End of the line

I’d booked sleeping berths to Fort William, onward tickets for the scenic passenger line to Mallaig, and a double bed in a country-house hotel. But at the last moment she said she couldn’t come. So on my birthday I woke from a drugged sleep in an upper bunk on the Caledonian sleeper and there was one less person in my romantic Scottish Highlands sleeper-compartment fantasy than planned.

I climbed down the ladder, released the window shutter and looked out. We were travelling slowly across a frozen bog. In the far distance, mountains; their snowy peaks glowing orange in the weak early-morning sunlight. Between the strand of barbed wire demarcating railway property and these far-off peaks, not a single sign of human endeavour could be seen. I might have been looking out on the end of the Ice Age. A pair of red stags, looking anxiously at the train over their shoulders, cantered away.