SLEEPER TRIPS - SEVENTEEN AND COUNTING

Every year, on or around the summer solstice, a small but persistent band of members swop their humdrum, monotonous lifestyles for a week of excitement and adventure. The annual sleeper trip, no less. The destinations have varied in the seventeen years we have been going, and have included those well-known Celtic outposts, Cornwall and Ireland. The basic format has not changed much, although the length has gradually increased:

Tuesday
Meet at the Fisherman's Rest at 2200 hours for kit inspection and issue of beer rations, before departure to Preston station.

Wednesday
Entrain at 0048 hours on the sleeper from Euston. Convince steward that the date on our tickets relates to the day of our joining his train rather than when it started its journey ('Are we not a day early, sir?'). Negotiate with now-harrassed steward on availability of a cooked breakfast for the morning. This seems to vary with the tides, like so much else belonging to our many and varied rail franchisees. Progress to lounge car (equipped with real, movable tables and chairs) to consume additional beer rations, and play guess-the-station as lights flash past in the darkness of North Lancashire and the Lakes. Retire to bed sometime after Oxenholme.

Reveille at approx. 0330 thanks to much shunting and banging at Edinburgh Waverley, as the train is cut in three to serve Aberdeen, Inverness and Fort William. Drift off to sleep again hoping that we are still going where we thought we were. Secondary reveille from the steward at 0700-ish to better appreciate early morning over the West Highland/ Cairngorm/Grampian mountains, depending on sleeper route selected. Take breakfast in the day coach amidst superb scenery, either real or imagined, depending on the weather.

Arrive at the sleeper's destination and switch to a local Class 156 for onward travel, to such exotic places as Mallaig, Kyle of Lochalsh or Thurso, amongst fellow travellers mostly of antipodean or North American extraction. Their common feature, apart from shorts and sandals, seems to be financing their trip by winning the college Design-a-Giant-Rucsac competition. Arrive at pre-selected bed and breakfast accommodation to deposit bags and seek advice on availability of local cuisine (the nearest curry house).

Thursday
More travel, either astride the breadth of Scotland from Inverness to Kyle of Lochalsh and back again, across the water from Oban to Mull or a return from Caithness to the deep south (Inverness). Sample more of the local cuisine (the nearest Chinese).

Friday
Morning at leisure, stocking up on the duty-paid and similar valuable souvenirs. Afternoon train back to Glasgow to connect with the Euston-bound service. Haggle en-route over the ubiquitous mobile phone to persuade/ encourage/ require selected friends and relatives to attend Preston station to pick up assorted weary travellers. Back in Southport in time for debriefing at the weekly SMRS meeting.

1995 - INVERNESS AND KYLE OF LOCHALSH

Our first, tentative, visit north of the Great Divide (the Merseyside/Lancashire county line). As befits an advance party, the numbers were limited to three of the society's most expendable members.

Half-past midnight is not Preston station's most enchanting time-slot. However there is a certain air of expeditionary anticipation, of those few passengers hanging around the waiting room being united in a common purpose.
Fortunately in mid-June the night-time temperature is almost bearable. It is therefore possible to wander casually around the station (deserted of staff even more than of passengers) sniffing the night air and listening for signs of activity on and off the premises, at a time when sensible people are well tucked up in the pub.

From time to time a glow of lights in the distance followed by a growing rumble of sound indicated the approach of a freight train, increasing yet further the wear rate of the West Coast main line. Eventually a much slower-moving set of lights suggested that something might be stopping.
This precipitated a hurried debate as to which section of the platform we should stand on to line up with the right coach. BR had helpfully provided colour coding, but at that time of night colour-blindness is likely to strike without warning, and just when you can't even remember your destination. The right choice is crucial, as error means not only no berth but also being on the wrong side of the Great Train Divide at Edinburgh.

Fortunately the stewards have seen this all before. They know how to comfort confused passengers and shepherd them towards the right part of the train as it picks up speed towards the badlands of north Lancs. 'Can I get you something from the bar sir?' is a winner every time. The sleeping compartments are just that, a compartment to sleep in, as there is precious little room to do anything else. It also helps if you're not very tall. A broad gauge sleeper must be something else. Whether you actually sleep or not is somewhat of a lottery, the main factor being whether your body considers the swaying of the train, the occasional jolting over points and the continuous swish of the air conditioning a soothing invitation to slumber or a continual series of disturbances. Those who tend to the former are lucky indeed.

Some photos are here.

1996 - FORT WILLIAM AND OBAN

This was the route we tried to do in 1995, but couldn't because of the rush of bookings anticipating the closure of the Fort William sleeper. As it happened, it was saved by combining it with the Inverness and Aberdeen sleepers as far as Edinburgh.

On this trip we did the Tyndrum Mile for the first time, getting off the Glasgow-bound train from Fort William at Tyndrum Upper, instead of at the more sensible crossing point at Crianlarich. There we would have had only to stagger across the platform onto the Oban train from Glasgow. However this has its next stop at Tyndrum Lower, so it's really just a gentle downhill yomp from Upper to Lower. And plenty of time to stop at the hotel on the main road for rest and recuperation.

We also sampled Mrs Campbell's B&B for the first time, and made such an impression that the two of them promptly fled to Connel. It was a full three years before we could track them down and descend on them again. We also sampled Oban's swimming pool, a luxury later trips would never allow. The timetables have certainly gained in intensity over the years - in the early years the trips were somehow more relaxed and contemplative. Soon put a stop to that - this is serious research, not a holiday.

Some photos are here.

1997 - INVERNESS AND THURSO

To the far north. The itinerary was:
     Tuesday - sleeper to Inverness,

     Wednesday - Class 156 to Thurso,
     Thursday - train back to Inverness,
     Friday - train to Preston via Glasgow.


Some photos are here.

1998 - PENZANCE AND THE SOUTH-WEST

A new route, this time on the sleeper from Paddington to Penzance, then back to Bodmin Parkway for the Bodmin and Wenford Railway, then Taunton and Bishops Lydeard for the West Somerset, returning via Dunster and Taunton again to London. Peter Mills produced the brochures, clearly a travel agent in the making.

Some photos are here.

1999 - FORT WILLIAM, OBAN AND MULL

2000 - FORT WILLIAM, SKYE AND LEWIS

A four-day expedition, with trains, ferries and buses interacting with military precision, co-ordinating expeditionary travel into one harmonious whole. I for one was a little surprised at how smoothly it all went, given the number of connections that needed to be made, with little margin for error. The full route was Inverness, Kyle of Lochalsh, Skye, Mallaig, Fort William, Oban, Mull, Iona and back via Oban to Glasgow.

The only time things looked a little doubtful was the bus across Skye from the bridge at Kyleakin to the ferry at Armadale. A number of foreign tourists (American, as it just happened) kept the bus driver fully engaged in complex calculations over routes, times and costs, such that the departure was somewhat behind schedule. However the driver was clearly very familiar not only with the route but also with the limits of his vehicle's g-forces on the narrow, winding road to the ferry. Fortunately the other drivers on the route were also familiar with the bus's braking distances, and made appropriate allowances. We were not the first in the queue at the slipway, but certainly not the last either.

The other feature of the trip was a bus ride across Mull to Iona, reached by a short ferry ride from Fionnphort. The atmosphere of the place is a little muted by the large quantities of tourists (us included) bearing down on the cathedral from the tea-shops and cafes clustered around the ferry. An out-of-season visit might pay dividends.

Some photos are here.

2001 - A HEBRIDEAN ADVENTURE

To far-flung outposts of Empire. This trip was characterised by no less than three trips on the Fort William to Mallaig route, out-and-back on the Jacobite and then out again on the service train for a night at the Station Hotel in Mallaig. Then ferry to Armadale on Skye, bus to Uig and another ferry to Tarbet on Harris. Bus to Stornoway, ferry the next day to Ullapool and bus to Inverness for the train home. Variety or what?
Another new experience was witnessing the naval might of the free world exercising across the full width of the Minch, whilst our MacBraynes ferry innocently tried to run the blockade to the mainland. A couple of Mark XII torpedoes (or were they only seals?) across the bows and the captain agreed that perhaps might was right after all, and backed the foretops'ls (or whatever captains do in mechanical ships) to gave way to the flotilla approaching out of the sun.

Some photos are here.

2002 - THE IRISH REPUBLIC

Our first foreign excursion. Precedent was set a few years ago when 'Scotland' was interpreted as 'a part of the UK with strong Celtic traditions', to permit a sleeper trip to Cornwall. This year the definition was re-interpreted as 'the land over the sea with strong Celtic traditions where they play a mean game of football', to bring Ireland into the frame. We decided on a triangular tournament, taking in Dublin, Tralee and Cork, with a four-man team that included one new signing, the ink on his domestic visa still wet.

The sleeper element was established by selecting the overnight Merchant ferry from Liverpool, a large modern ro-ro mainly used for lorries. The vessel was clean and spacious, with a friendly crew, comfortable cabins, a good restaurant and a bar. What more could one want? Departure was a protracted business, as Canada Dock is somewhat remote from the Mersey, with a large pair of slow-moving lock gates protecting it from the unruly watery elements. After a good deal of to-ing and fro-ing and at least two three-point turns we eventually emerged into the river proper. The captain promptly unleashed a tightly-wound rubber band and we accelerated smartly westwards. The urge to join hands and sing 'Ferry cross the Mersey' was firmly resisted, in favour of going indoors for dinner.

