Embark on a thrilling journey through the untamed wilderness of Europe by boarding the sleeper train to the Scottish Highlands. Traverse rugged landscapes and remote terrain as you immerse yourself in the breathtaking beauty of this pristine region.
Take a glance at the intricate web of the British railway network, and you’ll notice a pattern of mainlines and branchlines intricately woven to span most corners of the island. However, as your gaze shifts northward to the Scottish Highlands, you’ll observe a notable deviation. Here, the landscape is traversed by only a handful of solitary railway lines, diverging from the rest of the network like loose strands from a ball of yarn. Among these, the West Highland Line and the Highland Main Line run parallel for stretches, teasingly close to converging before diverging once more in opposite directions. Between them lies a vast emptiness on the map, untouched by the cartographer’s ink.
For years, I regarded this blank expanse—the space between the lines—as a challenge to be conquered. However, spanning the 22-mile gap between Corrour station on the West Highland Line and Dalwhinnie station on the Highland Main Line proved to be a daunting task. No public transport, roads, or marked footpaths connect the two stations. Instead, this territory is dominated by some of the most rugged and remote terrain in Western Europe, obstructed by imposing mountains and treacherous passes.
To traverse this divide necessitates a two- to three-day expedition through the wild heart of the Highlands—a journey that involves both rail travel and hiking on foot. Accompanied by my friend Al, we initially planned our excursion for early autumn, envisioning crimson leaves and the haunting calls of rutting stags. However, delays pushed our trip into November, where we found ourselves amidst descending deer herds and the encroaching frost of early winter. As we set out on our expedition, the landscape was already veiled in rime ice, with heavy snowfall predicted to arrive shortly after our departure.
Northbound through the night
In the spring of 1873, the UK witnessed the inaugural departure of its first sleeper service from London King’s Cross to Glasgow. Borrowed from the United States, sleeper trains were heralded as “The Most Interesting Route to Scotland,” enticing travelers with the novelty of “Travel in your Pyjamas.” Over the ensuing 150 years, the fortunes of sleeper services fluctuated, contending with the rise of faster daytime trains and budget airlines, often falling victim to political cutbacks. However, the modern Caledonian Sleeper departing from London Euston station stands as a rare vestige of this Victorian tradition, tracing much of the same route as its 1873 predecessor and retaining a hint of its enchantment.
Step into the dining car and encounter a preview of Scotland: haggis and Tunnock’s caramel logs adorn the menu, while the bar boasts a selection of seven single malt whiskies. A diverse clientele populates the train—a mix of oil traders en route to Aberdeen, hillwalkers bound for Ben Nevis, and even a lone traveler accompanied by his ginger cat.
As the train pulls away from the imposing structure of Euston, nightcaps are served beneath the shadow of the Chilterns. By the time it reaches Crewe, most passengers are already lost in slumber. Outside, the sights and sounds of the passing landscape subtly infiltrate their dreams—the distant roar of a freight train at Penrith, the eerie stillness of a border station in the wee hours. Once, awakened by a midnight call of nature, I glimpsed a full moon ascending over the obsidian hills of the Pennines, evoking WH Auden’s iconic poem, “Night Mail,” which serves as both a depiction of a Scotland-bound night train and a meditation on the interconnectedness of humanity.
Traveling by sleeper evokes a sense of childlike wonder—you climb into your bunk, trusting that you’ll be transported to your destination as if carried by a gentle lullaby. But the true magic unfolds when you awaken and draw back the cabin curtains, revealing a landscape transformed. The clamor of London’s rush hour has given way to serene wilderness. Lochs glisten in the morning light, while Munros loom majestically, their slopes cloaked in frozen heather and snow. In the span of a night’s journey, you’ve transitioned from one of Europe’s most densely populated regions to one of its most sparsely inhabited corners—simply by closing your eyes.
Our destination, Corrour station, emerges from the blanket bog shortly after breakfast. Hosting around 12,000 passengers annually—equivalent to Euston’s peak-time traffic in just one hour—Corrour stands as the highest station in the UK, accessible only by rail. A station building, now closed for the season, offers a fleeting taste of civilization before we embark on the next leg of our journey.
Stepping off the train at Corrour, we bid farewell to the comforts of modernity and embrace the rugged wilderness that lies ahead. Beyond the reach of railway lines, telephone signals, and electricity, we find ourselves in a realm where self-reliance is paramount, and the sharp mountain air is uninterrupted by the buzz of technology. It’s a stark transition—one that demands resilience and resourcefulness.
As we prepare to disembark, Alec, one of the sleeper attendants, expresses mild incredulity at our plan to hike to Dalwhinnie station over the next three days. Laden with provisions and equipped with ice axes and crampons for the snowy terrain, we watch the train recede into the distance, leaving us in a hushed silence punctuated only by Alec’s parting words: “Rather you than me, lads.
The ghosts of the Bealach Dubh
Corrour station, immortalized in the 1996 film Trainspotting, serves as the starting point for our adventure into the Scottish Highlands. As we set out, echoes of the film’s characters debating whether to embark on a walk linger in our minds. Yet, undeterred, we venture forth, leaving the station behind us and venturing along a track bordering Loch Ossian. The winter sun bathes the moorland in a warm, bronzed glow, while ominous clouds gather to the east, pregnant with the promise of impending snowfall. A lone buzzard observes our progress from its perch in the treetops, a silent sentinel amidst the rugged landscape.
