Monday 7th July 2025

We forget how big Scotland is. Glasgow seems a long way, five and a half hours by high speed tilting train. But that is just the "central belt", there's more Scotland further north.

Much more.

Perth is 58 miles, or an hour north, and as you leave the city on the A9, it says that Inverness is 108 miles away.

Inverness is a fine city, the self-styled "City of the Highlands" or something, set on a wide shallow river, it is also still a major railway junction.

Inverness is three and a half hours out of Glasgow, but the metal road goes north.

Out of Inverness, over the River Ness, over the canal, the line snakes its way north, never really staying far from the coast, sometimes so close its like the train is on the beach. But on it goes.

It goes to the north coast, to Thurso and Wick, the line somehow remained open through Beeching, and should be world famous, as it crosses moors, goes along stunning valleys between mountains, stopping at places with one or two houses.

It takes over four and a half hours to reach Thurso out of Inverness, that's if there are no sheep or deer on the line. Most of the time a young lady with a trolley has refreshments.

But not on the last train of the day.

As we shall see.

In 1974, we had a family holiday, staying in Inverness for a week, going out each day by coach. One trip was to John o Groats, the most northerly point of mainland Britain, and on the way the A9 crosses the railway time and time again.

One day, I said to myself. I will ride that line.

This week, the day arrived.

The plan:

Monday. Dover to St Pancras. Walk to Euston. Euston to Glasgow Central. Glasgow Queen Street to Inverness. Inverness to Thurso.

I would leave at quarter past seven and get to Thurso at 22:20 if there were no delays.

I had a coffee. Packed with two changes of clothes and enough rolls for a small army. Jools dropped me off at Dover Priory, and I was set.

The first leg you know well. I know I do. Being a rush hour train, it was quite busy, but getting on the train at Dover, there was loads of spaces, so I had a seat.

St Pancras was crazy busy, with people standing around or wandering in front of me. One young lady did so, and I snapped a sarcastic "hello" at her.

Out into the cool of the Bloomsbury morning, a walk past the Crick Institute, along back lanes to Euston, on and up to the concourse, and yet more people, milling around. Euston is at maximum capacity, with trains arriving being turned round and sent back up the line in usually under twenty minutes, which means there is a stampede when the platform is announced, just ten minutes before departure.

I had a seat reservation, so didn't need to rush, but still, people were still packing away cases and bags as the train pulled away.

It was pretty full, but I had my window seat, facing direction of travel. I had rolls. Drinks. Mobile for pictures.

I was as happy as I have ever been.

I settled down as the north western London suburbs, including Wembley, then Watford Junction slipped by, under the M25 and out into the countryside.

It was a glorious day, lots of sunshine and fluffy clouds, we soared up the Trent Valley, leaning into the series of curves, all so effortlessly, then through Stratford, Crewe before the first stop at Warrington, where my former employer's UK head office still is, of course.

Then, off again through and stopping at Wigan, Preston, Lancaster, Penrith. This was the real highlight of the whole day, as the line carried the train through the Lake District, and from my window seat I watched as the lakes and fells rolled by, luminous green illuminated by the full sun.

Most of the carriage missed this as they were glued to their phones. Nothing could be better and more engaging than this view.

The train rolled into Carlisle, the last stop before Scotland and Glasgow. The girl in the seat next to me got off, so I could spread out more. I had a roll with crisps to celebrate.

North of Carlisle we crossed the invisible border, and after twenty minutes the line began to climb again, taking us through the mountains, running alongside the main London to Scotland motorway, the M6, though in Scotland for no good reason, they have called it the M74.

The railway and motorway cross and recross each other until we make it to the summit, the mountains and fells we again lit by the sun, and looked glorious.

The railway then struck out for Glasgow in a straight line, crossing farmland until we passed through the suburbs, before finally crossing the River Clyde and into Central Station.

As we left the train and entered the concourse, a queue several hundred people long were waiting to board, I noted as I would be making the trip back south in four days.

I had to get to the other station, Queen's Street, and in 1974, I can remember the family carrying cases, walking the ten minutes up the hill, this was before six in the morning. I asked my Dad as to why they man was lying in the gutter of the road.