Dawn saw us cruising serenely into Dublin harbour, where we disembarked ready to do battle with the Irish Immigration Service. Unfortunately they seemed to have forgotten all about the fixture, and failed even to turn up. We therefore entered a completely unprotected Euroland, with our refugee status not even questioned. The wire cutters and camouflage suits were put back into the rucsac, ready for the next raid on Tesco. The first necessity was breakfast, as the ship's offering had been deemed to be far too early for mere tourists to accomodate. A taxi took us to Heuston station, where the first change to the carefully-crafted schedule was voted through, namely an earlier departure to Tralee, the better to throw pursuing officialdom off the scent. The ticket office confirmed that a return ticket to Tralee could be purchased that permitted a diversion to Cork on the return leg (only) at no extra charge, which seemed well, a trifle Irish. Not that we complained.

After a pleasant half hour spent eating, drinking and watching Dublin's commuters hurrying off to work, we ventured onto the platform to see what transport awaited us. Modern-ish diesels pulling old-ish stock, looking like something from British Rail 30 years ago, when trains ran on time and the staff knew which company they worked for. Only the colour scheme spoiled it - black and orange doesn't do much for Southport FC, and does even less for railway stock.

Tralee turned out to be a pleasant small town with a distinctly Irish character. After checking-in at the B&B we split up into two teams, the better to infiltrate the local ambience and search for the elusive Tralee and Dingle Railway. Needless to say it was the A Team which discovered its hideout, a small shed on the edge of Blennerville village about a mile out of Tralee. The solitary loco was out of service for peak-season boiler maintenance, so we had to be content with taking photos and imagining what it might be like chugging up and down the remaining two miles of track with its small collection of coaching stock. The operation looked a touch minimalist, but probably no less enjoyable for those involved. The evening was spent at a typical Irish pub, with typical Irish live music. Untypical in that it was in Ireland.

The next day we were due to play Cork, but another option was taken up on the way, that of visiting Killarney. Its station is on a short spur off the main line, so it was the train's turn to shunt backwards and forwards into position for disembarking. The first port of call was the permanent model railway in the town centre, a single large exhibit purporting to show the whole of Euroland (and certain renegade states such as the UK) in one sweeping canvas. This inevitably caused some difficulties with scale, but marks were awarded for grandeur of concept as much as for quality of execution.

Rumours of a castle in the vicinity were then pursued, navigating by the sun westwards until we arrived at the imposing architecture of Ross Castle, amongst some decorative lakeside scenery. Refreshed at the teashop we decided to take the restful way back by pony and trap, accompanied by a driver who could have easily walked into any Hollywood film about the Emerald Isle, so well did he fit the stereotype. The only jarring note was his complaint about insurance costs, which seemed a touch off-message.

Onwards to Cork, which turned out to be a somewhat industrial and down-at-heel place, not quite what we were expecting from Ireland's 2nd city. Our detailed investigation was postponed somewhat by the discovery of a suburban side-shoot to Cobh (pronounced Covebh), with a train waiting expectantly in the siding. Diversion no.3 was promptly approved and an evening excursion to the Titanic's last port of call embarked upon. On arrival we discovered an American team had got there first, and in typical understated fashion had hired a complete cruise ship as personal transport. Fortunately they had just done Ireland in 30 minutes, and were on the point of departure, with a local brass band noisily celebrating the fact. We were therefore able to practise our Guinness-drinking and group photo-taking whilst watching them sail off into the sunset, perhaps never to return.

A nearby statue commemorated the flow of emigrants which had left from that landing-stage for a better, or at least very different, life in the New World. One wondered just what proportion of the liner's passengers had claimed Irish descent as an excuse for the trip - probably 95% or thereabouts. Perhaps some were homesick for their heritage to the point of jumping ship, and were even then clambering over the rocks, Gucci suitcases in hand, to claim asylum in the land of the free Euro? Again, no sign of the IIS with man-sized fishing nets - did they actually exist?

The B&B turned out to be in a characterful old house on a hill next to an old military hospital, run by a lady whose collection of object d'art was as imaginative as it was striking. Her knowledge of European tramways was equally impressive.

Next morning saw us back on the rails again to Dublin, a journey enlivened by the buffet steward depositing the entire trolley onto its side, the better to entertain passengers (and definitely not customers). In the UK this might have been a major disaster, in Ireland it was merely a short interruption to the service, which was resumed with commendable swiftness. On arrival we bussed across to Connolly station and headed off on another local train, this time a few miles northwards to Malahide.Another castle, and another model display, this one courtesy of a Mr Cyril Fry (deceased), and a more sophisticated effort altogether, with some quality static exhibits as well.

Returning to Dublin, our final B&B was of altogether diffferent, and Catholic, style, run by an elderly couple who quite clearly knew their heritage and their place in it. This was reflected in the furniture and decor - Ikea chic and flat-pack self-assembly it certainly was not. The negotiations on the timing of breakfast were unexpectedly protracted, as a certain football match involving two non-Irish countries was timed to start just at the endof the cereal course, creating a log-jam of demand for the eggs and bacon. Perhaps with a premonition of the outcome, some graciously decided food was a priority over mere sport, while the rest of us saw England take lead before deciding to eat. Consoling ourselves that England had lost to the likely World Cup winners, we took a bus into Dublin centre and again split up, this time exploring the city singly. Time for purchase of souvenirs, postcards and the like, and for checking the authenticity of the bullet-holes in the GPO's front elevation. At least there was no nonsense over calling it Consignia, so they must have done some good.

After regrouping at the bus station (for the left-luggage facilities) we departed by taxi for the ferry port and a rendezvous with the Sea-Cat. The return journey was a touch bumpier than the outward trip, partly due to the captain keeping up a determined 36 knots until well into the Mersey, doing some impressive fly-bys of slow-moving traffic on the way. A quick hard left under the nose of the Birkenhead ferry and we slid sideways onto station alongside Pier Head, almost on time. The final score: UK 4, IIS 0 - a very satisfactory result.

Some photos are here.

2003 - A GRAMPIAN ODYSSEY

Number nine already, and it seems barely a decade since we first set out on these little jaunts to the extremes of ex-Railtrack's network. One day I shall remember what ex-Railtrack calls itself now, but then again it may not last beyond the next election so perhaps I won't bother. As to destination, regular readers will surely have noticed that there are three sleeper destinations north of Scotland's Central Belt (as the planners insist on calling it) and the SMRS have only visited two. The Granite City beckoned, and there was no putting it off.

The first task was to establish a viable itinerary. High on the Essentials list were Inverness and the Speyside Railway at Aviemore. Close behind as Highly Desirables were Edinburgh and the Bo'ness and Kinneil Railway. The Possibles bringing up the rear consisted of the Keith and Dufftown Railway, the Alford Valley Railway and (in the interests of transport diversity) the adjacent Alford Motor Museum. The next problem was how to join up the dots in a smooth anticlockwise progression taking in as many as possible of the above, plus suitable accommodation, public houses and restaurants. At a pinch, we were prepared to combine the last two categories. Previous experience suggested that the local bus network could be relied on to fill in the gaps between Scottish railheads. That nice Mr. Google's search engine was therefore filled with such words as 'Grampian', 'omnibus' and 'June' to see what might pop out.

The results were encouraging, hinting at the existence of a morning bus from Aberdeen to Alford (daily) and an afternoon one from Alford to Dufftown (Tuesdays and Saturdays). The latter was undoubtedly a critical path, as it led not only to the K&DR but also to a B&B at D. Failure at this point would leave us stranded in the depths of Aberdeenshire, with the expedition barely started. Such was its importance that I took the opportunity of a business trip to Aberdeen to call in at the bus station to demand documentary proof of the existence of the service in question.

Much to my surprise two separate threads of evidence were produced, as required for a conviction under Scots law. One was a printout from the ubiquitous computer, the other a genuine pre-printed leaflet complete with an up-to-date timetable for Service 335. I returned south satisfied, with only the remotest feeling of disquiet that both strands relied on the service actually running on the particular Tuesday we needed it to. Common-mode failure is the technical term.  As for the rest, it was never going to be that simple. Halfway through scouring the Internet for B&Bs beginning with ‘Mc’ I decided to check the provenance of the Bo'ness railway timetable. Doesn't run on Thursdays or Fridays. B*gg*r (join up your own dots). Reluctantly the venue was consigned to the ‘next year in Jerusalem’ pile. A similar check, inexplicably carried out at a much later date, indicated that the Keith and Dufftown was a weekend-only affair. Still worth a visit, but back to buses for that leg of the trip.

After the usual burst of enthusiasm from potential trippers, the requirement for financial backing soon whittled them down to four. These included the two who have been in it from the start, and a third since his membership was authorised in the necessary triplicate. The fourth was a newbie, proving that advanced years and a medical history donated for teaching are no bar to railway adventuring.  The start was uneventful, although the use of a car to get to Preston required a somewhat earlier start, and longer wait at the station, than normally scheduled. An attempt was made to confuse us by directing the sleeper into a different platform than expected, but we were up to the challenge and boarded successfully.

Aberdeen was its usual monochrome self, enlivened by the occasional shaft of sunlight turning the dull grey stonework into bright grey stonework. Its bus station was co-located with its railway counterpart, a sensible piece of town planning that seems to be completely beyond the good burghers of Southport, who add insult to ignorance by pretending that a holiday resort doesn't really need a bus station at all. A single stop in the middle of a busy street will suffice, and we can sell the now-spare land to a supermarket. End of rant.

Bluebird Northern's list of destinations was impressive, both for its length and for its complexity of names. Every other one was a Mearns of Balquidder or a Mains of Auchterlonie or similar.  Departures involved an angled reversing manoeuvre, controlled by a uniformed employee equipped with a whistle and no doubt a set of codes for such commands as ‘Left hand down a bit’, ‘I said left, you deaf Doric’ and ‘Now look what you've done’. The journey itself confirmed one of Aberdeen's main virtues - you can quickly get out of it into some fine unspoiled and low-traffic countryside.

