’m not sure there’s much point in my writing yet another fulsome encomium on the wonders of Edinburgh, which was where I spent about four hours of Sunday, before catching a train back. If you can’t appreciate the UK’s most beautiful city (and second in my affections only to Venice), then a few more words from me on it aren’t likely to make much difference. I followed my usual route – along Princes Street, up the zig-zag path that ascends the Castle crag, and then down the Royal Mile. I visited Jenner’s, and Fopp (where I picked up an incredible bargain, of the first three series of Drop the Dead Donkey for £10), and numerous whisky shops (where I managed not to buy anything, for once). I ran the gamut, from the low end of town round the Grassmarket, to the lofty heights of Harvey Nichols (the first time I had ever been into one of their branches, and probably the last – even in the last throes of the sale, the Prada leather jackets were still £750).
And then, sadly, it was over, and the train took me away south. Well, it did eventually, after breaking down just outside Edinburgh, and giving me an entertainingly breathless change at Newcastle, onto a service which went what was definitely not the pretty way, including as it did Sunderland, Hartlepool, and even the edges of my dread homeland. Even travelling in First Class can’t blunt the horror of that. The train finally pulled into Peterborough at twenty past eight, and I realised I would have an hour and twenty minutes until my next train home, so repaired to the mock-sophisticated and incredibly depressing hotel “Old Soke Bar” (ho ho ho – though you would probably have to know what the Soke of Peterborough was to get the joke, and it really isn’t worth it, believe me) for a pint and a read. Then, finally, the last of my trains, and home.
All in all, I would thoroughly recommend the route I took to anyone wanting to see the Highlands without the hassle of driving – I’d do it a bit slower than I did, if I were you, but if you have any music in your soul, then the sights to be seen, and the clear air of the high and empty places of this otherwise crowded island, should have you enraptured.
Friday was much the most travel-intensive day, containing a trip more or less from one end of the country to the other. Certainly the ultimate destination – Inverness - was pleasingly remote.
The first train, to Peterborough, and the majority of the second, to Edinburgh, did not have much to shout about in terms of scenery. Given its status as the UK’s most important rail trunk route, you’d think the East Coast Main Line could afford some better scenery... Still, the rains of Friday morning abated just in time for the pretty bits, which are in order: a fantastic view of Durham cathedral and castle, the bridges and new buildings of the Tyne at Newcastle (the Sage remains one of the UK’s most striking edifices, whether or not you like its style), and the run along the coast on either side of Berwick-on-Tweed. The view of Berwick is one of my favourite townscapes seen from a train – the extravagant swirl of the coastline, and the tall viaduct floating in a graceful curve over the Tweed. It’s a town I keep meaning to spend some time in, but never getting round to – one day no doubt I will.
I got to Edinburgh a little late, but still with comfortable change time, and enough to grab some food, and take in the view from Princes Street across the Old Town. One of the many wonderful things about Edinburgh is the way that you get the whole dazzling effect at once – climb Waverley Steps, turn left, look round, and the whole thing is laid out in front of you, begging to be explored. Time enough for that later – I had a train to catch to go even further north.
The last time I did the route to Inverness I got it wrong, because I was already punch-drunk from the West Highlands, Skye, and the Kyle of Lochalsh line, so the run through the Cairngorms back down the Edinburgh wasn’t enough to grip me. This time it was to be the first stage of the Highland wanderings, and thus I could appreciate it afresh. As with the equivalent line in the West (which we will get to in due course), the southern part of the run is nothing to write home about, other than the pleasure of crossing the Forth Bridge, which is one of the world’s most gloriously over-engineered structures. Not until we were north of Perth did the landscape make a determined effort to get wrinkled and interesting, but once it did, the views were splendid, and well worth the wait. Particularly notable was the area round Dalwhinnie, where the snowfall had been heaviest, and the world was a pristine white. This is not surprising, as Druimachdair Summit, just south of Dalwhinnie, is the highest point on the UK main rail network, at a lofty 1,484 feet above sea level. Also around that area is Aviemore, the heart of the Scottish skiing industry – it’s a strange sight to be passing through the UK and find oneself surrounded by Alpine skiing lodge affairs (though given there is a hotel in Bracknell designed on the same architectural principles, I suppose Aviemore is comparatively sane).
I got into Inverness at just after five, a total journey time from Ely of around nine-and-a-half hours, including two changes, which wasn’t bad going for 500+ miles. I was ready for some fresh air, however, especially after three hours in the company of a group of Ladies of a Certain Volume, who had been with us since Kirkcaldy.
I am now faced with one of the more difficult tricks in my arsenal of travel descriptions, which is trying to explain Why I Like Inverness. I’ve tried a couple of times, and never really succeeded, so perhaps it’s easiest not to bother myself overly much, and just explain what I did. After being somewhat peeved to discover that the Whisky Shop had closed early, I stumped up the Market Brae Steps, and found my B&B, which proved to be more than adequate, and run by a man with a fondness for single malts, which is always a good sign. I got my stuff sorted and went out to, if not Hit The Town, then certainly to brush up against it in an unobtrusive manner.
