The Highland Chieftain

Our departure from the village did not go quite as anticipated. The final plan – which we made over a few glasses of fireside Edradour the night before -  was to drive ourselves to the station and leave at about 11.00am to get to Pitlochry to catch the 12.27 Inverness-London train. Plenty of time to have a leisurely breakfast, pack, water the plants, turn down the radiators and leave everything spick and span.

At 8.25am Jeanette phoned. I padded across my bedroom, still in my pyjamas.

“Can you be ready to leave in ten minutes? There’s only one train leaving Inverness today and it gets into Pitlochry at 9.25. Jean is going to drive us!”

Galvanised into action, I threw clothes and gifts into a case, grabbed my laptop and knitting, dressed and headed out into the still dark morning where Jean – herself dragged from bed with no breakfast – was trying to open her passenger car door which had frozen to its frame.

As it happened, we made it in plenty of time because the train was running 30 minutes late. A signal failure down the line caused a two-hour hiatus in Newcastle and later, someone pulled the emergency cord. We each knitted a teddy, drank lots of cups of tea, but eventually made our Christmas destinations.

The return journey, a week later, ran perfectly to schedule. Leaving from York, in the station Waiting Room I bumped into one of the villagers, Lavender, with her daughter – also returning from a family festivity. We reminisced about last year, when Lavender’s cottage had caught fire on Boxing Day. It turned out mice had chewed through the wiring. She had a family contingent staying which rather blighted their Christmas but luckily no one was hurt. All year Lavender has lived in her barn while rebuilding takes place.

A point of interest, hereabouts you don’t catch a train, you travel on The Highland Chieftain. The guard – who behaves in a similar fashion to an airplane pilot or head steward, constantly giving out helpful information about your journey – refers reverently to his engine, thus:

“You are travelling on The Highland Chieftain, stopping at Edinburgh, Stirling, Gleneagles, Perth, Pitlochry, Aviemore and Inverness.”

“The Highland Chieftain is approaching Gleneagles. Passengers at the rear of the train in first class please move up to Coach L as the train is longer than the platform and you won’t be able to get off.”

“Luggage blocking the aisles and doorways will be removed without notice. If you are travelling to Inverness at the next station please place your bags in the guard’s van which at the current time is empty.”

“You are reminded that this is a no-smoking train. A no-smoking train. If you are found smoking you will be removed from the train. Once again, this is a no-smoking train.”

“Please be vairy careful stepping out of the train. There is a lot of snow and ice still about and it slippery underfoot.”

“Coach B is the quiet coach. No mobile phones please for the comfort of your fellow passengers. Once again, Coach B is the quiet coach.” This announcement was much louder than the others, presumably for added effect.

And once again, in a very agitated and aggravated tone:

“We can smell smoke on this train! This is a no smoking train. Anyone found smoking will be removed. This is A NO SMOKING TRAIN. A NO SMOKING TRAIN.”

We pulled into Pitlochry a few minutes late and heeding the guard’s advice made our way carefully up the still snowy, slushy platform, pulling our cases through the mounds of ice. Jean was there to meet us and after a very foggy drive, finally it was Home Sweet Home.