Alford was a typical Aberdeenshire village, with the addition of an excellent transport museum and a small narrow-gauge railway. The museum included such gems as a Morris 10, a Foden steam lorry and a tractor as used by Edmund Hillary to cross the Antarctic, all in excellent condition. If only they had managed to open the café mid-week we would have had no hesitation in awarding an SMRS gold star. As it was they had to get by on a silver.

The railway was a low-budget affair (diesel power in a steam outline) that meandered slowly across a golf course and back again. Such was the leisurely nature of both activities that none of us felt in any danger from either runaway trains or low-flying golf balls. Still it was a pleasant way to pass an afternoon, interspersed with occasional checks at the adjacent Tourist Information Office to see how they were getting on with making sure that Service 335 was actually running that day. The SMRS hasn't got where it is today without being sure of its facts. There was also the worrying question of whether the bus actually stopped in the village or at Bridge of Alford, a mile or so up the road.  In the event all was well, and we boarded the right bus at the right place at almost the right time. Another silver star.

Dufftown is a place which takes its drinking seriously.  Not, I hasten to add, in terms of the number of its inhabitants staggering from one bar to the next in a state of semi-permanent intoxication. A more sober and upright citizenry would be hard to find in any Moray township. In fact the town is the self-styled capital of the Scotch Malt Whisky industry, as demonstrated by the number of distilleries, whisky shops and whisky museums in the locality.

We resisted the numerous invitations to tour a distillery (seen ten, seen them all) but in the interests of modelling research some photographs were taken of the home of Glenfiddich and a museum was visited.  A shop was also searched for signs of the presence of black gold (Loch Dubh 10-year-old) but without success.  The same evening we took the opportunity to inspect the Dufftown end of the K&DR, a relatively new preserved railway mainly running DMUs. Some interesting visiting Pullman stock was noted, also one or two strange vehicles of Canadian origin that resembled the railway equivalent of a bubble car. A good seven out of ten for effort, we thought, and well worth a Lotto grant to encourage further development.

At this point mention must be made of how such a gentle, if longer than anticipated, excursion was only possible after the medical pensioner in our midst had had his trousers repaired, after managing to split them asunder whilst performing some minor gentleman's procedure. The expert seamstress who restored his seams was none other than the mistress of the house in which we lodged. The service was rendered free of charge, but the recipient of such generosity (rather churlishly in the view of the rest of us) insisted on removing the garment before repairs were commenced.

Now adaptability is our middle name in the SMRS (along with John Smiths, the aforesaid Loch Dubh and a few others in similar vein). So when we realised that there was a bus to Elgin as well as one to Keith, we decided a cathedral city was far more worthy of our custom than a mere town. Both were on the main line to Inverness, so we could still reach our next stopover without difficulty. On arrival at Elgin, after another pleasant hour surveying Grampian scenery from a surprisingly modern bus, one of our number decided that he was just born to shop, and Inverness just had to be reached before its retail therapy establishments closed for the night. A new set of hedgehog spines for the sporran, or something similar.

So only three of us did the grand tour of Elgin, starting with lunch in a convenient pub, continuing with a professional survey of the ruins of the cathedral and finishing with a cream tea at a convenient café. Never let it be said that sleeper trips are all fun and frivolity. Scotrail then did their usual efficient job of transporting us to Inverness, where we were reunited with the solo shopper. He confirmed that the selected B&B was of an adequate standard and could be safely entered by the full team.

Of the evening's eating and drinking no more will be said, except that we took full advantage of the north of Scotland's ability to postpone a June nightfall until well after a southerner's normal bed-time.  Next morning we were up bright and early (or at least early) to embark on a visit to the Speyside railway at Aviemore.  This runs on part of the old Highland Railway line to Forres, a fairly modest distance but with well-restored locomotives, rolling stock and stations. The weather was also somewhat modest, with intermittent rain to start with. Another potential problem was several bus-loads of American tourists, who threatened to swamp both gift shop and train. Fortunately they had reserved coaches, so it was possible to keep them safely corralled for most of the time.

The line runs via Boat of Garten to Broomhill, whose station is best known for its character acting as Glenbogle in the TV series ‘The Monarch of the Glen’. Understandably the railway made the most of the connection, although in the author's view the lack of any Susan Hampshires in residence reduced the appeal considerably.
The highlight of the trip was the discovery of a lounge car fully equipped with both bar and food servery. Extra tickets were promptly purchased to prolong our stay in this mobile haven of civilisation.  Eventually however the staff showed signs of wanting to put their train away for the night and go home, so reluctantly we took our leave and changed platforms to catch the somewhat more modern service to Edinburgh.

The selection process for overnight accommodation has been rather glossed over so far. Let it be said that in most cases quality of the furniture and fittings, availability of a cholesterol-rich breakfast and closeness to railway stations and public houses are all key points in the assessment.  For Edinburgh however the over-riding factor was proximity to Harburn Hobbies, a modeller's emporium of considerable depth and variety. Therefore we were happy to occupy a B&B that otherwise might have scored a touch low against some of the more mundane criteria. It was also close to the city centre, which probably accounted for its modest performance/price ratio.

However its location did allow our patronage of a type of restaurant almost certainly new even to Scotland's cosmopolitan capital, the eat-all-you-can fixed-price Chinese buffet. Several different consumer strategies were noticed in this popular establishment. Examples were: (1) the ‘little and often’ employing frequent trips to the counter for modest portions of selected delicacies, with time inbetween for polite conversation and relaxed digestion, (2) the ‘I've started so I'll finish’ involving a determined, and towards the end a somewhat desperate, clockwise progress from the soup right round to the ice-cream, and (3) the ‘no-prisoners full-frontal attack’ involving loading the plate (or in extreme cases a pair of plates) to the limit of adhesion with four spoonfuls of everything in reach, and repeating the process until no longer able to stand. Needless to say, we ate well but not to excess, mindful of the need to be able to imbibe liquids for at least an hour or two afterwards.

Friday dawned fine but windy, just right for a short bracing walk to HH's, as we aficionados term it. A few minutes later (when strangely almost an hour and a half had passed in the muggle world outside) we emerged with sufficient goods to more than justify the whole sleeper trip, let alone the visit to Edinburgh. Never mind the mail-order service, sometimes one just has to be there.

For our final excursion we again split, with three choosing a city tour by yet another bus, whilst the ex-resident of Edinburgh decided to renew his acquaintance with the estimable Royal Scottish Museum. Much of it was as I remembered from twenty years ago, but a lot had been done by way of sprucing-up the exhibits and re-arranging them into themes, complete with the inevitable audio-visuals.  One new item was Dolly the sheep, looking startlingly life-like and remarkably healthy for a stuffed stiff.

By mid-afternoon the team were reunited and Waverley station was re-entered to identify and board the train to Preston, before customs and passport control could intervene. Despite being completely unkilted we evaded detection and returned uneventfully to Merseyside, or to Greater Liverpool if some clown in local government has their way. Home rule for Lesser Southport, now that would be progress.

Some photos are here.

2004 - FORT WILLIAM, MULL AND BO'NESS

Here we are again, a decade older since the first sleeper trip, but little the wiser.

To make the tenth anniversary expedition one to remember (for its cost if nothing else) we decided to start it from London. This would give us the benefit of the full sleeper experience, instead of the partial Preston one. The route selected was based on the classic 1997 excursion to Fort William, Oban and Mull. Again for reasons of jubilee, it would be extended, this time by a visit to the Bo'ness and Kinneil Railway. Regular readers will recall how a quirk of timetabling cruelly deprived us of a visit to this establishment last year. This time, instead of major corrective surgery to our schedule, we adopted the innovative solution of arranging our own personal tour of the site, courtesy of the Scottish Railway Preservation Society.

To start at the beginning. Only three members finally secured authority to travel, mirroring the number participating in the first trip ten years ago. One of these originals had been on all ten, but if he was expecting any form of long service award or discount for quantity he was to be disappointed. We set off from Liverpool Lime St in optimistic mood, encouraged by the knowledge that the incoming train was only fifteen minutes late and we had nearly three hours in hand for the connection in London. Perhaps Virgin's inability to provide anything resembling tickets was a premonition of trouble in store. Problems started as soon as we boarded. Firstly, no air conditioning in our coach, on one of the first really hot days of the year. Secondly a failed train near Tring. Thirdly a derailment on the Northampton circle. Fourthly a track circuit defect somewhere else on the main line. The chance of further southbound movement seemed remote, despite promises of another train 'just behind'. We counted four parked behind us on the approach to Milton Keynes station, where our train had come to a stop. There were rumours of buses to Euston, but even if these were true we would not make the sleeper.

Fortune favours the brave, or at least the dead lucky. Out of the early evening sun came a train bound for Preston, having given up its attempt to reach Euston and sensibly retreating back north. A quick debate and a motion was carried to return to Crewe, to intercept the sleeper at its first scheduled stop. We boarded an empty train, fended off a posse of stewards defending the first class carriages and launched into a free and frank exchange of views with the train manager. As a result we were quickly ushered into first class and cans of chilled lager were promptly produced. We learned that at least six Pendolinos had expired in and around London that day. Wrong type of sun perhaps, or maybe the Italians had designed them in Centigrade while most of us Brits still measure in Fahrenheit.