First stop was Shapla, a curry house which I had read about in Iain Banks’s delightful book Raw Spirit, and had been meaning to try. It has a wonderful location, right above the Ness Bridge, looking out over the river, and as it was early, I was able to get a table by the big picture windows. A largeish and most pleasing curry was then despatched, which helped to ground me, or at least to anchor me yet more firmly to the ground.
That done, I was ready for a nocturnal walk along what I call, without a hint of irony or sarcasm, the Seine of the North. You see, the River Ness is just a brilliant river, a real flaneur’s delight, and walking along its banks, watching the water flow fast and noisy, is one of my greatest delights in Scotland. It also has some of my favourite footbridges – they are grand Victorian suspension bridges, and if you jump up and down of them, you can feel the whole walkway roll. Childish, but fun... I walked from the Old Town, with its parade of grim-faced churches, all the way down past the cathedral (and the heart-stoppingly ugly Eden Court Theatre) to the Ness Islands. I was slightly nervous about walking through the Islands at night, but with the bridges and the trees strung with multi-coloured lights, I couldn’t resist. The bridge leading to the islands had spirals of gold lights along its shafts, making the place look like, if not Fairyland, then certainly somewhere outside the normal realm of human experience, which is how islands should be. It was a most enjoyable walk, with stars shining down bright, as they do in the Highlands, even in Inverness. It’s one of those cities I could occasionally see myself living in – in fact, I think I’d go nuts being so far away from everyone and everything, but when I look at the big houses on the riverfront at Ladies Walk, I could quite see myself safe inside one of them.
Back at the B&B, having failed to find a pub I fancied the sight of (Inverness boasts the Hootenanny, widely regarded as Scotland’s best traditional music venue, but I lacked the energy), I took over the Resident’s Lounge (as I was the only resident, this seemed reasonable), and settled in for QI. One of the marks of a really fine B&B is the presence of a decanter of sherry for the use of guests, and thus I was able to relax in some style, and watch Fry et al rattle on expansively about La Belle France. After that, roaming the satellite channels, I was equally delighted to find a very early episode of Drop the Dead Donkey (Thatcher was still PM when it was made), and giggle for half an hour, whilst thinking moderately chaste thoughts about the beautiful Haydn Gwynne.
Saturday dawned bright, but bitingly cold, and after a decent breakfast, I was out for a last walk along the river, and a last bounce on the bridge, before heading for the bus station, and the next expedition.
Generally speaking, I find bus travel much more trying than train travel, but the run from Inverness to Fort William is an exception, because the scenery is so good. The route - which follows General Wade’s first road through the Highlands – is down the Great Glen, along the A82. Everything depends on sitting on the correct side of the bus, of course, but provided you get that right, the spectacle just keeps unrolling. It is the classic Highland vista – loch immediately to the side, mountains rearing up beyond. The loch in this case is mainly Loch Ness, and I will admit that the loch’s most famous, almost-certainly-fictional, resident is so deeply ingrained in my upbringing that I do find myself peering at the water, wondering if a strange head might appear. Two Japanese tourists on the bus got off at Urquhart Castle, a beautiful spot, but not perhaps the most rewarding on a bitterly cold January morning. I just kept rolling, enjoying the sights. Like all Highland scenery, the experience changes greatly depending on the time of day and the weather – early on this winter’s day (we left Inverness at half nine), the sun was low and brilliant, turning the water to sculpted steel, and the mountains to jagged silhouettes. Only on the rare occasions when the road drifted away from the loch did we get a panorama of what we had left behind, glimmering in the sun.
I have been told by local residents that the weather can be totally different, depending on which side of Invermoriston you are, and certainly it was true this day, with the western end of the journey marked by sweeping curtains of rain, and lowering clouds. This had a beauty of its own – there is a power and awe in a good storm in the mountains which you don’t get anywhere else – but by the time we got to my destination, it had been replaced by sunshine again.
Because the bus had been running a bit late, I didn’t go on to Fort William, which is in any case a dump of a town, but got off at the tiny village of Spean Bridge, which gave me a comfortable change-time onto the train. On the other hand, it also gave me plenty of opportunities to hurt myself, as the gritting lorries had not penetrated to this far outpost, and the pavements were not so much icy as solid ice. I bought a sandwich from Spar, and made my way in an exceedingly slow shuffle toward the railway station. I actually managed to get there without falling over, though there was more than a little undignified flailing to be seen along the way. Worst of all was getting across the bridge to the southbound platform, which I achieved like a first-timer at the ice-rink, hand-over-hand along the fence. After all this exertion, I was too tired to be surprised by being confronted with a father and daughter from my home area of Teesside, in the one small shelter from the sudden squall. We get everywhere, you know...
