Och ! They’ve derailed my haggis express
Once, the sleeper service to Scotland was a byword for luxury. Now they’ve ‘updated’ it – but, as JAN MOIR reports, it leaks, it’s late... and as for gourmet grub and its famous whisky nightcap? Forget it!
TrAvEL broadens the mind, but it can broaden other things, too.
‘ Two pies, two haggises, two whisky and lemonades and two packets of crisps, please,’ is the dinner order from my neighbours at the next table in the restaurant car on the Caledonian Sleeper.
If an alien with even a faint grasp of cultural indicators were to beam down from Mars and hazard a guess at what was going on, it might conclude that I am on a Scottish train with Scottish people heading to Scotland for a Scottish break, and it would be entirely correct. But it is not just any old Scottish train. With the help of a £60 million subsidy from Scotland’s government, the services giant Serco has spent £150 million relaunching the ageing sleeper service that has ploughed up and down between England and Scotland for the past 40 years. It is not before time. F or decades, regular passengers like me increas - ingly despaired at the decrepit carriages on the sleepers, the balding carpets and the prisonlike sleeping berths where every expense was spared and comfort was as thin as the duvets.
Now the 75 ageing carriages have finally been replaced by a spanking new fleet which came into service this week on the Lowlander trains, which run between London and Glasgow or Edinburgh. Highlander trains to Aberdeen, Inverness and Fort William are due to get the new carriages next month.
The trains boast the first commercial sleeper cabins to offer double beds, complete with mattresses from the Queen ’s own supplier . Prices start at £335 one - way for single occupation of a double cabin, which suggests that the Scottish government ’s aim is to offer business passengers and tourists a plusher and more sophisticated return to a golden age of rail travel.
Certainly, the prices don ’t make sense to ordinary travellers, who might find that it is cheaper — and quicker — to fly or drive.
What can I tell you? The high-profile launch was, alas, a complete disaster.
The first train from London rolled into Glasgow three hours late and blushing with shame.
The journalists, dignitaries, passengers and MPs on board endured lost bookings, delays, unmade beds, water leakages and even a shortage of butter, shriek. A signal failure at Carstairs Junction, South Lanarkshire, was blamed for much of the woe. Did matters improve for my midweek journey from London to Glasgow a few days later?
At Euston Station, the heart soars at the sight of the beautiful, gleaming 16- carriage train that awaits to whisk us through the night to Scotland. It is gorgeous! The front eight carriages are destined for Glasgow , while those in the rear are Edinburghbound; the two cities and their people travelling together but apart, on the train tracks as in life.
Just as before, the train splits into two (or joins up, on the reverse journey) at Carstairs Junction, a violent shunting process that traditionally and infuriatingly wakes everyone up in the wee small hours.
But not any more, as train bosses promise a smooth new transition in every way. Well, we shall see about that.
At least we leave on time, just before midnight, sliding quietly out of London on the long journey north.
I paid a rather gasping £270 for my First Class Solo Cabin ticket — one way! — which provides an ensuite toilet and shower, a sink, a little desk, space under the bed to stow your luggage and coat hooks. There is a smart plaid carpet, pleasant lighting , power and recharging points, but best of all, the whole cabin seems to be hermetically sealed from your neighbours. What utter luxury.
But what’s this! On a hook, there is a grotty mesh nylon bag crammed with crushed towels and a spare loo roll; like something you would be handed before going into solitary confinement at a maximum security facility. ArE
those towels clean, I squeak? ‘ Y es, we just haven’t thought of a better way of storing them,’ says the steward. After she has gone, I can ’t figure out how to use the sink tap, and have to wash my hands with bottled water before going to dinner.
The dining car is smart and comfortable, but understaffed with only one waiter and a kitchen hand, making everyone a little testy.
Clearly the experience is aimed at those who might be impressed with a menu that promises to ‘celebrate Scotland’s food culture with mouthwatering meals’.
Dishes include a ‘traditional hand crafted pie, £7.50’.
Oh, what is it today , I ask , expecting something glorious and gamey , such as venison or grouse. ‘P ork,’ says the waiter . He makes a circle with his hands. ‘ It ’ s about that big with a thick crust.’
Instead I have the haggis, neeps and tatties (£9).
The tasty haggis is supplied by Cockburn’s of Dingwall and is actually not bad, but the vegetables are lumpy and the dish is so badly made and terribly served — slumped on a plate with a splat of whisky sauce on top — that it looks like an unspeakable effluence that has been ejected at speed from the Monarch of the Glen himself.
Nothing is actually freshly made on site but cooked and pre - plated elsewhere in the dreary modern way, before being heated up in the train’s warming ovens.
Still, at least there are some genuine Scottish delicacies on board, in the form of Mackie’s haggis crisps (£1.10), and T unnock’s teacakes (50p), hurrah. They also charge 50p for an apple — at these ticket prices you’d think they could find it in their hearts to give them away free, but no.
Back in my cabin I snuggle under the crisp cotton sheets and lulled by the rocking of the train, fall into a deep and lovely sleep.
Sleeper travel has always been expensive, but for me travelling home on the Highland line, to P erth and beyond, is more convenient than flying.
Booked in advance once meant that tickets were cheaper and there was the option of sharing a compartment with twin bunks. That is no longer the case, and the pricing system offers few bargains to travellers like me — unless you want to pay £45 to sit up all night.
I have booked breakfast in the dining car at 6am but oversleep. At 6.10 I am woken by a female Scottish voice crackling through my ears.
‘Hello! Hello! Jan. That’s your breakfast ready. Repeat, your breakfast is ready for you.’
What? Is that my mother? Mum? Whassgoinon? I had no idea they had a kitchen to cabin intercom system. But now I do.
On the sleeper train, there is still drenching romance to be had if you time it right. I have breakfast as the train speeds through the beautiful border country, past fields shimmering with the pink mist of dawn, through the hill farms dotted with sheep and two old Clydesdale horses, almost skipping in the spring sunshine.
Yet despite all the improvements, a part of me does mourn the sleepers of old. Even I can remember when dining cars had genuine kitchens staffed with real chefs, who would sizzle bacon, fry farm eggs and cook up proper breakfasts for 50 in a space the size of a telephone box. The porridge was historic and always made with water and salt, never with Sassenach cream and sugar, in the proper Scottish way.
In those days there were starched tablecloths, silver teapots and uniformed stewards who came