I’m not an anorak, but I do like railway stations. You can go anywhere. It’s like an orchestra: the best moment is immediately after the violins and cellos and flutes have tuned and an expectant silence descends on every player and instrument and listener. The symphony will begin any moment; except that it has already begun, within the silence, and once the first note is sounded it’s downhill all the way.
Part of the attraction may be that I was born and brought up on an island where there were no railways. So they were alien and fabulous, and even when I finally saw one, in Oban, it did not disappoint. Goodness, you could just sit there and travel all the way to Glasgow; if you had money, which we didn’t.
I have lots of favourite stations. Glasgow Central for the loveliness of its roof, and the sense it gives that people are rushing off somewhere exciting: places such as Largs and Cumbernauld, for example; and it has a beautiful clock.
I like Perth too in all its Victorian grandeur. It takes you north to Inverness, east to Dundee and Aberdeen, south to Glasgow, Edinburgh and the world. And when you arrive, laden with cases and short of time, it’s always great to meet the challenge of these iron stairs: it beats paying money in a gym any time.
I’ve taken some wonderful train journeys in my time: through France and Germany and Poland and Belgium and Ireland but my favourite was taking the sleeper south from Madrid to Algeciras in the early 1970s and then the boat over to Tangier, where I continued my journey by train down through Rabat and on to Casablanca.
I think my favourite moment of all time is travelling slowly in the twilight down through Granada and passing little villages where old men sat on stools playing draughts. The minarets shone red in the evening sun; and then passing through the Moroccan countryside the following day as men in long white kaftans bent over their hoes in the fields.
I actually ran out of money that trip and a young Berber lad I met on the train paid my fare from Tangier to Casablanca, where I was met by some friends. Like an angel, the young man disappeared into the crowd when we reached Casablanca and I did not see him again to repay him.
I was in New York last year and, though I had no practical reason to go there, I went out of my way to go to Grand Central Station, where I did indeed sit down and weep for the greatness of literature.
I’m fortunate to live in a part of Scotland blessed with two of the great railway journeys of the world on my doorstep: the West Highland Line between Glasgow and Oban/Fort William/Mallaig and the Kyle of Lochalsh line which takes me home from Inverness via Dingwall and on through the Strathcarron. I can catch the first train in the morning from Kyle at 6.20am and be in New York that evening. It’s a vital lifeline service for the Highlands, which has survived most things so far, from Beeching to floods.
The sleeper service from the Highlands is one of the great joys of life. It’s too expensive, but if you need to go to London you’d pay the price anyway for sleeping in a hotel cupboard in Islington so you might as well enjoyed lying sideways as the beauty of the Cairngorms and rural Perthshire chunter by outside the window. And it’s worth travelling on the sleeper just for the pleasure of lying there and remembering Norman MacCaig’s great line: “I draw in my feet to let Aviemore pass.”
And as I’ve mentioned MacCaig that reminds of the equally great Iain Crichton Smith. Back in the day, I used to travel with him on the Glasgow to Oban train, that would then stop at Crianlarich Railway Station for ten minutes or so; enough time to sit there in the station café having a cup of tea with Crichton Smith as he talked about Socrates, the late great Brazilian football player. How he would have loved the fact that Dante plays for Wolfsburg.
But my favourite non-train station is the old one at Strathpeffer, where you can have a wonderful cup of tea or coffee and a scone while sitting outside in the splendour of its Victorian architecture. The Strathpeffer Spa Railway Association has plans to renovate the line and introduce steam trains: when you hear the tootin’ of the whistle, it’s Casey at the throttle of the Highland Express.
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