Arriving at Platform 19.

So the rebooked train journey, albeit a very different trip, was 10 times more expensive than the one that we’d had cancelled. The massive increase in costs created a mild panic that was threatening to engulf me, hot flushes, sweats and loud gasps of OMG, as the impulsive ‘devil may care and we only have one life’ cries succumbed to the sound of the pounds hitting the credit card. Now that the flat Prosecco had worn off, there was nothing left to dull the pain but the eternal hope that this really was going to be the trip of a lifetime.

As the trip drew nearer I hoped there would be no more dramas to unfold but they did . The day before we were due to travel it rained, it rained and it rained some more. This led to inevitable flooding and news reports suggested that the train line to Aberdeen was closed from Montrose. That’s right, it’s our route. And it’s all up in the air once again.

This time, however, communications were on point and I received a rather welcome email to announce our trip was going ahead. The Owl having had the nod that all systems were go, drove south this time to catch her train. Now my sister doesn’t travel light. She arrived with a case, two bags, food, drink, gifts. Then the standard 2 coats, 4 dresses, 6 pairs of shoes were unpacked and soon the order and organisation of the house was fractured. She likes to have choices. The Lion, who always finds the Owl’s visits a time of great joy and pleasure watched with all the experience and knowledge of one who knows that the accompanying baggage was standard, and that suggested the visit was no more than a short one.

We ate our evening meal, caught up on the life stories we rarely get to share and then turned our attention to the trip. What to wear took over 3 hours of humming, hawing, oohing and aahing, before the semi-final decisions were made. Then having slept on it, changed our minds once more and went with the final outfit that had seemed like a rank outsider the day before. Up with the lark, made up to the nines, dropped off by the Lion, we boarded the local train to take us to Edinburgh.

Waverley station always smells like diesel and dust, it’s a familiar welcome to the city. Always abuzz with people either moving along so quickly or standing around laconically each with a destination on their minds. It was noisy, announcements mumbled the arrivals and departures in a droning monotone. Cases rumbled and clacked along the platform, in the distance someone was playing the station piano. Coffee machines puffed their steamy hot water into cartons with names to be called like a register to come forward, grab the hot drink and head into the day.

We knew our destination was platform 19 and made our way toward the standing area. Men and women draped in yellow jackets were pointing and guiding the expectant passengers to the right spot. Cameras were primed, children and adults craned to look toward the railway line for any signs of arrival. People stood on the bridge walkway to gain the best view, jostling for position, the anticipation adding to the rising levels of excitement. The Owl, no less excited than everyone else, watched with growing interest as the passengers assembled alongside her. Couples, children, friends, families all chattering and looking expectantly toward the rails. One family had pushed back the annals of time and wore Victorian dress, others wore shorts and t-shirts. The Owl and I suitably buffed and polished, swathed in-the very best wool coats, held an air of class and quality as we stood cheek by jowl with our fellow travellers.

I started to get butterflies in my stomach when I heard the swoosh of steam announce The Flying Scotsman’s arrival. I caught excitement in my sister eyes as she strained to see past the guards, who were holding you behind the yellow line and safety. I’m sure she was desperately trying to slip through to get a closer look. Then majestically, it rolled into view, at first only it’s black face crawling toward us surrounded by billowing plumes of white smoke that evaporated to reveal the glorious splendour of its green and brass engine. The driver and fireman coasting their charge gracefully to a halt alongside our platform. I suddenly thought about Big Gordon and all the train stories of Thomas the Tank engine regaled by Ringo Starr transported me back to my children’s early lives and I experienced their joy from those stories.

The Annie and Clarabelle carriages, swayed past us in contrasting shades of maroon and navy. As it smoothly came to rest we found the carriage with first class written on the windows right before us. A table lamp invitingly illuminating a small vase of flowers, brightening up the crockery and glass sitting patiently waiting to be used, on a stiff white linen table cloth. The epitome of grandeur travelling on this train. Not just any train. The Train. The Flying Scotsman train. We made our way to the plush Pulman seats with our names on them. Once cradled in the finery of our first class coach, the waiter poured us a glass of champagne and as the train lurched slowly into action and made its way north there was a sigh of complete satisfaction and pleasure from the Owl.

Happy birthday my Owl, it was just the best day I’ve ever had with you. Hope you loved it too…..