Once safely returned to the relative civilisation that is Crewe, two objectives were identified, to eat and to estimate the time of arrival of the sleeper, which at that very moment was struggling to release itself from the chaos gripping Euston. Eventually it broke free, but at the cost of all its coaches being marshalled in the wrong order. Not a trivial problem, as we shall see. After careful reconnaissance of Crewe's catering facilities we began to wonder if the town's only virtue was its railway connections. One establishment proudly announced its propensity for late opening, only to spoil the party somewhat by defining 'late' as not exceeding 6pm. However in the nick of time an Italian restaurant was located that was not only open but also served quite palatable pasta.

Safely aboard the sleeper, albeit an hour late, we considered ourselves back on track. However Virgin Trains had one last trick to play. The random assortment of carriages that was our train had to be re-sorted at Edinburgh, so that at least some of its passengers would end up at the correct destination. So the time made up en route was more than lost again.

However our Scotrail sleeper attendant (a fellow-member of the East Lancashire Railway Society, as it just happened) rose to the challenge, and with only a modicum of encouragement phoned ahead to secure a taxi for us. This would provide a short-circuit by road from Bridge of Orchy to Fort William, thus ensuring the connection with the Jacobite and maybe also pioneering a new sleeper route for Scotrail to develop.

The taxi driver was soon elected a day member of the SMRS, on the strength of a lifetime's interest in motorbikes (matching that of our eldest participant) and of an aunt living within yards of the deputy chairman. He repaid his election by pointing out a house in Glencoe which he confidently declared to be the property of Jimmy Saville. Unfortunately we did not have the time to call to see if the great man himself was at home, or if he too was stuck on a Pendolino somewhere in the depths of London's hinterland.

In the event, the steam train waited the few minutes necessary for its diesel counterpart to arrive, thanks to some cunning play with the signalling system by the Jacobite's fat controller. However it would have been barely sufficient for us to have performed the necessary ticket collection manoeuvre, so the taxi option turned out to be a wise move. The journey to Mallaig was as uneventful as it was pleasant, with B1 No. 61264 providing efficient motive power. The only jarring note was when a senior official of the West Coast Railway Company let slip that the Special Operations Executive once had a training base barely a stone's throw from the line. Such a security breach should have resulted in instant and severe retribution. The fact that he continued his duties apparently unscathed served only to demonstrate the complacency of our security services nowadays.

Two events of note marked our short stay at Mallaig. Firstly we renewed our acquaintance with the Marine Hotel and its excellent local-caught haddock. Secondly Joe tipped his digital camera card into the drink. He claimed it was accidental, and definitely not a dead-letter drop for collection by an enemy submersible. Nor was it a self-destruct process, initiated by a camera with an over-sensitive picture processor. Short of calling up the nearby Outward Bound school's canoe patrol or the very adjacent RNLI fast rescue craft, there was little that could be done to retrieve the offending article. In due course no doubt it will sink down into the sea-bed ooze, and over geological time transmute into a fossil that will tax the bio-computers of research scientists in some future aeon.

Back in Fort William a sweep through the main street identified a photographic shop with supplies of the necessary electronic goodies to restore the camera to full functionality. Loch Dubh 10-year old whisky was also entered into the search engine, but to no avail. We consoled ourselves with tea and shortbread at that haven of genteel rest, the first-floor lounge of Ossian's Hotel.

Onwards then to Oban. We intended the by-now traditional train lovers' leap from Tyndrum Upper to Ditto Lower, but an increasingly damp tinge to the weather drove us on to Crianlarich. Before boarding the Oban train we made good use of the station cafe. Here was an establishment dedicated to the needs of railway travellers, that when the chips were down knew how to produce chips. It even advertised the availability of phone-ahead food, that could be snatched up en passant  by the hungry traveller, rather like the old-fashioned TPO lineside apparatus for collecting post bags. We made a careful note of this facility, as a possible means of acquiring a proper breakfast on a future sleeper trip.

Next morning we joined the merry throng of holidaymakers bound for Mull by Calmac ferry. An uneventful journey, for which we were grateful after the trials of the early part of the trip. We disembarked in light drizzle, but it being June at least it was warm drizzle. A gentle stroll around the bay followed. We dodged the numerous attempts to persuade us to board one of the numerous tour buses and navigated resolutely towards a signal post marking the start of the Mull Light Railway. We did however take note of the times of the Tobermory buses, as a wet-weather fallback Plan B.

This time the motive power on the MLR was diesel rather than steam, but the charm of Scotland’s island railway was undiminished. Indeed it was accentuated by the local fauna, in the form of hares bounding along the trackside in front of us and a stag guarding our seaward flank. By the time Torosay castle had been inspected the weather had brightened, to the extent of being able to sit outside and feed pieces of bun to a variety of birdlife. These had clearly carried out a finely-tuned risk assessment, and were willing to gamble all for a free lunch. The return journey was notable for sunshine and scenery that only the West Highlands can supply.

Our return to the B&B revealed yet another fascinating fact, namely that the man of the house had a relative living in Formby, dangerously close to one of our number. Whether he was also called Jimmy Saville we dared not ask. Next day involved an early start for the train to Glasgow and onwards to Linlithgow. There we were met by a certain John Birnie of the SRPS, who had been volunteered, in the unique way that voluntary organisations have, to look after us for the afternoon. After a false start at a bar that had a menu but no food, we lunched on traditional Scottish fish suppers and embarked on a guided tour of the Bo'ness and Kinneil Railway, led by a guide who was clearly an expert in the matter in hand.

Halfway round we were joined by Ian Duff, one of Tony's colleagues from a previous life long ago when insurance companies employed real people instead of unreal answering machines. Ian picked up the hospitality baton from John and chauffeured us into Edinburgh for a meal and then back out to Bo'ness for the B&B. He confessed a primary interest in ferries rather than railways, but nonetheless SMRS favoured-trading status was gratefully conferred on both parties.

The accommodation that night was a large house in uptown Bo'ness, complete with sweeping drive, Firth of Forth views and turrets. Our only disappointment was that the guns had long since been removed, so shooting at the oil tankers in the river was possible only with cameras. The final day began in more leisurely style, with a lift to Linlithgow station by our host for the train to Edinburgh. There we enbussed for Leith, to view the Royal Yacht, before entrusting ourselves to Virgin Trains for the journey back to Wigan. Although tickets still seemed beyond them, at least an authority to travel was ready and waiting.

Altogether now: ‘Dear Mr Branson, I fail to understand why, in this day and age....’.

Some photos are here.

2005 - AVIEMORE AND KYLE OF LOCHALSH

The government, we are reliably informed, is considering congestion charges for the train network. After years of being harangued about the virtues of public transport (not that the SMRS ever needed convincing) it seems that it is now too popular for its own good. We will be required to pay extra for letting the train take the strain.

Maybe now is the time to do the same for the sleeper trip. With bookings up 100% from last year it is clearly underpriced, and in danger of being enjoyed by the unwashed masses, instead of by the discerning Alpha elite who are the target grouping. Perhaps we are making the itinerary too attractive - this year not only a guided tour of Speyside Railway's workshops but also a visit to the Commando Memorial at Spean Bridge. Add in a short but significant ride in the day coach of the Fort William sleeper and the package was complete.

As a bonus, and probably uniquely in the history of rail tours, the trip started with a guided tour of a potting shed. Not any old shed it must be said, for it contained all the basics needed to support intelligent life, namely a beer store, a TV and a model railway layout. After the necessary critical review of the owner's modelling skills, we moved on to the adjacent begonia greenhouses. Again not just any begonias, but a sizeable portion of the National Collection, over 700 varieties in all. As Winston Churchill very nearly said: 'Never in the field of human horticulture has so much been grown for so many by so few'.

After the chaotic scenes marking last year's departure, the initial moves of the 2005 expedition went remarkably smoothly. Despite using four different vehicles on the approach run we achieved a successful rendezvous at Preston station. The sleeper was on time, the berths were ready and waiting and the lounge car was freshly stocked with beer. Inverness was reached in style and comfort, with sufficient time for a second breakfast at a convenient cafe.
The Speyside Railway at Aviemore lived up to the reputation earned at our last visit, with the added bonus of weather which the global warmers constantly warn us about. Indeed the guided trip around the loco sheds gave some welcome shade, as well as a full description of its contents and of the difficulties of extracting suitable monies from the Lottery Fund.

Practice makes perfect so they say, and after last year's escapade with the camera card Joe went one better this time and remaindered the complete camera. Left in a drawer at the Inverness B&B, allegedly for safe keeping. Unfortunately he failed to report this manoeuvre to the expedition quartermaster. The item therefore was not recorded on the exit procedure checklist and remained secure in the dressing table, whilst we entrained for the west coast. Fortunately the landlady took pity on our senior citizen and responded positively to the phone call requesting the camera to be forwarded back to Formby.

The highlight of the westward journey, apart from the increasingly scenic and sunny scenery, was the sudden appearance of the Royal Scotsman tour train, which passed us eastbound at Strathcarron. For some reason we had not been advised of this venture, so quick work was needed with the remaining cameras to ensure the event was suitably recorded.

On arrival at Kyle the party split, with the majority heading to the Lochalsh Hotel for lunch, whilst the expedition's medical officer decided fasting would add to the pleasure of a dip in the jellyfish- infested waters of the loch. Next in a crowded itinerary was a bus across to Kyleakin on Skye. The fare was a shock - 15p for a single, strictly cash, no credit  cards, cheques or concessions. We reluctantly paid up and crossed over the now toll-free bridge to Kyleakin. After a quick survey of the village, and mindful of the clouds building up over the Cuillins, we embarked on a route march back over the bridge to the mainland, thereby saving the return bus fare for more important matters, such as tea and scones at the harbour cafe.

