all aboard! a journey on the Royal Scotsman
Time travel is unfortunately not in the realm of possibilities - at least in the physical sense. But every now and then you have one of those moments or, in this case, one of those series of days that make you feel as if you’ve stepped back in time.
Let me take you on a journey of otherworldly time travel, along with three of my best friends. Let me take you aboard the Royal Scotsman. The journey actually began before the trip. With a Champagne-filled, Champagne-fuelled reception at the Balmoral Hotel, a 100-year-old luxury hotel in the centre of Edinburgh that is, perhaps more importantly, just above the train station. Convenient! Because an hour or so later, five glasses of Champagne in, we could simply stumble our way to the Royal Scotsman train without fear of getting lost.
Bagpipes
Not that we should have been worried about getting lost. As we’d soon find out, burly Scottish men in kilts guide guests from the Balmoral to the Royal Scotsman, playing the bagpipes as they march. Hard to miss, impossible to lose. It might feel strange to pass normal commuters and normal lost-looking travellers taking normal trains to normal destinations, but maybe that’s what the endless champagne was for. Or maybe that was just a glimpse of what was to come. A bottle of bubbles to soften any potential self-consciousness.
The first cart of Royal Scotsman was the traditional steam engine. Puffing. Hissing. Sssing. Whispering that we were not only to travel but to travel back in time. Our final steps before boarding the Royal Scotsman were, fittingly, on a red carpet. The perfect amuse pieds (and âme) before stepping into, and onto, another world.
As soon as I was inside, I was handed another chilled glass of Veuve. And, well, why not? We were guided to the Observation Cart - the perfect opportunity to suss everyone out, puzzling out my very own internal Murder on the Orient Express. With individual chairs, loveseats and longer benches spangling the Observation Cart, we settled in wherever we could find a seat, perched next to strangers and friends. The ice was broken for the days ahead.
Naturally, there were guests celebrating anniversaries and honeymoons. There was a recent widow honouring her husband's birthday. Will she be the Jennifer Coolidge of the train? One man, on his own, no backstory. My money is on him as the murderer. But my favourite group? A flock of ladies with glasses raised, "We’re celebrating friendship." These are our people.
Wicker fans whirled above and waiters roamed around, filling and refilling glasses. Wiser souls moved onto coffee. We did not. It was evident this was not the staff’s first Royal Scotsman of thirsty travellers.
One waiter in particular captured our hearts. Robert. Oh, Robert! At first, we thought he was extremely happy. Then, we thought, perhaps he’s stoned? Finally, we realised that it was in fact his first trip aboard the Royal Scotsman. Though on different sides of the experience - us as guests, he as staff - we were bonded by our joy and awe. A bond that would see us through the trip.
We eventually made our way to our rooms, bouncing from side-to-side. One could blame it on the moving train. Or the snug hallways. Or, perhaps, one might blame it on the Veuve Clicquot. We ambled through the dining cars, the recently renovated Christian Dior massage room car - we’ll come back to that, I said in my head - and then car after car after car of bedrooms. Or, rather, rooms of comfort. Yes, there is a bed, a very lush bed at that, but also, in spite of cosy quarters, there is a desk and a closet and a perfectly fitted bathroom with a shower that allows you to see the tracks slipping away beneath you. I would soon learn there’s something magical about taking a shower and a trip at once. But first, it was cocktail time. We pressed the ‘Come to me’ bell, as my friends and I affectionately named it, and within minutes, we had Negronis in hand.
Every evening in the lull between afternoon activities and dinner, pre-dinner drinks were served in the Observation Cart. This was the opportune moment to check out everyone’s outfit before dinner and see if you could unravel further clues to crack the murder mystery - that maybe only I playing. Every night had a different dress code, the first being the most casual and the last calling for tiaras, should you have remembered to pack yours.
As the days passed there were endless ways beyond tiaras at dinner to make normal life luxurious. Reading in bed with a breathtaking view of Ben Nevis. Playing endless rounds of cards while passing over the Scottish Muirs. A massage where, if you happen to open your eyes at the perfect moment as I did, you'd spy the famous Harry Potter bridge - also known as the Glenfinnan Viaduct. I’m certain books, cards and massages will never be the same again.
Of course, there were also moments to step off the train. Even though we weren’t actually on the Royal Scotsman anymore, we somehow still carried the air of magic with us. We went for a sunrise walk to see snow-capped Nevis rising high in an unusually cloudless Scottish sky. We travelled to the Isle of Bute to visit Mount Stuart, a Victorian Gothic house steeped in generations of history and layers of religion. And wildly enough, we even took a dip in the freezing April North Sea at The Silver Sands of Morar. All for the memories! she said. I felt crazy running in. I felt crazy being in. But I felt craziest of all when I ran out and, without missing a beat, our faithful Robert appeared with, of course, a glass of Veuve Clicquot. Both Robert and I giggled at the absurdity and beauty of it all. All for the memories! I said grabbing it.
There were dinners of venison and breakfasts of smoked salmon and caviar. I cannot recall specifics of sauces or sides. In many instances, I can hardly remember the main course. I'm not a foodie, but everything we ate was delicious. I know enough to know that.
I could, however, write endlessly about the wine and the ambiance. On the Royal Scotsman, every wine was perfectly paired with every course, and the charming ambiance was amplified by the wine. Full and rich and light and luminous. You could spend every meal with your people in your regular spot or you could mingle around a long table surrounded by your new friends for 72 hours. It was all ‘As you wish.’
Every night, after dinner, we were led back to the Observation Cart for some local music. Musicians would step aboard and serenade us as we wound our way through Scotland - this time in the form of whiskey. (A note for future travelers: ‘Same as last night’ is not a thing the barman likes to hear.) One night, we were invited to step off the train for a cèilidh (pronounced kay-lee). Or, in our case, attempt to cèilidh before being swiftly ushered back in for more whiskey and more live music. The staff had rightly determined we were at our best when safely seated.
On the last morning we walked to the Observation Cart - a place that had witnessed so much fun and so much laughter - in dread. We sat in complete silence. How long until we would be surrounded by the screams of our children again? Hours? Minutes? Our ruminations were interrupted by the pop of a fresh bottle of Veuve Clicquot. Our eyes lit up. Who cared that it was only minutes past 9 AM? For the memories! We grabbed our final glass as we played our final game of cards.
As we pulled into the station, we heard the familiar sounds of bagpipes just outside the train. As we disembarked, every member of the staff hugged us and wished us well because, well, we all knew this wasn’t a we-look-forward-to-welcoming-you-again-soon kind of goodbye for any of us. We embraced. We said thank you. Robert tried not to cry, which almost made us cry. And we walked back down the red carpet. This time though more like a dessert wine than an amuse. And within seconds, we had become those lost-looking travellers on the platform.
Now, months later, I’m not sure if our journey was a trip to the past or whether it was a jaunt to the future, where slower travel might mean more meaningful travel. Or, maybe, it was no time travel at all. Maybe we never even travelled. Maybe we were parked in Edinburgh the entire time. Because, at the end of the day, there really was a lot of Champagne. And maybe that was what Robert was laughing about the entire time.
Simone Moessinger