Around midday, we encounter the only other traveler on our path—Jessie Guilliatt, a wanderer from the Mornington Peninsula in Victoria, Australia. Having sold her farm, Jessie found solace in the untamed beauty of the Scottish Highlands, particularly in witnessing the ethereal dance of the Northern Lights above Cape Wrath. “You just get a feeling here,” she remarks, encapsulating the sense of vastness and wonder that permeates the Highlands.
Continuing our journey beyond the eastern shores of the loch, we traverse through thinning forests and ascend toward the desolate pass known as Bealach Dubh. Here, the trail follows the course of swift-flowing streams, requiring us to navigate icy stepping stones with caution. Midway, Jessie departs to prepare a meal with her foraged mushrooms, leaving us to contemplate the haunting history of the pass.
Bealach Dubh bears witness to tragic events, including the 1942 crash of a Wellington bomber and a mountaineering club’s ill-fated excursion in 1951. These stories serve as poignant reminders of the harsh realities of Highland life and the unforgiving nature of the terrain.
Our destination for the night is Ben Alder Cottage, a remote bothy steeped in legend and lore. Despite its basic amenities and rumored hauntings, the shelter it provides is a welcome respite after a day of trekking through the wilderness. As we huddle around the hearth, enveloped by the warmth of the fire and the flickering shadows dancing on the walls, we become part of a timeless tableau—a scene unchanged for centuries.
Among the tales of hauntings and ghostly apparitions that pervade the bothy’s history, there are also stories of poignant reunions and cherished memories. It’s a place where past and present converge, offering solace to weary travelers and serving as a testament to the enduring spirit of the Highlands.
The snows of Ben Alder
Before dawn breaks, we embark on the ascent to the summit of Ben Alder. With each step upward, the biting cold intensifies, our breath forming clouds of vapor that drift skyward. Amidst the quiet of the mountains, a faint ringing catches my attention, reminiscent of distant bells tolling a warning. As I pause to rest on a granite outcrop, the source of the sound reveals itself: the water bottle in my backpack, now encased in a sheath of freshly formed ice.
Ben Alder, towering at 1,148 meters, commands the landscape, serving as a sentinel over the expanse between the railway lines. Unlike the foreboding Bealach Dubh, which held a reputation as a place of escape, Ben Alder embodies a sanctuary—a refuge where one might seek anonymity. Legends intertwine with its rugged terrain, with stories of Bonnie Prince Charlie seeking shelter here following his defeat at the Battle of Culloden in 1746, alongside the elusive Cluny Macpherson, who evaded capture for nine years in the Highlands.
In 1996, Ben Alder garnered national attention with the discovery of a body near its summit. Dubbed the ‘Man with No Name,’ he had deliberately shed all forms of identification before ascending the mountain to end his life with an antique revolver. His tragic tale, shrouded in mystery, captivated the public imagination until he was eventually identified as a French water board worker.
Ben Alder is less a traditional peak and more a sprawling plateau, where winter’s grip holds sway for much of the year. Crossing its expanse, we encounter a myriad of snow types—from delicate flurries that dust our gear to fierce squalls that buffet us with biting winds and sub-zero temperatures. During a harrowing whiteout, snow and clouds merge into a blank canvas of featureless whiteness, momentarily obscuring our path.
As evening descends, we begin our descent, following moonlit trails through snow-covered landscapes. Pitching our camp beside a tranquil pine forest, we brush accumulating drifts from our tent roof. While holidaymakers elsewhere seek out winter wonderlands in Scandinavia or the Alps, we find ourselves ensconced in our own pocket of Arctic solitude atop the country’s roof, where our footprints are swiftly erased by nature’s relentless embrace.
Fire from snow
Nestled in the foothills northeast of Ben Alder lies a hidden gem: Lochan na Doire-uaine. From its tranquil waters, a meandering watercourse winds its way eastward through the hills, supplying the Dalwhinnie whisky distillery with its lifeblood. On our final day of trekking, we trace the course of this watercourse, following a forester’s track alongside Loch Ericht until the distant chimneys of the distillery come into view on the horizon. Exhausted yet exhilarated, we reach our journey’s end.
“Dalwhinnie, in Gaelic, means ‘the meeting place,'” explains our guide, Peter Wemyss, as he leads us through the distillery’s warehouses brimming with stacked casks. “It was where old drovers gathered with their cattle before heading south. This has always been a place where people gather.”
Indeed, Dalwhinnie serves as more than just a whisky distillery—it’s also the convergence point of our path and the railway line. Peter recounts how casks were once shipped by rail from the adjacent station. Seeking refuge from the biting cold, we find solace in the warmth of the distillery, surrounded by the comforting hum of copper stills and the aroma of aging whisky. As we savor drams of single malt that ignite a slow fire within, it’s fascinating to contemplate that this liquid gold originated from the snows that blanketed the foothills of Ben Alder many winters past.
As night falls, the southbound Caledonian Sleeper arrives at Dalwhinnie. Cocooned in my bunk, I reflect on Bruce Chatwin’s seminal work, “The Songlines,” where he posits that humanity’s inherent nomadism is ingrained in our very essence. According to Chatwin, the rhythmic motion of walking, akin to the swaying of a sleeper carriage, has roots in our ancestral past, soothing and comforting even in sleep. As the train traverses the labyrinth of railway lines binding the country together, I drift into a deep slumber, still ensconced in dreams of the mountains and passes that lie between.
