Crossing

The Crossing

The Moor is a wild place, bleak, inhospitable and unforgiving to ill-prepared strangers. During the winter, minute particles of ice fly horizontally, unchecked, off the great Beinns to the North and the slopes to the East, driven in howling blizzards across this vast expanse of what looks, to the unfamiliar eye, like endless desolation. Only the numbness of the freezing temperatures dulls the sting as they strike. During the spring and summer, brief, dazzling interludes of glorious sunshine and lightly-scented fragrant breezes break up the regular procession of weather fronts, which roll in from the Atlantic, to the West, across islands and high peaks, bearing heavy clouds that discharge their cargo in seemingly endless bands of rain as they move eastwards over forest, hills, lowlands and, eventually, out into the North Sea. During the autumn, as the days shorten, the air begins to chill again and the promise of snow draws nearer.

Bleak though this place may be, dead it most certainly is not, for amidst the deceptive carpet of sturdy grasses, robust heathers and multi-hued mosses surrounding lichenous rocky outcrops, runs a complex network of burns and lochans with stony banks and shores, running as anything from trickles to torrents of pale brown peaty water. In the summer, abundant plant life sustains countless insects of all shapes, sizes and degrees of æsthetic appeal, which, in turn, provide sustenance for the feathered tourists who make this their temporary home. The tough grasses provide nourishment for the well-camouflaged deer to which this is home, agile creatures discernible primarily by their movement as they step nimbly from one patch of grass and leafy nourishment to the next.

Man is the stranger here, but he has made his mark. His most notable legacy is the strand of steel, which straddles several burns as it threads its way precariously across the soft ground. The clientèle on this line is as varied as the scenery which it traverses -- local people travelling from remote centres of population to and from the bustling lowland centres of population and commerce; wealthy anglers and stalkers in their first class sleeping cars coming up from the South; ramblers, tourists and casual visitors from all over the world, keen to enjoy the peace, isolation, exhilaration and refreshment unique to the diverse landscape of this most beautiful area.

Once, the ground trembled under the weight of heavy fish trains, double-headed by powerful steam locomotives built specially to cope with the challenging gradients as they made their way from the busy fishing port at the western end of the line, to the great cities of the Kingdom. Now, aluminium and forestry account for the freight which rumbles across the moor, but some of the traffic has long since moved onto the main road that gains access to the southern end of the Moor through the haunting, unforgettable topography of a notorious glen. Dwellings are few and far between.

Late in this autumn evening, the sunshine throws lengthening shadows from the mountains to the West over the darkening pastel colours of the Moor and a warm, light breeze carries the subtle ericaceous scent of wild plants, accompanied by the gentle hum of insects. An irregular crunching sound drifts across from the path leading from the isolated hostel, tucked away amidst lochside trees. Four youthful, weathered and bronzed figures, heightened by back-packs - the hallmark of ramblers the world over - make their way slowly, with reluctance, to the incongruously-sited railway station and cottage at the other end of the path, out here, in the middle of nowhere.

High above the deep glen to the West, a great bird of prey soars with nonchalant ease and keen vigilance above another loch shore, keeping an authentic eagle-eyed watch for less sharp-eyed prey scurrying about amongst the low shrubs and other plants that flank the line leading up to the moor as it rises from the reservoir. However, this is one diner who will have to eat elsewhere this evening for, suddenly, the tranquillity is shattered by the roar of a diesel engine as the locomotive heading the heavy southbound Sleeper drags its charges out of a short tunnel and pounds with determination up the long gradient to the crossing point, the rhythmical echo of wheels on rail joints reverberating across the surface of the water and up the flank of the Beinn on the opposite side.

The crossing-keeper emerges from his cottage and walks slowly, but purposefully, the few yards to the small signal cabin, from where he watches as another long train wends its way cautiously towards the horizontal home signal to the East of the station. With a well-practised action, he pulls one of the red levers and the signal rises, just before the heavy train comes to a stand. A brief bark from the engine provides just enough power to bring the air-conditioned vehicles of the luxury travelling hotel, lightly loaded with well-heeled and cosseted American, Antipodean and European guests, along the Down side of the island platform, drawing smoothly to an obedient stand at the foot of the starting signal. The crossing-keeper returns the lever to its normal position, then makes his way down the platform - with a few friendly words of greeting to the guard on the way - towards the locomotive. Inside the train, diners dressed with casual elegance look up from their white linen, polished crystal and cutlery, saumon fumé and crisp, chilled white wine to glance momentarily with vague interest through the smoked glass windows across the wilderness outside, a million miles away.

As the driver hands his token to the crossing-keeper, local news - arrivals, couplings, alterations and departures on the social scene - are discussed briefly, together with other local snippets, in an exchange between the soft local dialect and an alien - for this place, at least - Yorkshire twang. A pounding engine and an impatient blast on a horn to the West prompt the keeper to hasten back to his cabin, where mechanical movements and sounds usher the Up Night Sleeper slowly into the station.

Whilst the four passengers board the train, a dozen of their peers alight and doors slam shut. At the head of the train, tokens are swapped with the driver - along with westbound news - before exchanges of telegraphic bell code and further leverage clear the way for the signal to rise. Two shrill blasts issue from the guard's whistle and a green flag flutters. The driver sounds a rasping, echoing warning, which carries far across the Moor. Grazing deer look up disinterestedly from their dinner and a raucous babble of rooks, busy squabbling in the trees, takes raggedly to the pale and darkening skies, in feigned distress. The diesel springs to life again, thundering powerfully and throwing a column of dark exhaust high into the air as the electric motors generate a crescendo whine, coaxing the long train away from the platform with squeals of protest as the coaches work their unwilling way through the points and out onto the single track, heading eastwards across the Moor. Young sun-tanned heads lean defiantly out of the carriage windows, from beneath cautionary signs which seem to have little relevance out here, whilst locals tuck into their Thermos flasks, sandwiches and thoughts and overnight travellers settle down for the long journey ahead, as the train gathers speed on its way eastwards. As he passes, the guard waves through his open van door to the keeper, who now makes his way back towards the locomotive at the head of the westbound train, also impatient for departure, so that the passengers can settle down for the night at their destination and the enginemen and guard can get home for a well-deserved rest at the end of a long day.

After the statutory rituals have been performed, the travelling élite get under way again and their gilded, wheeled hotel soon disappears to the right beyond the short cutting and drifts carefully down the gradient, the rattle of its wheels, like those of the disappearing Up Sleeper, fading gradually into silence. The signal returns to its normal position and the cabin door closes. The crunching of recently-arrived boots disappears amongst trees now swaying with increasing animation. The keeper raises his collar against a slight chill in a gathering breeze from the West and quickens his pace on his way to hot, meaty broth in the intimate calm of his isolated home. Away on the skyline, beyond which the setting sun has now disappeared, a thickening dark line appears, heralding the arrival of yet another Atlantic weather front.