Standing on Calton Hill looking out across the North East of Edinburgh where I grew up. Walking out into the stands at Easter Road, feeling that familiar, yet always surprising, euphoria inflating inside me. Standing on a beach in Thurso, looking out across the sea to Orkney and the huge sky beyond. Walking through the Old Town of Edinburgh or the West End of Glasgow, discovering a new secret every time.
There are no shortage of places which make me feel incredibly glad that I’m from Scotland. Having lived in several different areas - from the shores of the Firth of Forth, to the largest city, to the most Northerly town and now feet away from Edinburgh Castle - my favourite thing about Scotland is the huge variety of landscapes of which our great country is made. The rickety Old Town of Edinburgh houses some of my favourite architecture in the world, while the beauty of the mountains and lochs West of Inverness rivals anything seen in New Zealand. To summarise, I could not choose one single place that beats all the rest.
This is why, to encompass my great passion for the variety within Scotland, my favourite place is sitting on a Scottish train. *Pauses while my Dad falls off his seat in delight*.
I’m sure most people’s initial feelings will be to scoff. ‘It only takes a snowflake to bring the railways of Scotland to a standstill’, a voice cries, ‘It takes 4 and a half hours in the car to Thurso, and nearly 9 hours on the train’. And, funnily enough, that voice is mine! However, I have encountered some of the best of Scotland sitting on a train.
After moving to Glasgow from Edinburgh for University, I spent a fair amount of time on the shuttle, backing and forthing from one to the other.
I have been part of the early morning commute, with suits and briefcases squeezing on board, tutting at the one self-centred so-and-so who has put his bag on the only empty seat. I have been engulfed by a crowd of kids all dressed the same, attending some concert or another. I have sat between a Hen party and a Stag party and watched as shot after shot was poured - finally turning away and pretending to sleep when the Hen clambered onto the best man’s knee.
My iPod has been my best friend throughout most of my train journeys and strangely - or perhaps not strangely at all - I used to find myself almost always switching on The Proclaimers when travelling between my home town and my new residence. Songs such as ‘Scotland’s Story’ and ‘Cap In Hand’ only added to my swelling patriotism as I watched fields, buildings, stadiums and towns fly past me.
This particular route has also been the setting for many a football pilgrimage. The pattern usually goes thusly; travelling West with green paint on our faces, songs in our hearts and optimism in our souls, then a few hours later travelling East with our face paint tear streaked, our eyes bloodshot and our voices left back in Lanarkshire. Not too long ago, I travelled back from Hampden with my cousin and a huge group of stony faced men in green. We sat in near enough silence for most of the journey until we were stopped five minutes short of Waverley Station to allow another train to pass. I doubt a single one of us could deny the romance when an elderly gentleman started up “There is a bonnie fitba’ team..” and every voice joined in - not shouting, but singing along, long-suffering but persevering.
Having both best friends and boyfriend from Caithness, the second most common train journey for me is that between the Central Belt and Thurso, the most northerly town in Scotland. This journey takes eight hours and forty minutes in perfect weather, and anything up to 36 hours if you get stuck halfway due to snow. I’ve had many a battle with a guard in Inverness who tells me I’ve missed my connection - “I haven’t missed my connection, sir. You have missed my connection.” On a good day, you can get them to pay for a taxi to chase the train the 34 miles to Tain.. On a bad day, you are forking out for a hotel.
Eight hours is a long time and I have spent it in many different ways; trying to revise until my incessant travel-sickness takes over and I am forced to abandon; listening to the dulset tones of Stephen Fry reading Harry Potter to me; giggling with a group of friends, a pack of cards and a splash of alcohol; sleeping with my head against the window and my mouth wide open, suddenly jolting upright - staring bewilderedly around - when the train turns a sharp bend.
Regardless of the weather, as long as it is daylight at some point during the journey, you are going to see some of the most beautiful scenery you can imagine. I remember falling asleep in Markinch and waking up in Narnia - Blair Atholl covered in snow. The valleys, moors and glens of Caithness, Sutherland, Ross and Cromarty never fail to leave me breathless; despite countless attempts with a camera phone through a dirty, rain-streaked window, I have never quite managed to capture on film just how beautiful they are.
The journey is not without its downsides. The ‘request stops’ between Inverness and Thurso are often a real source of annoyance - “Who on Earth has requested that we stop in a field*?” *Kildonan. The fact that the train still has to change direction at Georgemas Junction - forcing those of us with travel sickness to get up and move so we are still facing forwards. The unpredictable heating and the occasions where there is no trolley service. There was also the time I was somewhat hungover, heading South after a weekend in Thurso and was being sick in the delightful toilet when the train braked and the extremely heavy toilet seat fell on my head - a real low point for me.
However, there is a real sense of pride and even smugness - for me at least - as you watch people give up and vacate the train one by one, at the stops prior to the far North, “Call that a train journey? This is a train journey!”, dismissing the fact that some of those sitting around me will be travelling for a further thirty minutes to Wick after I disembark.
Football pilgrimages on this route have been for the National team and have usually ended in a similar fashion to those in the Central Belt.
Perhaps the best thing about Scottish train journeys are the people. I have made many a friend while on the railway; I sometimes think that - no matter how hard you push in your earphones and stare determinedly out the window - it is fairly difficult to avoid conversation.
I’d say the best word to describe the people I have met on my travels around Alba álainn is ‘characters’. From two men from Poland with whom I drank vodka and Irn Bru and discussed football the entire journey, to a kind gentleman who offered me deep heat after he saw me twist my back while putting my suitcase onto the luggage rack. From a nice Freemason who chatted with me most of the four hour journey from Inverness to Thurso, to a lady who had broken her back climbing, recovered and was celebrating by, you guessed it, going climbing. There was the surly chap straight off the rigs who sat opposite me, put his Rigger boots on the seat next to him, and proceeded to make his way through four litres of strong, dry cider, and the couple from Bermuda who had, inexplicably, upped sticks and moved to Brora.
Sitting on a train in Scotland encompasses the essence of being Scottish. The beauty, the unpredictability, the banter, the romance, the this-is-a-nightmare-and-nobody-knows-our-trials-and-tribulations-but-we’re-tough-and-Scottish-so-we’ll-be-ok attitude, the drink, the football, the making-friends-with-strangers, the uniting against a common enemy - in this instance the enemy being the crackly voice trickling through the speakers announcing the inevitable delay.
I think I have come to a point now where nothing that happens on a train in Scotland could surprise me, in a country where I am surprised every day.