The final stage of the day was the bus ride to Spean Bridge. Much to our disappointment the driver accepted the printout of the internet booking with the merest dismissive glance. Any hopes of a prolonged and satisfying argument over the validity of our e-tickets were cruelly dashed. The ride itself was of the vigorous variety, through some of Scotland's finest (and towards the end dampest) glens, arriving shaken, unstirred and on time at the B&B. The evening was spent at the Commando Bar, drinking Skye ale served somewhat incongruously by a young Polish waiter. Attempts to generate interest in a gentle post-dinner yomp up to the Commando memorial met with a disappointing if predictable result. Also predictably, the day ended with testing a particular brand of malt whisky to destruction in the B&B's comfortable conservatory.

Thursday was Jacobite day, permitting a fairly leisurely start before boarding the day coach on the Fort William sleeper for the last few miles to its destination. A phone call to Fort William station confirmed it was on time, thereby ensuring we did not get up earlier than absolutely necessary. The steam loco was the same B1 as at our previous visit in 1991, this time camouflaged by a repaint in BR black. It performed faultlessly in both directions, and inbetween allowed us to partake of the usual excellent lunch at Mallaig’s Marine Hotel.

Now the competitive spirit is strong in the SMRS, and the loss of a mere camera was bound to produce a strong response. Knight to king's pawn two, and Jim claimed the disappearance of a bum bag, complete with many and various financial resources. Several helpful theories as to the circumstances of its loss were promptly proffered: it was left at the hotel at Mallaig, in the toilet on the train, on the street in Fort William, etc. A return to the train drew a blank, as did a phone call to the Marine Hotel. However as the unfortunate victim prepared to throw himself on the mercy of the police, our landlady phoned to say the article was indeed in the safe custody of the Fort William constabulary. Just how she knew of this information, and of the phone number to pass it on to, is one of those mysteries which, like Masonic secrets, are only divulged to those deeply immersed in the lore of the Bed and Breakfast hostess.

Jim then had the task of refilling the reclaimed bag, a distinctly non-trivial operation. The police, with their customary efficiency, had carefully segregated each item by type and deposited them into sealed envelopes, the better to make an exhaustive list of the bag’s contents. English notes, Scottish notes, dollars, euros, travellers cheques, keys, phones and enough plastic cards to play a decent hand of gin rummy, all had to be restored to their rightful compartment. Three cards had already been cancelled, and were ritually torn apart on the tea table, in front of witnesses. Then back to Spean Bridge for a second night, courtesy of the day coach of the southbound sleeper, somewhat cramped due to the lack of a lounge car and presumably, the beverage stocks which went with it. Same conservatory, different malt.

The final day dawned sunny after overnight rain, and we looked forward to a lack of unplanned events. We might have achieved this too, but for a camera charger which inexplicably became separated from its owner (Jim, as it just happened). Fortunately our landlady was by now well versed in our expedition procedures, and had carried out a comprehensive sweep-search of the bedrooms before signing our departure chit.

It was perhaps tempting fate to split up again at this stage, particularly with a southbound train to catch. However by now we were past caring, so three members were authorised to depart for Fort William on shopping leave, whilst the remainder set off for a brisk uphill stroll to the Commando memorial. There we paid our respects to both soldiers and scenery, before repairing to a convenient hotel for refreshments. Sitting outside enjoying the view had one drawback, in the energetic form of a young cocker spaniel that had clearly just been through its initial commando training and was anxious to practice its new-found skills on any unsuspecting visitor.

Back to Spean Bridge to collect bags and charger and await the Glasgow train. A phone call to the other half of the party confirmed that the train from Fort William was on time, the shoppers were aboard saving seats, and a local cafeteria had supplied a suitably-sized luncheon hamper to sustain us at least as far as Crianlarich. It seemed unnecessary  to mention that some of us had already partaken of venison and home brew at Spean Bridge station.

Glasgow Central was reached in good time, but this was more than could be said of the 1705 arrival from Euston. Its tardiness meant we were 20 minutes late leaving, and its lack of maintenance meant the public address, the air conditioning and the toilets were all of doubtful functionality. However we were promoted to first class for our trouble, so the overall rating of the sleeper trip was still scored as 'Excellent'. At Preston the doctor’s wife was ready and almost waiting to take us back to Southport, and no doubt to require her spouse to provide a full written inventory of items taken v. items returned. The retired fireman likewise retired to count his begonias and marvel at just how much spare-room-decorating a determined wife can do when her husband is well out of the way.

Click here for some photos.

2006 - THE SOUTH-WEST MODELLER

The prologue. Pulling rank in the gutters of power

It’s not often that one gets a Royal Summons. For most people it’s never, but the SMRS is not most people, nor even a most society. Six weeks and counting to the 2006 sleeper trip, and one pulls out for the most trivial of reasons. Apparently some amateur gardener, name of Charlie Windsor or some such, had asked if the royal personage could be allowed to make an exhibition of himself, and of his hostas, alongside the begonias for which our member is rightly famous.

I must confess my first response to this withdrawal was of indignation – how dare he do this! How inconsiderate! Where are his priorities? Doesn’t His Royal Hosta consult His diary before issuing an Imperial Command? How could He not know when the sleeper trip was – didn’t we have a Court Circular issued so that every duke, dignitary, nob and flunky knew when not to arrange garden parties and suchlike?

Our pleas for clemency fell on deaf ears – either your man turns up with the greens or bang goes his OBE, was the dismissive reply from Private Office. And don’t think the Tower of London is just for show either. Beneath the touristy facade lurks a deeper, darker level of dungeon just made for troublesome oiks like you. His HRH-ness was inspecting the manacles only last week, so get digging.

In the face of such regal imperatives our humble horticulturalist felt he had no option but to tug the knee, bow the forelock and submit to higher, or at least taller, authority. Despite dark mutterings about Getting Some of Me Mates to Go Down South to Mr Fancy Pants and Sort Him Out Proper, the resignation letter was signed, the deposit monies adjusted and the sound heard of size 10 (fireman’s, retired) boots stomping off to the greenhouse, spade dragging along behind.

For a moment fantasy took over. It was fate that reduced us to be the Famous Five, of Enid Blyton fame. Perhaps we were to solve some long-running crime that had baffled the Force, maybe another Beast of Bodmin, or the Great Tram Robbery of Seaton, or even the Phantom Imbiber of Beer. Then reality kicked back in, as it tends to do all too often. Who would be the odd man out on the sleeper, to take pot luck with a stranger sharing their cabin? Or would they get it to themselves, and be the envy of their friends? Would we consume more beer in five-man rounds than in six?

And so we were five.

There and back again in twelve easy steps

The organisation of the trip, like the well-oiled machine it was, clicked into gear around the Ides of March, with an extended and leisurely debate over destinations. A strong contender was a route back to Mull, with an overnight stay on the island to allow participation in some of the less bloodthirsty of the local sports, such as eagle dodging, seal ducking and whale surfing . However the realisation that Cornwall had escaped a visit for a good eight years swung the balance southwards, and it took a mere mention of the trams at Seaton to seal the decision.

A chance encounter between our exhibition manager and a representative of the Bodmin and Wenford Railway led to a promise of favoured visitor status at Bodmin. [Are these meetings really chance? – discuss.] Our thoughts then turned to the coast, for it would be at least nominally summer, and our buckets and spades were well overdue a trip to the seaside. Dartmouth looked nice, and, imagine our surprise, we could get there on a preserved railway from Paignton. All the while we considered, beer was never far from our thoughts, until some mental giant made the obvious neural connection [beer = Beer = Pecorama = not really that far from Paignton = very near to Seaton = trams].  And so we were decided.

Booking of trains and accommodation proceeded along familiar, well-worn lines. Virgin offered their usual incomprehensible pricing and illogical timetables, with Mozart symphonies heard in their entirety whilst waiting for Customer Service to serve our particular customer, whose call was valuable almost to the point of providing someone to answer it. A host of landladies expressed their eagerness to accomodate six, sorry only five now, adult males in their home-from-homes ('Are you with the sewage convention? – we’re fully booked that week'). The only hitch was Paignton, where so many ladies thrust their wares in the direction of the Society’s hapless booking clerk that he quite forgot which one he had eventually settled on, metaphorically, so to speak. A study of the list was not promising. At least fifty to choose from, with no clue from the memory as to which one it might be. Back to the phone, grateful for the foresight in subscribing to Telewest’s Talk Unlimited payment plan. In the event, the correct one was struck only fifth time lucky, and it wasn’t even on the list. I am available for lottery number predictions.

As to personnel, it looked for a while as if we would, for the first time, field the same team two years running. However the Middle-Aged Pretender put paid to that novel circumstance. Yet another reason to vote Republican.

The Famous Five Experience Beer

The first anomaly in the timetable involved going north from Wigan in order to progress southwards. One might be forgiven for dismissing this as yet another example of the idiosyncracy of Virgin Trains. The truth however was more prosaic, our chosen train ran non-stop from Preston to Euston, in a shade over two hours, so the diversion seemed well worth the effort. On top of this the female train manager told jokes, and responded to our complaint over buffet prices by explaining that women had both the foresight and the organisation to bring their own lunch. Gender was also apparently a factor in the need for at least one (male) passenger to try to get off at Wigan rather than enjoy an uncovenanted awayday to the capital.

