A 24-hour raid on London from Glasgow by train

I promised myself, when the pandemic hit, that if I survived, I would one day travel on the new Caledonian Sleeper train from London to Scotland. Preferably to somewhere like Crianlarich, Fort William or Bridge of Orchy, but if not, Glasgow would do.

To seal that promise, I bought and framed a print of the famous, and thrilling art deco ‘Night Scotsman’ poster, showing a steam engine, lit by the flames from its firebox, racing north through the night. Travel. Movement. The notion of being elsewhere. All the things that we missed so much during those three plague years.

Last week, with my son James, I caught a morning train south from Glasgow Central. Carlisle marked my first trip outside Scotland since 2020, and when we pulled, much delayed, into Euston, it was my first time in London since, with James, we had been on a publicity tour for our book Shetland: Cooking on the Edge of the World. As we did then, we headed to the Euston Tap for some obscure IPA. The city beckoned. 

I was there for the Fortnum and Mason food and drink media awards. Holy Waters: Searching for the Sacred in a Glass had been shortlisted in the Drinks Book of the Year category. There was to be an almighty thrash of an awards ceremony at the Royal Exchange, and my publisher, Watkins Books, was keen for me to be there. I had heard the goodie bags given to all attendees were great, and James fancied the jaunt. So off we went. There would possibly be free marmalade.

Well, if you follow me on social media, you’ll know I’ve been unable to shut up about winning. Holy Waters duly IS Drinks Boook of the Year. We had a great time. We went to a daft joint in Threadneedle Street called The Ned (in the old Midland Bank building) which was desperately trying to be the hotel out of John Wick only much bigger. Guinness was the cheapest drink and the management gave me a free one. I won’t hear a word against the place. A lot of the folk milling about seemed extremely (as my friend Grace would say) chatty.

The Royal Exchange was vast, very noisy, and full of foodie superstars: Rick Stein there, a Hairy Biker there. I shook Claudia Roden’s hand (thanks Rachel M!) met Cyrus Todiwala, and was cuddled by the presenters of the whole shebang, Andi Oliver and Angela Hartnett. Much champagne was consumed. There were canapés of the most expensive sort (Morel mushrooms! Oysters galore!) Finally, James and I headed back to Euston by Underground, me clutching my award (3D printed from sugar apparently) and the Fortnums goodie bag, which contained a bottle of sauce, a bag of coffee and some of the best marmalade ever in the history of the whole world. If you’re asking. Apart from the Spanish stuff you can sometimes get in Morrison.

And so to the sleeper back north. Home, because Glasgow will always be home. We had a club cabin, with two bunks and the smallest ensuite toilet/shower (very) wet room you’ve ever seen. Two strapping six-foot-plus blokes just about fitted it, along with two small rucksacks and our victory swag. The train was due to leave at 23.50. 

To the club car. Still hungry (we are Mortons) haggis, neeps and tatties was duly ordered, along with Irn Bru for James (working next day) and whisky for me. Johnnie Walker Black Label. Conversations struck up with fellow travellers, goodnights wished. We were travelling.

The train was gliding out of the station before I noticed. Gathering speed through the glittering sodium and LED darkness. And it was magical, wonderful. Later, I lay, slightly squashed in my bunk and felt the clicking and clunking motion, the swaying, listened to hisses and clanks, and imagined the fireman at the front shovelling coal…and WH Auden’s words, inevitably…before I fell asleep.

Pulling up Beattock, a steady climb:

The gradient’s against her, but she’s on time.

Past cotton-grass and moorland boulder

Shovelling white steam over her shoulder,

Snorting noisily as she passes

Silent miles of wind-bent grasses.

Birds turn their heads as she approaches,

Stare from bushes at her blank-faced coaches.

Sheep-dogs cannot turn her course;

They slumber on with paws across.

In the farm she passes no one wakes,

But a jug in a bedroom gently shakes…

…All Scotland waits for her:

In dark glens, beside pale-green lochs…

Night Mail, by WH Auden