TRAIN WRECK

Guy Grieve’s adventures on the weird and wonderful Caledonian sleeper train should be a lesson to us all

The Caledonian Sleeper is an unpleasant experience for Guy Grieve

The Caledonian Sleeper is, of course, legendary. Loved and loathed in equal measure, it’s a travel icon. My experiences on the sleeper have been varied. The first time I travelled on it was between Aberdeen and London when I was 18.

Actually I confess I was more of a stowaway than a legitimate traveller. Not having any money, I had booked a seat rather than a berth, but quickly decided that with the many hours stretching before me, it was going to be insufferable to sit upright for the whole duration.

As the train left Aberdeen I sneaked into an empty sleeper cabin and, feeling somewhat smug, slipped discreetly into a bunk where I fell immediately into the deep sleep typical of any teenager. Some time later a vivid dream of sunshine was replaced by a powerful torch beam and a vigorous shaking whereupon I opened my eyes and realised I’d been rumbled.

More recently, I booked the cheapest sleeper option, which is a shared berth. Here the deal is that I have one bunk and a total stranger has the other in a space the size of a disabled toilet. After boarding in London I was met by the guard waiting outside the carriage, armed with a clipboard.

‘Grieve,’ she nodded officiously, running her pen down the list. ‘Welcome aboard.’

‘Thank you… Erm, is there anyone else booked in the compartment?’ I asked.

She nodded again with what I thought was just a touch of sadism. ‘Yes, it’s a full train tonight. Tea or coffee in the morning?’

I picked the top bunk, reasoning that if he was a crazy at least I could defend the position. I lay staring at the ceiling hoping it might be a no-show. And then I heard a heavy shuffling, wheezing progress stop in the corridor. The door slid open and a huge, sweating and frankly obese man stepped in and registered me with an expression of pure disappointment.

I noticed he could only fit in if he did everything sideways. Shyly, he slipped out of his clothes and eased himself into his berth like a deep sea mollusc manoeuvring into a seabed hole.

The train jerked into motion and gradually the strong aroma of the fetid man beneath me began to rise and fill the tiny cabin. It swelled and grew until it became nearly unbearable as we rattled north. I dabbed toothpaste into my nostrils and fell into a fitful sleep, feeling more like a hostage in a Beirut basement than a lucky passenger caught up in the romance of train travel.

On my next trip I again bravely booked a cheapo berth, reasoning that this time it surely couldn’t be so bad. To stave off the moment of truth I headed to the bar and began to drink very heavily. Soon everyone was chatting and having fun, enjoying the odd, unifying sense of being strangers stuck in a moving can with plenty of booze and nothing to do.

A piper even began to play and as it was predominantly Glaswegians aboard, an impromptu party began. At some point I stumbled back to my berth. On entering, a pale and very nervous face peered up at me from the lower berth. I slurred a greeting and with some difficulty made it into my berth via the insanely miniature ladder.

No doubt this time it was my turn to fill the cabin with an unbearable pong. I wonder if my hapless cellmate knew the toothpaste trick?

Recently there’s been some controversy about these shared cabins when someone quite reasonably suggested that a man dressed as (or should that be identifying as) a woman might sneak into a woman’s berth. The sleeper company laughed it off, but stranger things have happened.

The sleeper is a vivid travel experience and profoundly nuts on so many levels. This makes me love it; despite being invariably uncomfortable and potentially embarrassing, it is one of the few quirks of British society that still exist.

I’m sure the shared cabin offering won’t last much longer and it’ll be one of these things that we land up explaining to our incredulous children, like the idea of jumping onto a moving Routemaster bus or smoking on planes. In the meantime my advice is this: if you must book a shared cabin make sure it’s one-way and heading north. There is no greater antidote to the hostage experience than the pure cold morning air of Scotland.

A huge, sweating and frankly obese man stepped in with an expression of disappointment