‘But he’s very clean. He’s cleaner than me!’
‘I’m sure he is, but that’s our policy.’
‘Well, you should put that on your site,’ I mutter. ‘It’s not a good user experience.’
After searching the online nooks and crannies of Inverness, the best I can come up with is a single room in a one-star guest house on the outskirts of town. Threadbare brown carpet. Thin flowered curtains. Flat beige pillows and a one-bar heater. But I can have Crumpet in with me, and it’s a free breakfast.
‘What’s that entail?’ I ask the barely comprehensible man who answers the phone.
‘Beans, toast, an’ egg, if yer lucky. Might be able tae do yer a bit o’ bacon since it’s Christmas an’ all.’
So much for a fun stay in Inverness.
I don’t really have a choice. ‘Fine. I’ll take it for four nights.’
The train trundles northward through white fields, and big fluffy flakes drift from the sky. I do like snow, I have to admit, so it’s a treat to see a big dumping. I hold Crumpet up to the window. ‘Look, buddy, snow!’
Crumpet licks the glass, and I give him some water (not too much, don’t want him peeing everywhere) and take a swallow myself. This hangover is never-ending. I’m craving a good night’s sleep and a shower. The thought of the tiny hovel in Inverness that awaits isn’t pleasant, but it’s better than nothing.
Overcome with exhaustion, the swaying motion of the train lulls me, and I nod off with my head propped against the window. When I wake up sometime later, the train isn’t moving, and we’re stopped at a station—Kingussie, the sign says. Snow is falling faster now, and it’s almost dark outside, since it’s nearing 3 p.m. I yawn and stretch my stiff neck.
‘Ugh, another hour to go,’ I tell Crumpet, who’s curled on the seat next to me. He thumps his tail and doesn’t look too concerned. Maybe I can take him for a quick walk in the fresh air, but it looks freezing out there, and it’s warm in here.
I rise to stretch my legs, then notice there isn’t actually anyone in the carriage. It’s completely empty, and there’s no luggage in the racks apart from my suitcase. What the?
A conductor comes in, whistling, and stops when he sees me. ‘Oh, didn’t you hear the announcement? Everyone off the train.’
‘I was asleep. What’s going on?’
‘A line issue because of the snow. There’s a rail replacement bus to Inverness. You should hurry, though, if you want to catch it. Cute dog.’ He carries on down the carriage.
Oh god, just what I need—an hour on a bus. Groggily, I get my belongings together, shrug on my coat, and heft down my wheelie. ‘Why didn’t you wake me, Crumpet?’ I grumble to him, and he whines. It wasn’t his fault. He was asleep too.
Outside the station, there’s a bus rumbling in neutral with its exhaust belching steam into the crisp air. The bus door is closed. I rap smartly; and it opens, blowing a puff of warm air in my face, to reveal a bearded man in a tartan vest.
‘Can I come on?’
‘Sorry, love, I’m full. You’ll have to catch a taxi like the others.’ He nods at the shivering line of people outside the station.A taxi? Seriously? That’s going to cost a fortune.
‘Is there another bus coming?’
He shrugs.
‘Surely, there’s one seat available. My dog can sit on my lap.’
He shakes his head. ‘Sorry, safety regulations.’ He closes the door in my face, puts the bus into gear, and it starts moving slowly off. The two annoying girls from the train are sitting at the back, staring at me out the window. One of them grins maliciously and gives me the finger. Charming.
There’s no way I’m waiting in the snow for a taxi. Besides, Crumpet is shivering. I tuck him inside my coat and wander back to the waiting room, which is warm at least. OK, plan B. I’ll find a guest house in Kingussie and stay the night here. But the accommodation gods aren’t playing ball. There’s zilch on the booking sites and nothing on Airbnb either. Kingussie is a blip on the map, and it’s two days before Christmas, so I’m not sure why I think there would be. But I’m not in my right mind. It’s now pitch-black outside. Train passengers start piling back into the station—brushing white flakes off their coats, stamping ice off boots, and grumbling about the state of the Scottish rail system.
‘Are there no taxis?’ I ask a woman who passes by.
‘Seems not. There’s only one company, and no one is answering. It just keeps ringing.’
‘Maybe they’ll send another bus?’
She shakes her head. ‘It’s a disgrace, AND it’s nearly Christmas. I’ve got a defrosting ham that needs to go in the fridge. It’ll be ruined!’ she exclaims.
‘You could always put it out in the snow,’ I suggest helpfully.