Safely and promptly delivered to the metropolis, we sought further safe haven in the Head of Steam, a hostelry conveniently located at the entrance to Euston station. It also overlooked the bus stop, close study of which revealed several fascinating facts. Firstly the very latest double-deckers have outside handrails on the top front nearside corner, no doubt to facilitate cleaners swinging from bus to bus without the need for inconvenient ladders or awkward abseil ropes. Secondly all buses, of whatever vintage, carry in addition to the route number a small plate recording their tally of cyclists shot down in traffic combat. And thirdly, whilst all buses contribute to traffic congestion, it takes a bendybus to really tie it up in knots.

After a short intermission to synchronise watches and load up everyone's number into the ubiquitous mobile phones, the party departed to Paddington to reconnoitre the departure arrangements for the sleeper, including the location of the all-important First Class Lounge. With surplus goods deposited in the left luggage we then split up, for such diverse diversions as the Science Museum, the Natural History Museum, an open-air swimming pool, and the nearest pub to watch the world cup match of the day.

After regrouping for dinner at a nearby steak house we attempted a survey of Hyde Park, but the relevant authorities had clearly received a tip-off of our intentions and set all the gates and turnstiles to exit-only, to better protect the reputation of London's premier play park. So it was back to another pub (the Mitre) and another world cup match (Switzerland against Ukraine).

The First Class Lounge was just that, a first-class place to lounge and be looked after by an attentive steward before boarding the sleeper. Some experimental video was undertaken, with all the hallmarks of professional filming- multiple retakes, a director with a robust command of the English language, and actors who forgot their lines, quarralled over who should get the best parts and threatened legal action to secure their just rewards. It remains to be seen whether such hard-earned footage acquires the cult status it so clearly deserves.

The night passed (reasonably) uneventfully, the only events of note being an untimely sounding of the fire alarm in the early hours, and a complete failure on the part of all members to stand to at 0530 hours to salute the crossing of the Prince Albert bridge at Saltash. At least, being a south-bound sleeper there was no shunting at Edinburgh to tempt members out on to the platform, there to wander around in unsuitable night attire, higher brain functions barely ticking over.

Penzance arrived on time, giving us the best part of two hours to explore the harbour and the breakfast options of Sullivans diner. Not for the last time the loals failed to guess our true intent, enquiring as to whether we were perhaps twitchers? Twitching perhaps, but not at the excitement of bird-watching. Virgin Trains took us rapidly back to Bodmin Parkway, where we stood with a small group of like-minded folk to await the first train of the day on the Bodmin and Wenford Railway. It arrived pulled by a real live-steam GWR Pannier, which proceeded to demonstrate its traction qualities over some challenging gradients to Bodmin General. There Tony changed  into his Sir Topham Hat of Ribble Railway persona (one of several kept carefully in his software wardrobe) and blagged a visit to the footplate. He claimed later it was an unsolicited invitation from a driver who recognised the cut of his jib with no words being necessary. We didn’t believe it either.

The choice between proceeding to Boscarne Junction before or after lunch was really no contest - the culinary aspects of any sleeper trip are of equal importance to the railway matters. After a short visit to the workshops we departed northwards again, this time bound for Paignton via Plymouth and Newton Abbot. Our destination did not endear itself to our critical faculties, 'the Rhyl of the South' was one comment. A touch hard perhaps, but the Southport of the South it certainly was not. The lack of taxis at the station did not help; after a considerable wait we ended up using the same taxi twice to get all the party to the B&B. Next morning, after another pub meal and another world cup game, we entered the station to seek out the preserved line to Kingswear. The Manor locomotive and observation car were immaculate, the coaches less so, and the number of passengers surprisingly large. Not one but two pensioner coach parties. We deployed our younger members to outrun the zimmer frames and pensioner buggies and stake a claim to an entire SMRS compartment.

The trip was a scenic one past beaches and seascapes. On arrival at Kingswear we held back to allow the first wave of tourists to engulf the Dartmouth ferry. This was a short and slick operation, by seamen who gave the impression they were just itching to open up the engines well beyond their normal slow-ahead-both and see just how big a bow wave they could create on either bank of the Dart. The rendezvous point was the station building, which we later learned was built without the inconvenience of a railway to attract passengers bent on messing up its clean seats and tidy waiting rooms. Some minor problem over bridge-building rights apparently. The ticket we had purchased entitled us to a boat trip on the Dart, so we embarked on an hour-long cruise, complete with running commentary delivered with well-practised style and neatly-phrased wit. Houses occupied by the Dimbleby family and the late Agatha Christie were but two of the highlights, along with a castle and assorted harbour defences.

We returned whence we had come and departed east to Exeter, running the gauntlet of the Dawlish sea wall in the process. It was noticeable that the driver speeded up somewhat at this point, no oubt wishing to minimise exposure to the effects of global warming on wind and wave. Another taxi to another B&B, followed by a variation in the itinerary for which our sleeper trips are famous. Well, at least known. An evening excursion to Exmouth by the local train, a half-hour trip at a bargain price of £1.80 return, provided we stayed together. We promised the conductor we would, assuming no run-ins with the local constabulary.

These were present in alarming numbers at our destination, prompting speculation as to who was the mole in our midst who had leaked our travel schedule to officialdom? No-one confessed, and after a short walk alongside the estuary we edged carefully up to whether the police appeared to be congregating the thickest. The mystery deepened when a sign was spotted indicating a temporary road closure since 07.00 that morning. Was it royalty, perhaps, visiting yet another begonia collection? A coach pulled up, disgorging smartly-uniformed men and women carrying musical instruments, in some cases as big as they were. All became clear, it was royalty, to be precise a Royal Marine Band, come to serenade townsfolk and tourists alike with a Beating Retreat ceremony, complete with bugles, British Legion flag-bearers and a brace of bechained mayors. Their escort and warm-up act was a bunch of testosterone-fuelled PT instructors bent on demonstrating that if defence cutbacks meant no money to buy weapons, that was just fine by them. Memories of an innocent youth spent within sound of the RM School of Music at Deal, and of a grandfather playing trombone in the Chatham band, came flooding back to your humble scribe. The performance confirmed a long-cherished view that this was The Best Band in the Land, No Argument, OK?

Thursday was the first bus of the trip, from Exeter to Seaton via Beer. We phoned ahead to secure authority to pay an early call on our chosen B&B to deposit excess baggage. The need for this had become clear on the journey, as although the bus passed within a few hundred yards of Pecorama the final gradient would have been a severe test for a pedestrian under a full load, particularly in the steadily-increasing temperatures. So tiffin and regrouping at the B&B, itself requiring a modicum of climbing effort to reach, was a welcome respite. We were then able to enjoy the full Peco model railway experience as unencumbered tourists. The highlight was the excellent miniature railway, running amongst well-tended gardens and with cunning use of spring-loaded points to maximise the scenic effect. A parked Pullman coach provided a civilised location for afternoon tea, although two attempts were needed to partake of cream scones and ditto cakes. The first was thwarted by the need to wash up from the previous customers before more food could be served, a problem familar to students world-wide.

We returned via Beer village, resisting all temptations to consume alcohol therein, and thence along the cliff-top to Seaton, amongst views of shore and sea reminiscent of East Kent, complete with collapsible cliffs and pebble beaches.

The next morning, refreshed after a carnivorous dinner at the George and a excellent breakfast from our landlady, we embarked on a day-long exploration of the trams. These were relocated from Eastbourne in the 1960s, and were roughly two-thirds full scale. This meant that they looked big enough for amply-sized adults but actually weren’t, particularly for such crucial manouvres as ascending the spiral stairs to the top deck. However the views achieved were well worth the effort, as was the cooling breeze. Whilst the machines lacked the sophistication of their bigger Blackpool brethren, the charm factor was significantly higher, with the added satisfaction of knowing that a branchline trackbed was being put to better use than as a mere cycle track. A stop-off at the half-way point at Colyton allowed access to a nearby free house and to inspection of an original Gentleman’s Open-Topped Platform Convenience. The French term is pissoire, from which we get the English word lavatory.

A chance encounter in the George the night before (or, from previous experience, perhaps not so) with one of the tram engineers moonlighting as a barman, paved the way for another workshop visit. For this Tony adopted his well-practised role of club diplomat, negotiator and reluctant guarantor for our good behaviour. In truth it was too hot to do much else, whilst maintaining a 20-minute service with 40-year-old equipment looked quite a challenge in any weather. Rampant capitalism was however not far away, in the form of a proposal to relocate the workshop further down the line and use the land thus released for bijou holiday homettes. It was pleasing to note that the tram company was not rushing to take the developer’s largesse, but was sniffing cautiously all round it before taking the plunge.

We finished off with an exploration of a long-gone and apparently long-forgotten landmark, Seaton station, which had suffered the same fate as so many branch lines in the 1960s. No traces could be found, the area now being used for some rather nondescript industrial buildings.

By late afternoon the sun was still at high noon, so two of our party decided liquid refreshment was the only answer, and went for a swim from Seaton’s shingle beach. The rest of us encouraged them with pieces of said shingle tossed languidly in their general direction, without being too specific as to the exact aiming point. The last evening of the holiday was celebrated with a meal at the local Indian restaurant, preceeded for two lucky members by use of their en-suite bath for their second total immersion of the day.

Next morning we bid a fond farewell to our hostess and caught the bus to Exeter from a convenient, i.e. downhill, stop. A short walk to Exeter Central and an even shorter ride to Exeter St Davids for the second of two Newcastle trains that departed in quick succession. Just what the hurry was to get Geordie holidaymakers back home we never found out, but the train was on time and half-empty, so we took the opportunity regardless. Working air-conditioning was a welcome bonus, as was a brief glimpse of the Blue Pullman at Birmingham. The quickest of changes, across the platform to a Glasgow train ready and waiting, and we were nearly home. Back in time to watch England lose, in fact. Shame.



