We rolled away from Edinburgh Waverley having been piped aboard and headed west into bright sunlight. I had packed and repacked six times, eventually settling on a patriotic tartan jacket for the first day — not a great choice as it turned out, as I resembled one of the upholstered sofas in the observation car. Besides us, there were four American couples, three English, a pair of young men from Russia, a couple of young ladies from Germany and a handful of intrepid singles. “I just wanna know,” said Debra from San Francisco, as she sat in the open-air back section of the train facing the disappearing tracks, “when Hair-cool Poir-row is going to appear.”
Hair-cool was not aboard, but another literary figure, “Q”, was — a charming, former naval master of logistics, full name Quentin Banting — who acted as host and guide, pointing out scenery and useful historical facts along the way and making sure, with a touch that was both light but firm, that we were marshalled at certain times for meals and outings. The train manager was an obliging Frenchman called Vincent, leading a young team for whom nothing, but nothing, was too much trouble.
Glass of champagne in hand and at a steady 40mph, we made sedate progress through the back yards of Falkirk and Dumbarton to skirt Glasgow and reach the northern bank of the Clyde where we picked up the West Highland Line. Afternoon tea — a smorgasbord of cold meats, bread, scones, cake — was served as we travelled along the edge of Gare Loch. A deep sapphire blue in the afternoon sun, with a few sailing boats criss- crossing its waters, the loch was resplendent.
Loch Long was next and the distinctive froth of the Cobbler, Ben Arthur; past Arrochar we had our first view of Loch Lomond, and from the water’s edge at Ardlui made the hard climb up Glen Falloch. On the rails, rather than the road, there was an unmistakable sense of exploring uncharted territory, being part of a well-kept secret and much closer to the natural world. At Bridge of Orchy, by which time we had spent a good two hours admiring some of Scotland’s best-known lochs and mountains, an American sidled up to me on the viewing platform. “Is this the Highlands?” she asked.
We stabled for dinner and the night at Spean Bridge where we were ushered to a table in Victory, the car dating from 1945 that had vintage-look seats, rich wood panelling with marquetry and period lights.
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Dressing for dinner was in order; some people made up tables with new-found friends while others sat in their twos or fours. My father-in-law had teamed up with another Irishman and the two of them sat, without irony, discussing potato varieties and how best to boil them — “a serious business where I come from”, said the other. Our dinner was a little better than that. The train’s new chef, Dan Hall, had spent two years cooking for a winery owner in California and had been head chef at Nick Nairn’s two restaurants.
Royal Scotsman chefs have traditionally gone on to do spectacularly well — Andrew Fairlie (Gleneagles), Andrew Radford (Atrium) and Craig Wood (The Hallion) are all alumni — and having seen the size of the kitchen and tasted the exquisite food that came out of it for three days, I can see why. Imagine producing perfectly executed roast breast of Barbary duck with pancetta- wrapped figs for 30 demanding guests, all sitting down at once, from a space the size of a snooker table.
Victuals are one of the things the Royal Scotsman traditionally does best and each course was accompanied by a well-chosen and unusual wine. Father-in-law, who happens also to be a master of wine, was impressed. If I have a criticism, it is that the sommelier, who was German, did not have the linguistic skills to engage with us about the wines, although he may have been a conversational genius to the German lady passengers.
After-dinner entertainment was provided by a vocal Highlander demonstrating how an old-fashioned plaid was once worn and how a Jacobite used his broadsword and bazooka. He was good, if a bit bellicose. His spiel could have done with a bit more romantic Celtic legend or poetry; moreover we were convinced he was actually Irish, although he said he came from the part of Invernessshire where they just sound Irish. After a triple armagnac — all drinks are included and the bar staff don’ t bother with measures — I reeled to my carriage for a sound night’s sleep.
My compartment, one of 16 in all, had two single beds — not bunks — with thick mattresses and high-gauge sheets, mellow wood panelling around the walls and a ceiling fan that, while not entirely authentic, did conjure up something of the Raj experience. The en-suite shower was surprisingly powerful, although its hot water supply was shared with the next-door cabin, which meant father-in-law and I couldn’t both shower for long at the same time. There was a wardrobe, dressing table, writing paper and large bottles of Molton Brown lotions. I found it a peaceful retreat.
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The morning brought elevated views of the islands and crannogs of Loch nan Uamh, as we made our way west to Arisaig, the sands of Morar and Mallaig. The weather had turned cloudy and a little cooler, but this in no way dampened the enthusiasm of the guests. “I like it moody,” enthused Debra. A coach, done up in the Royal Scotsman’s maroon livery, took some of us to walk sedately on the beach at Traigh, and salmon and chablis were served as we snaked slowly back over the Glenfinnan Viaduct to Fort William — a highlight of the trip for me, as we looked down at the Glenfinnan monument at the head of Loch Shiel.
After Fort William, where the engine moved from one end of the train to the other and father-in-law became embroiled in an in-depth discussion about shunting, we headed south to Bridge of Orchy, picked up the coach again and followed the road past Ben Cruachan, hugging Loch Awe, to Inverawe Smokehouses. This well-known, family-run fish and meat smokery near Loch Etive gave us a private tour, drinks and canapés made with their own produce and, refreshingly, nobody tried to sell us anything.
As dinner that night, stabled quietly on the branch line at Taynuilt, was a four-course black-tie affair — fillet of Aberdeen Angus with a St Emilion Grand Gru 1997 — Q informed us that we’d be allowed a lie-in in the morning, and brunch would be served at 10. This shifting of pace was well considered and produced another highlight: the opportunity to wake slowly as the train moved off at 8am, open the curtains to the sun rising, and lie back to observe the moving pictures of burns, waterfalls, pines, hills and wildlife — some of the world’s most romantic and evocative scenery in harmony with the gentle rocking motion of the train.
Our final full day produced another good change of pace: we thundered down to Gourock and picked up the ferry across to the Isle of Bute, for a private tour of Mount Stuart, the Marquess of Bute’s ancestral home. The third Marquess — Roman Catholic, philanthropist, perfectionist — used the family fortune (made from mining in Wales) to build this extraordinary house. A temple to the artistry of woodcarvers, glaziers, stonemasons, tapestry-weavers and more, it is an architectural and sensual delight, well worth the detour.
After a final night stabled at Stirling (salad of white and green asparagus with a black truffle vinaigrette) we skimmed down the line to Edinburgh and mutual farewells were said. Many people swapped names and addresses and promised to meet in New York, to relive their quiet adventure.
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The Royal Scotsman does attract those people of a certain age who have the time and money to go on it. Our three-night Western tour cost £2,000 a head, but included so much, on the train and in our well-paced itinerary, and was such a masterclass in logistics, that we came to the conclusion it really did represent value for money. The price certainly would have equated to three all-in, luxury nights in London — and, in any case, for most of these passengers, it was not the money that mattered: it was the moving experience.
Details: The full programme of tours for 2004, including specialist-led garden and whisky tours, can be obtained from the Great Scottish & Western Railway Company Ltd, 46a Constitution Street, Edinburgh (0131 555 1344/1021; www.royalscotsman.com)