Highlands Express

The journey began on a September evening in London as a black cab rushed me to Euston station. I had a weekend to myself, and I meant to make the most of it by hitting the famous Highlands of Scotland on a Caledonian Sleeper, a working train also affectionately known as the Deerstalker Express. I saw it as an escape from hectic city life.

A train is a very public place, but a berth on the sleeper is one of the most private. I was shown to my little first-class cabin - a little bed, little basin, window, night light and an extra blanket, trim as a toy house. I took a nibble in the comfortable, modern dining car, and retired to bed. London had slipped away, and it was black out there. I pulled the blind, put out the lamp, and arranged myself for sleep.

The train pulled into the station at 9:43 a.m. The centre of Fort William, I quickly learned, is but a street of fishing and hiking shops, with a spiky Victorian church, a handsome stone hotel, and a lake running alongside it. Before I took a cab to the hotel, I wandered up High Street to find the local paper and a cup of tea. A few hours later, I found myself standing up to my knees in the River Lochy, fishing with the expert assistance of a local guide, Martin Brown. The hotel staff was quite helpful and had arranged the outing with Martin. My aim was to learn the basics of fly-fishing. While Martin effortlessly handled yards and yards of fishing line so that his fly touched a small pool across the river, I splashed my fly into the river a few yards off. My first few casts were a mess, but I gradually improved. Soon, I hooked something. The rod grew heavy and lively. Eventually, I got very cold feet and aching arms and some sense of the pleasures of fishing, just as I had hoped.

That evening, after Martin dropped me off at the hotel, I found a place to sit among the armchair atolls in the oceanic great hall. Later, I was summoned to my table in one of the dining rooms, walls hung with prints. My meal was unassuming but tasty. I had a bit of meat pie, and a bit of cheese.

The following morning, I struck out on the well-marked walk that takes just a few hours but plunges you immediately into the grandeur of the Highlands. In the distance I saw an odd sight: a group of hikers dancing madly about the stream, waving their arms and shaking their heads.

I spread my coat on the grass and settled down to my picnic - superior crab sandwiches provided by the hotel. In a moment, I was on my feet, slapping my face and rubbing my hair while grabbing up my sandwiches with a free hand. I had forgotten the bane of the Highlands: flies, which are particularly active in late summer.

At Fort William’s excellent West Highland Museum, housed in a late Georgian building on Cameron Square, you can learn how people left a mark on this ancient landscape. They worked its trees and stones, leaving beautiful ax heads from the Stone Age, Celtic jewellery, the blade of a bronze sword. There are suggestions of myth and magic, the cement that connected people to their surroundings and the darker world beyond: amulets, cures, and trophies. And there are objects so rare and weird that they seemed to have dropped from the world beyond: so-called drift-seeds, which floated ashore from the West Indies and were turned into charms, odd-shaped or queerly colored pebbles that drew fevers, or brought a loved one home.

It was not yet dark when the London sleeper slid out of Fort William Station. I did not brood for long on the triumphs and tragedies of Highland history. When I next opened my eyes, I saw the huddled rooftops of suburban London, and a cheerful attendant, passing me a cup of tea.

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