Some photos are here:

London	Penzance	Bodmin	Paignton	Exeter & Exmouth
Pecorama	Beer & Seaton	Seaton trams	Tickets

2007 - MULL, THE WILD SIDE

Eagles and castles – who dares whinge


Another year, another sleeper trip. It might by now be almost routine, but for 2007 we resolved to do something different, in modern jargon to push the envelope, even if it only got as far as the other side of the desk. This time we were also determined to get the full sleeper experience from London to Fort William, and heaven help Mr Branson if his Virgin trains failed to get us to the capital on time.

The number of participants this year reverted to six, with the addition of one member who had been painted a sufficiently rosy picture of previous trips to be persuaded to make up the number to evens. Getting accommodation for six men can sometimes be tricky, the number of twin rooms in Scottish B&Bs seems strictly limited, with triples even rarer. Also the possibility of rowdy behaviour had to be considered - one guest house agreed to accommodate us on the strict condition that we would be well-behaved and would observe an 11.30 curfew. In truth most of us are of an age when riotous conduct is but a fond and distant memory.

The novelty factor was provided by a decision to include a day in Mull on a wildlife expedition. Several entrepreneurs offered their services, but only one was chosen, mainly for the quality of their website and sightings diary. The reality did not disappoint, although the weather certainly did, being the wettest sleeper trip since records began.

 Another novelty was to have an escort for the first part of the journey, in the form of the wife of our new sleeper tripper. This was presented as an coincidental opportunity to visit southerly relatives, but we all knew it was a spousal monitoring exercise, to ensure that husband really did depart with a load of old train buffs, rather than go off enjoying himself somewhere else.

We departed for London via Wigan, the diversionary tactic via Preston not being available this year. This did however permit second breakfast to be taken at Wigan's Station Cafe, possibly the only railway-themed eating-house in the country to be within a hundred yards of two stations. With similar names, that is. At Lord's, on a Sunday.

It was a fairly compact establishment, and we certainly were not, even without our extensive luggage. Fortunately our schedule required a timely departure, allowing other customers the chance to partake of its delights before closing time. As it happened, the train was late (the effect of the summer monsoon) causing the display board to cycle randomly through numerous train departures whilst it tried to work out which train came next. Odd that when you really want to know when a train will come the system can't actually tell you anything useful. One good omen was the train’s name - it was comforting to know we were travelling in such esteemed company.

On arrival in London we took the now traditional (i.e. we've done it once before) visit to the Doric Arch, the renamed Head of Steam pub at the entrance to Euston station. Suitably refreshed, we set out on a medical history tour of Bloomsbury and environs, led by our expedition medical officer in full regalia, namely shorts, sandals and see-through yellow rain cape. From time to time we halted on some street corner to be lectured on the original form and function of adjacent buildings, as the rain alternated between gentle and vigorous. References to plague and leprosy were reminders that at least some things have improved under the NHS. After an hour or so (it seemed longer) we were escorted to the nearby Stockpot restaurant and allowed to eat dinner. Then time off for good behaviour was granted to visit Downing Street and Trafalgar Square, before returning to Euston, reclaiming our bags from the not-best-value left luggage and boarding the sleeper.

For several hours we drank, ate, drank and watched England darken around us as we trundled northwards. Gradually the rate of consumption slowed as, one by one, we slid off to the cosy cabins further up the train. Only one remained to salute Oxenholme, and to astonish the steward by demanding more hot food well after bed-time, in the process disturbing a riveting game of Virgin Scrabble.

Daylight brought clear skies, bright sunshine and a cool wind, with highland scenery that for once matched the travel brochures. A restful time to savour the anticipated delights of our crowded itinerary, and earnestly hope that the rain would hold off. Unfortunately the weather had somehow learned that the wettest June since records began was within its grasp, and was merely marshalling its forces before unleashing a final, award-winning deluge.

At Fort William the Jacobite was ready and waiting behind a smart black K1, and soon departed on its now-familiar scenic route to Mallaig. Our extensive range of portable portmanteaus had to accompany us in full, as the left luggage was shut pending a station upgrade. Also shut was the Glenfinnan buffet - fortunately the train’s facility wasn't, and profited accordingly. A third closure was the Station Hotel at Mallaig, in what one might be forgiven for thinking to be peak season, so a more leisurely lunch was taken in a back-up restaurant thoughtfully provided nearby.

On return to Fort William we dispersed for assorted retail therapy, with a rendezvous arranged at Ossians Hotel for afternoon tea. Then back to the station for the Glasgow train. As required for purity of highland travel experience, we disembarked at Tyndrum Upper and embarked on foot on the downward slope to Tyndrum Lower, resisting the temptation to use assorted luggage pieces as toboggans. At ground zero the Tyndrum Lodge Hotel provided the necessary recovery fluids before we undertook the last leg to the platform. The Oban train was on time, for which we were grateful as the midges were taking full advantage of fresh meat from down south.

The B&B was equipped for all weathers, with palm trees in the garden and electric blankets on the beds. Outside a trio of surveyors spent a fascinating evening working out the levels of the road whilst we patronised the nearest chippie, allowing the vapours to waft tantilisingly in their direction.

Next day (Wednesday, if you've lost count already) we took the ferry to Craignure, in the wake of an authentic-looking three-masted schooner. This impressive ship spoilt the illusion somewhat by moving with sails furled at a speed not achievable without either a diesel engine or a very tightly-wound rubber band. A walk round the harbour to the Mull Railway revealed another diesel engine, in this case substituting for the steam loco, which was parked disconsolately outside the loco sheds leaking steam from several orifices. At the far end we disembarked for the many and various attractions of Torosay castle, especially the tea rooms. The lower lawn also provided ample opportunities for photography, with two stone lions strategically placed for model portraiture.

For the first time we did not return forthwith to Oban, but took the bus to Tobermory, or Balamory as it is better known to followers of children's TV (the real thing, not Big Brother). The bus driver was clearly well-used to the intricacies of single-roads-with-passing-places, and to knowing when to give way and when to exert his moral right of progression, as the biggest vehicle on the island. We called at the ferry terminal at Fishnish, but only briefly, and certainly not long enough to rendezvous with said ferry hoving into view from Lochaline. Calmac may rule the waves, but Bowmans buses were definitely kings of the road. At Tobermory we alighted at the top of the hill and located the two B&Bs we were billeted in, probably the two highest buildings in the town, if not the island.   

For the evening’s entertainment we descended a considerable height to the harbourside and thence to a pub at the far end. Mindful of our curfew we returned in good time, making use of a taxi that was surprisingly good value, even if it had been on the level.

Thursday was the day of expedition. The island got in-character straightaway with a determined downpour, and stayed in it all day. Undeterred we bagged the first wildlife of the day from the bedroom window, a seagull braving the elements over the harbour. After breakfast we huddled in a doorway to await the bus back to Craignure, and were surprised to find the door open and the proprietorix of Inverloy guest house do what she clearly did best, namely offer shelter to waifs and strays from foreign parts. The bus driver accepted our by-now somewhat damp return tickets, and pretended not to notice that no two had the same issue date. As the brochures say, time stands still in Mull, or inside its ticket machines at least.

At Craignure we met up with David Woodhouse, a Yorkshireman of enthusiastic and forthright manner, and another group of five would-be wildlife-watchers. For the next five hours we were treated to a running commentary on the island's wildlife, with frequent stops to look for examples of same. Despite the weather, or perhaps in some cases because of it, the list of species ticked off grew steadily. Sea eagles were an early capture, viewed from the shoreline through a spotter scope trained by an observer with not only excellent eyesight but a precise knowledge of where to look. Otters were spotted feeding several times, and bird species too numerous to mention. We were instructed in breeding habits, feeding habits and territorial behaviours. We also discovered the collective noun for a group of wild-life guides - a tosser. The only major item to go AWOL was the golden eagle; clearly a creature of that size had a big enough brain to realise that rain equalled wet feathers and a spoilt hair-do, and anyway most food parcels were keeping their heads down under the grass until the weather improved.

Other stops were for refreshment (soup, hot drinks and sandwiches out of the back of the minibus) and for personal comfort (in the trees, ladies to the left, gentlemen to the right, others behind the rocks). By late afternoon we were back at Craignure, with time for refreshment at the local facilities before the ferry to Oban. It stopped raining.

For the record, the wildlife seen on Mull included: common gull, cormorant. curlew, eider duck, fallow deer, sea eagle, gannet, grey-lag goose, hen harrier, heron, kestrel, otter, oyster catcher, raven, red deer, seal, shag, short-tailed vole and twite.

Friday saw us depart for Stirling via Glasgow, a transfer effected without incident, and then execute a baggage drop at a well-appointed B&B, the easier to explore a somewhat hilly city. The castle is, in modern parlance, a no-brainer. Even the most intellectually-challenged amongst us could recognise that the hill-top cried out for fortification, as nobody could move on the plain below without detection, with or without spotter scope.

We split up, the better to confuse the occupying forces, some taking the full-frontal approach, via the ticket office and ice-cream van, whilst others circled around the back and took surreptitious photos of the defences.

The final day started with a short train ride to Linlithgow and a bus ride to Bo’ness, for the Bo’ness and Kinneil Railway. This time it was operational, running a steam service a couple of miles down the track. In truth the station and museum were at least as big a draw as the actual ride, particular as the former included a well-stocked buffet. As the rain came back again, to round off June in the manner in which it had been started, we retraced our steps to Linlithgow and took the train to Edinburgh. A couple of hours embarkation leave was then authorised, to explore Princes St and its environs, before boarding a Birmingham train for Wigan and home.





