The Scottish Highlands are no one’s secret. This untrammeled countryside has been on the eager traveler's map since the 18th century, when the likes of Wordsworth and Coleridge wrote about its vast landscapes. In the 19th century, Queen Victoria and Prince Albert purchased a holiday home known as Balmoral in Aberdeenshire, and there’s been travelers making the pilgrimage desperate for a gasp of that fresh Highland air ever since.
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Still, as the Royal Scotsman, a Belmond Train chortles along railway lines that carve through sweeping heather and glassy lochs, it feels as though you might be the only person gawping at the scenery whizzing past. You–and the 35 other passengers taking one of the Scotsman’s handful of journeys together, holed up in vintage-lacquered train carts surrounded by emerald velvet upholstery and plump tartan pillows and free-flowing Champagne.
I was traveling solo to Edinburgh and then northbound aboard the Scotsman, and the idea of being effectively trapped aboard a sleeper train with 35 strangers was intimidating–even before I considered the Agatha Christie Murder on the Orient Express vibes that come as part of the package when you embark on this sort of journey (Belmond also owns the Venice Simplon-Orient-Express, incidentally). Cocktails in the observation carriage, communal suppers in the dining cart, and excursions to try fly-fishing, shooting, or to whip around a distillery on a whisky tour all seemed like wonderful ways to spend a few days in May. But the idea of doing all of the above with people I'd never met for a full 48 hours made me a little nervous. I could, I bargained with myself, spend most of the trip writing at the dinky desk in my single cabin, taking photographs from the open-air observation balcony (the only one of its kind in Europe, I was told by Sharon, one of the ever-smiley staff wrapped in tartan), and experiencing the spa. After all, the spa was the primary reason for my visit.