The Railway from the Isles

These names are redolent in my mind with the mysticism of the road to the Isles- station names that rolled off the tongue as the train itself rolled through a countryside, becoming greener and more lush the further south we got.

We had a journey of three hours, stopping at small stations with only a handful of walkers in boots, carrying poles or cyclist in mud spattered jackets, carrying panniers, getting on to the train.

We read, we dozed, we looked out at forests and moors and huge lochs stretching as far as our craning necks could see. There were a few sheep high on the hills almost out of sight and paths winding along through trees and up over moors.

Gradually civilisation took over from the rugged highland terrain with more houses dotting the landscape, until at last we were decanted into a maelstrom of humanity in Glasgow, and then finding ourselves standing, fighting for a space on an overcrowded train to Edinburgh, caused by a disruption to the service between the cities- the work on the Winchburgh Tunnel to blame.

We were home and already longing for the peace of the Isles.
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