We walked on.

This time there was a free bus, if you had a train ticket. I had several, so got on for the short ride up the hill, dropping me outside the recently rebuilt station.

I had 45 minutes, and I wondered how busy the train would be.

One of Scotrail's Inter 7 City trains came in, power car at each end, and this was to be our train. Nothing better than an HST with BR Mk4 carriages, the best ever built.

The train pulled out and straight into a tunnel, coming out where already the houses were thinning out. Once we had passed over a junction where the local electrified lines left in a maze of junctions, leaving just the Highland Main line to press on without wires.

We stopped at Stirling, with the castle looking down on the town and station from its rocky mount, then onto Perth, where I now realise the line from Edinburgh joins, and where the train filled up. Including a gobshite in yellow t shirt, of about my age, stinking of stale BO and talking very, very loudly about not much with his wife.

Just as well, then, that the countryside was more than dramatic enough to distract me from the gobshite. The line climbed as it went along the River Tay Valley, crossing it over and over again.

We stopped at Gleneagles, where the golf bores got out, then Pitlochry, Blair Athol and up and up into the mountains.

We followed the river so it went from a wide brown river, to a young babbling stream, until we came to the watershed in a vast bog, then on the other side, the line dropped, and the water flowed in the other direction forming the young River Spey.

A lot of people, including the gobshite and his wife, got off in Aviemore, while the line and train dropped down towards Inverness.

A various places along the single track line, at stations, there were passing places, sometimes we had to wait for the oncoming train, meaning that we were running half an hour late. So late the next train should have departed and we were not yet in sight of Inverness.

Into Inverness, and the guard announced that the train for Thurso was being held for us, but we would have to get over to platform 5 sharpish.

I helped a lady with her wardrobe-like case, then dashed round to the next train, an ancient two-car DMU, rumbling on platform 5, toom a seat by a table with a window seat on the side I knew would have the sea views.

Engines roared, and we set off.

Modern train track are welded so there is no real joint. Such track is everywhere, but the Far North Line still has jointed track, so the who four and a half hours had a clickety-clack soundtrack.

Which is kind of mesmerising.

Some of the stations just out of Inverness had platforms so short, only one door of the train was opened to allow passengers on and off.

Inverness stayed in view for perhaps 20 minutes as we made our away along the sea loch, then lost to view as we turned north.

At Invergordon, there were at least for deep sea oil rigs at anchor, waiting for their next duty, for all the world looking like half submerged spaceships.

Onwards to Tain, where the twelve men make Glenmorangie single malt, back beside the sea for us too.

On the right hand side, farmland lead to the shore and endless mudflats, as it was low tide.

Inland again, and over a grand viaduct at Invershin, and into thick woodland, before crossing more farmland for miles and miles before striking east to meet the coast again at Golspie.

North of Bora, it felt like the track was on the beach. Mile after mile with just the calm sea, broken by low rocks as we zipped by going clickety clack all the while.

At Helmsdale, the live curves back north and inland, to strike across the Caithness headland making for Thurso, crossing mile after mile of bogs, crossing few roads.

Then we were really out in the wilds.

Light was fading, it was well after nine, and with a covering of cloud, the sunset due at our arrival time would sadly go unseen.

The final few bleak miles, revealed little in the mirk of the gloaming, no lights from scattered farms and other dwellings, the stunted forest of fir trees gathered to the side of the line

A few hardy sheep continued to graze, until we came to a shallow river valley, the line followed it and dropped into the small town of Thurso, depositing us in the darkness at the edge of town, before roaring off, as the train has one last call, Wick on the eastern coast, just south of us.

My hotel was next to the station, so I walked round, across the car park, checked in and bought two pints of Belhaven Best, as there was no trolley on the train, and I was parched.

The local soak, a lady, bought another glass of red wine. Large glass. Took it outside, and the two guys I was chatting to, and I, saw her put the glass down on a large round wooden table.

And missed.

She bought another as the poor barmaid cleaned the shards of glass up.

I went to my room for a shower and to bed, as I was shattered.

But I had made it to Thurso.