SCOTLAND


at the bar. There is a diverse cast of customers — oil traders bound for Aberdeen, hillwalkers off to Ben Nevis, and one man travelling alone with his ginger cat. The train heaves out of the concrete


behemoth of Euston. Nightcaps are served beneath the Chilterns. Most customers are snoring by Crewe. Trackside goings-on subtly weave into passengers’ dreams: the bellow of a freight train at Penrith. The sudden stillness of a small-hours station in the Borders. Once I wake for a midnight wee, and see a full moon rising over obsidian Pennine hills. I think of WH Auden’s poem, Night Mail — both a description of a Scotland-bound night train and a meditation on the lines of communication that connect humanity: ‘This is the night mail crossing the Border, bringing the cheque and the postal order…’ In a few ways, travelling by sleeper stirs a


From left: Ben Alder Cottage stands by the shores of Loch Ericht; frozen branches in Loch Ericht forest; a horse grazes by the loch, with deer in the trees behind


childlike wonder. You climb into your bunk, trusting you will be ushered unconscious to your destination, like a baby dozing in a pushchair. You are rocked by the rhythmic lullaby of the rails. But the greatest wonder comes when you wake and part the cabin curtains, like opening wrapping paper on your birthday. The rush hour clamour of London has segued to silent wilderness. Lochs and lochans shimmer in the day’s first light. Munros glower down on the train, their lower slopes stiff with frozen heather, their upper


slopes sugared with snow. The trudge of London commuters has turned to the strut of an Imperial stag. You have travelled from one of Europe’s most densely inhabited corners to one of its most sparsely inhabited nooks — merely by closing your eyes. Our destination, Corrour station,


materialises out of blanket bog soon after breakfast. Corrour sees about 12,000 passengers per year — which is roughly the same as Euston gets in a single peak-time hour. It’s also the highest station in the UK, and inaccessible by public roads. A station building houses a cafe serving those who come for the novelty factor but, as we draw in, we see a sign has been placed by the front door: ‘Closed for the Season’. On a sleeper train you inhabit a pocket of


comfort — a roving ambassador for civilised living — with hot showers, hot food, soft beds and attendants summoned at the press of a button. With a single step onto the platform at Corrour you begin to exile yourself from the trappings of modernity — entering a landscape where people are scarce, help can be distant, and sharp air is largely undisturbed by mobile reception. You enter a place beyond railway lines, telephone lines and electricity lines. The transition is abrupt. Suddenly you must stand on your own two feet. As we get ready to disembark, Alec, one of the sleeper attendants, asks where we


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