The train arrived on time, and I set off on the third and final of the three scenic journeys I had planned. And boy, it’s a good one. The bus journey from Glasgow to Fort William is pretty good, especially when it passes through Glencoe, but the train journey is in a league of its own. Though generally less highly regarded than the Kyle to Inverness line, or the Settle to Carlisle, for my money the run from Fort William to Glasgow (or at least as far as Garelochhead) is the most beautiful rail line in the UK. What really makes it is the stretch from Tulloch to Tyndrum, about 50 miles through utterly unspoilt Highlands, without a road or a house in sight. Neither Corrour nor Rannoch stations serve any visible community (Rannoch is at the end of a minor road, and Corrour exists solely because of a shooting lodge and a bunkhouse, as far as I can see), and the landscape shrugs off humanity with ease. It’s a constant delight, along the eastern shore of Loch Treig, and across Rannoch Mor. This trip was made doubly impressive by the snow, which made the scenery even more beautiful, and almost unearthly. At one point I saw, atop a small crag, a stag surveying the ground, and I could feel a faint tremor in the earth as Sir Edwin Landseer rocketed from his grave and reached for his easel. The Monarch In Winter – a gorgeous moment. If I had to pick out one favourite spot from this transport of delight, it would be the great semicircle that the line makes just north of Tyndrum, at what appears to be a junction of four glens, with the composition of mountains and rivers absolutely perfect.
The line never quite regains the same beauty after the absurdly rail-heavy village of Tyndrum (two rail stations serving a population of a few hundred), but it is still no scenic slouch as it runs out of the Highlands at Crianlarich, and along the shores of Loch Lomond and Loch Long. Crianlarich station is one place where the smoking ban hasn’t really been pursued with the same fervour as elsewhere in the country – with people having travelled an hour and a half from Oban, and up to three-and-a-half from Mallaig, turning a blind eye to the odd quiet gasper while the trains couple is probably a safer course than the mass murder which might otherwise ensue. It is, after all, another two hours to Queen Street.
Unfortunately, the views go downhill steeply in the last hour, with the grey monotony of Faslane naval base, the fairly uninspiring town of Dumbarton, and then a long, slow pull through endless suburbia into Glasgow Queen Street.
With the arrival into Queen Street, the seriously scenic part of my trip was over. However, the social part had just begun. Almost immediately I was on a train back out, toward Falkirk Grahamston (via a twenty-minute change in Polmot, which I could probably have lived without), and the delightful company of
randomchris and ashfae (plus, in the event, a splendid bonus of wildeabandon. I even made it briefly into the centre of Falkirk, which wasn’t quite as awful as I had been led to believe, and amazingly still had a branch of Zavvi in operation, from which I acquired the last series of Yes Prime Minister, and a very silly book explaining pop lyrics in graph format. Then into charming company, and a fine Burns Night supper of haggis, tatties, and various roasted vegetables (including neeps), followed by Proper Chocolate Cake. And whisky, of course. Much was spoken of, naturally, though I don’t remember a word of it, and, wildeabandon having departed for the late train back to Edinburgh, the day rattled (or rather wobbled) to a close somewhere around midnight, which seemed appropriate.I’m not sure there’s much point in my writing yet another fulsome encomium on the wonders of Edinburgh, which was where I spent about four hours of Sunday, before catching a train back. If you can’t appreciate the UK’s most beautiful city (and second in my affections only to Venice), then a few more words from me on it aren’t likely to make much difference. I followed my usual route – along Princes Street, up the zig-zag path that ascends the Castle crag, and then down the Royal Mile. I visited Jenner’s, and Fopp (where I picked up an incredible bargain, of the first three series of Drop the Dead Donkey for £10), and numerous whisky shops (where I managed not to buy anything, for once). I ran the gamut, from the low end of town round the Grassmarket, to the lofty heights of Harvey Nichols (the first time I had ever been into one of their branches, and probably the last – even in the last throes of the sale, the Prada leather jackets were still £750).
And then, sadly, it was over, and the train took me away south. Well, it did eventually, after breaking down just outside Edinburgh, and giving me an entertainingly breathless change at Newcastle, onto a service which went what was definitely not the pretty way, including as it did Sunderland, Hartlepool, and even the edges of my dread homeland. Even travelling in First Class can’t blunt the horror of that. The train finally pulled into Peterborough at twenty past eight, and I realised I would have an hour and twenty minutes until my next train home, so repaired to the mock-sophisticated and incredibly depressing hotel “Old Soke Bar” (ho ho ho – though you would probably have to know what the Soke of Peterborough was to get the joke, and it really isn’t worth it, believe me) for a pint and a read. Then, finally, the last of my trains, and home.
All in all, I would thoroughly recommend the route I took to anyone wanting to see the Highlands without the hassle of driving – I’d do it a bit slower than I did, if I were you, but if you have any music in your soul, then the sights to be seen, and the clear air of the high and empty places of this otherwise crowded island, should have you enraptured.