The Journey North

Day 0 – Saturday 9 May: Val’s father took us to the station for the 1140, complaining about the fact that everyone coming the other way was driving in the middle of the road. For the West Coast Line you have to change at Blackburn and Preston: a shadow of its former self, Blackburn Station has now been reduced to two tiny platforms exposed to the elements, with connections to Clitheroe, Preston, Colne and York. But it doesn’t take long to get to Preston (although Val still can’t understand that from Blackburn, the station is approached from the south – she always wants to leave in the wrong direction). On to the Pendolino (luxury at last) and a quiet journey with few fellow passengers, to Glasgow Central.

The last time I was here was August 1964 on the way to Scout Camp at Taynuilt, near Oban – great excitement, with proper trains spewing fire, steam and smoke in the black middle of the night, before setting off on that superb route through Glen Ogle towards Oban. Shame the following few days were ruined by desperate homesickness, but like the song (Hello Muddah, Hello Faddah, Here I am at Camp Granada – oh well, if you’re not old enough you won’t get it…)

Today Glasgow Central is playing host to dozens of young students. There are several electronic information boards but on none of them is the name of Milngavie (pronounced ‘Mull guy’ by the way), so I go and ask at the Information office to find that one has to go to the ‘lower platform’ i.e. the Glasgow Underground – where someone has either been taking his lunchtime drinking very seriously indeed or perhaps he hasn’t stopped imbibing since last night. Steer clear. The underground soon emerges above ground to pass through stations including Partick and Boarsden before terminating at Milngavie. Foolishly I reject the idea of a taxi and then go the wrong way to the ‘Best Foot Forward’ B&B, but eventually we get there and find that from the road to the front door is comparable to reaching Everest Base Camp. Out of breath, we are greeted by the pleasant and efficient Mrs Morag McNeill and ushered to a vast room with four beds and a huge en-suite bathroom.

Formalities concluded, shower tested, teeth cleaned, we set off towards Morag’s recommended evening venue, The Cross Keys, to be greeted with little ceremony by two bouncers, and, once inside, a full house watching the (English) football. We do a U-turn and find La Toscana, a quiet Italian Restaurant serving reasonable food without a hint of any Italian proprietorship. Fuelled up on pasta, we return to the B&B only to learn that we haven’t won the lottery, so retire to bed.