Some photos are here:

London	Sleeper	Jacobite	Oban	Mull ferry
Mull railway	Torosay	Mull	Stirling	Bo'ness

2008 - FLIGHT TO ORCADIA

Trains and boats and planes


I dimly recall, back in 1997, sitting on the harbour wall in Thurso debating the merits of including a visit to Orkney on the next sleeper trip. For ‘next’ read eleven years later, and here we are. No sense in rushing these decisions.

The idea was promulgated by the chairman, which immediately added a degree of authority to the discussion on where we should go in 2008. The prime aim apparently was to experience the world’s shortest scheduled flight, from Westray to Papa Westray in the Orkney Islands. The value of going several hundred miles to sit in a small plane for a few bumpy minutes was not immediately apparent, but like good loyal members we smiled and nodded and let the idea sit for a while to see how it looked. In the meantime a few tentative prods were made on McGoogle to see how the logistics might pan out. It looked complicated but do-able, which is the sort of verdict we have been used to in recent years. Two nights on Orkney seemed the optimum, to minimise the chance of itinerary failure, and also the amount of luggage needed to be either carried on the plane or deposited at the airport.

A deal was struck - we would fall in with the idea on the understanding that the chairman would allow us to vote for him in the forthcoming elections at the AGM. Well it seemed a good idea at the time.

The many and varied episodes between conception and execution are documented here, and you will be grateful to learn that I will not repeat them. Sufficient to say it was probably the most testing pre-trip period I can recall, not made any easier by being deputed as ticket monitor. This was due to the deputy chairman’s determination to play with his steam locomotive in the deep south at virtually the same time as embarking on an expedition to the far north. It broke down (twice) so justice was done in the end.

As is now established as an unalterable tradition (until we do something else) we departed Southport on the Monday for Wigan. We were two down at that stage, one being somewhere south-west of Swindon trying desperately to get a new left-handed nadging sprocket for Duke of Gloucester. The chairman had elected to join us at Wigan, thus avoiding the large crowd of admirers, well-wishers and papparazzi gathered at Southport to see him off. The Station Cafe at Wigan again benefited from our mid-morning custom. We boarded one of Virgin Rail’s finest on time and in First Class, thereby enjoying not only a more peaceful and less crowded ride, but also the at-seat buffet and snack service. The beer on offer was Peruvian in origin, which seemd a little exotic to say the least. If we had been bound for Paddington a possible link with a certain bear might have been made, but Euston knew nothing of such connections.

London appeared only a few minutes late and most of us elected for a visit to the London Transport Museum in Covent Garden. The general verdict was interesting, but not as big as we thought. One wandered off (just getting into practice for later in the trip) to investigate the tram service to Croydon, for no other reason than it was there and he could. The Duke’s minder appeared in time for the evening meal in a Covent Garden pub and the full party then set off for Euston.

At this point I discovered the one and probably only advantage of minding the tickets - I could give everybody else the sleeper doubles and retain the single for yours truly. It just happened that way, honest. After sorting out the sleeping arrangements we repaired to a busy lounge car and sought to engage the attention of the chief steward, who regarded us as lucky to be on his train, let alone in his buffet area. Eventually we reached an amicable agreement - he would divulge what he had available and then we would order from the menu. Thus a lucky few were served an excellent, freshly-killed haggis, whilst the rest made do with more mundane fare. Gradually the lounge car got less busy, and we could engage the stewards more frequently over just what liquid refreshment was available for supply. And so the night progressed.

Morning revealed the Great Glen in sparkling form, followed by Inverness in reasonable nick. Breakfast was taken in the market cafe and we returned to the station for the train to Thurso. This took the best part of four hours, with numerous stops and much winding in and out of the scenery, which gradually became more bleak and barren as we travelled north. The train dropped us off at Thurso terminus and promptly reversed out for the final part of its journey to Wick. Expedition members were then given freedom to roam the environs of Thurso unrestricted for another three hours, before regrouping for the bus to the ferry. Some of us took the opportunity to visit the (somewhat nondescript) harbour for a preview of the route we would take that evening. Orkney (the island of Hoy, to be precise) was clearly visible, as was the Old Man of Hoy, which we would shortly be sailing past. Apart from a handful of small boats, the harbour briefly played host to a pair of otters before they disappeared off seawards.

At the appointed hour the bus turned up at the station and took us off on the short journey to Scrabster harbour. One of our number (the tram wanderer) had been tempted to walk the route along the sea-front, but had backed out at the last minute due to a suspicion that the ferry may depart from somewhat further round the coast. As it happened it didn’t and we were soon deposited at the loading-ramp of a smart, modern ship that looked very capable of dealing with whatever weather the Pentland Firth might contrive to throw at it. For reasons which were not clear, either to us or to the ferry company, a surcharge of £1.45 was payable. As this worked out at a bare 20p per person argument seemed a little pointless, but a mystery it remained. It was certainly not a congestion charge, as there were hardly a couple of dozen foot passengers for the whole ship. Reference numbers were duly recalled, and photo-identities produced, and we were allowed to board. The bar was comfortable, and open, and so became the natural resting place for weary travellers.

In my experience, any activity involving a stretch of water seems to conjure up at least two of the three elements wind, cold and rain. In this case, being high summer, the trip was only moderately windy, cool and almost completely dry. Even so venturing out on the weather-deck for a closer examination of the Old Man of Hoy required some determination and fortitude. The sea stack was surprisingly close and duly impressive, although perhaps not quite as tall as one might have expected. However one could well imagine an ascent to be for neither the faint-hearted nor the unskilled.

We arrived at Stromness as dusk was falling, but being so far north it took most of the evening to get anywhere near dark. Just as well, as the B&B was sufficiently well hidden off the main street to make it difficult to discover even in the full light of day. However we eventually got there, and were allocated comfortable berths in the adjacent building.

Breakfast was a meal to be savoured, with enough quality content to keep us going for ages, even perhaps as far as elevenses. The weather was not promising, windy and wet, not really the sort of conditions for aerobatics,  wing-walking or indeed any sort of flying in anything smaller than a 737. However we were fully committed, not to mention fully paid up in advance, so we queued for the bus in an orderly fashion and duly arrived in an equally damp Kirkwall. Only a brief tour of the town was feasible before catching the bus to the airport, which was surprisingly modern and even a touch busy. We presented ourselves at the Loganair desk and were pleased to note that we were not only expected but both plane and pilot were at that moment preparing for our aerial adventure. The former turned out to from the very deep south (London) one of a surprising number of ex-pats we encountered on Orkney. They mostly claimed to be fugitives from the rat-race, but even so we thought it better not to mention that one of our number was an employee of the Inland Revenue.

Our aircraft was indeed smaller than a 737, in fact smaller than most passenger-carrying aircraft of our acquaintance. An eight-seat Britten Norman Islander no less, of considerable vintage. Hopefully it was at that middle point in its reliability curve between early failure due to faulty manufacture and late failure due to wearing out. At least being a twin, it had a spare engine. Or to put it another (and less comforting) way, a twin-engined plane gets you to your first experience of engine failure twice as quickly as the single-engined variety. Also of momentary concern was its livery, which was of that well-known and excellent malt whisky, Highland Park. Normally such liaison would be evidence of forward thinking by an discerning management, but one wondered if there was a risk of the sponsor being just a little too free with its product samples amongst a workforce which surely would have sobriety as one of its key performance measures. Hardly a hi-vis colour either.

However the pilot was not only reassuringly sober but had clearly driven this particular machine many times before, as he made light work of a series of takeoffs and landings that to our untutored eyes looked decidely tricky. The cloud was low but we flew lower, securing a unique view of Orkney's many islands. The combination of a cramped cabin, engine noise (don't knock it, it shows they're working) and minimum altitude gave a sense of involvement that jets definitely lack. First stop was Westray, a small island with a gravel airstrip, a windsock, and a couple of part-time firemen trying to look professional whilst sheltering from the intermittent drizzle. Then came the experience we had travelled virtually the length of the British Isles for, a two-minute hop, skip and jump to Papa Westray, an even smaller island with matching gravel airstrip, windsock, etc.

At both islands we were encouraged to disembark, take the odd photo and even talk to the locals. All too soon we were heading back over the wind-flecked Orcadian waters to Kirkwall airport. There we were each given a certificate to mark the occasion (in some cases even with the name spelled correctly) and a miniature of said Highland Park. All-in-all a day to remember, and it was still only lunchtime. Back in Kirkwall we topped up our fuel reserves at a high-street cafe and members were then released for an afternoon at leisure. Museums, the cathedral and the pub were all options, as was getting the early bus back to Stromness.

At this point the Duke’s servant had to take his leave, as his locomotive was calling to him from way beyond the northern seas. He was seen off on the evening ferry, by two of his compatriots determined to win the waving competition and not be the first to give up and seek shelter from wind and rain.

For the evening of the second day on Orkney we decided the imposing Stromness Hotel was the only place worthy of our custom for eating . It was of the type that had the town had a railway line it would almost certainly have been called the Station Hotel. Afterwards the local, and possibly only, pub seemed both noisy and crowded, but just opposite  a sign was seen bearing the legend 'Royal British Legion - visitors welcome'. An exploratory knock revealed the sign was correct on both counts, and we spent a convivial hour or two drinking modestly-priced beer and playing pool, at the same time trebling the number of customers.

London	Sleeper	Thurso	Outbound ferry	Kirkwall
Charter flight	Stromness	Inbound ferry	Kyle of Lochalsh