by David McVey

Betwen 2004 and 2008 my wife had to move to Inverness for family reasons. I remained in the Glasgow area - my job was there and I couldn’t find work in the north - and travelled up every weekend.

That long Friday journey north, from Glasgow Queen Street to Inverness was a trial. Squeezed into a packed threecoach (if you were lucky) ScotRail train, having paid c£50 for the privilege, the temperature plummeting to near zero every time the electric doors whizzed open at Dalwhinnie or Newtonmore on a blizzardy February night, travel had rarely seemed so dismal.

And then, online, I made a discovery. This discovery changed my travel pattern. After work on Friday, I went only as far as Stirling by ScotRail. And then began an experience that hinted at the romance rail travel once offered.

In winter I’d wait on the platform at Stirling, looking south into the gloom from the lights under the canopy. A distant klaxon sounded and a headlight appeared to the south; it slowly grew in brightness and power. And then came a visceral rumbling that you could hear and feel as a powerful train approached and finally exploded alongside the platform with a deep animal growling. This was the Highland Chieftain, which left London King’s Cross at noon, reaching Stirling at around 5.20pm.