Seaside Special - Long way round to the races: Lothian, Fife and Perthshire

Credit: VisitScotland/Kenny Lam

For the Lothian leg of the Seaside Specials, I’m revisiting a blog from 2016 that laid out the bones of a slightly unhinged early Summer return day-trip (sort of) to Perth races from home in Hertfordshire. This was an idea conceived one morning with Tim on the shuttle from Clapham Junction to Esher for the Tingle Creek meeting. I had always fancied a trip to Britain’s most northerly racetrack. Tim was a regular visitor to the June meeting when he and his other half visited her in-laws in nearby Dundee. ‘I’ll join you!” I boldly declared.

By the time Spring 2016 arrived, I was still committed to the trip. I had some half-hearted squints at B&Bs and timetables, but I was already fondly recalling my first Caledonian Sleeper journey from a few years previously to Fort William. Eager to recapture something of that virgin experience, I duly booked up the sleeper either side of the Perth meeting, to arrive in Edinburgh early in the morning before the races and heading back down south late the same evening.

The Yorkshireman in me couldn’t sanction the outlay on a cabin for what would be a much shorter journey than the Fort William epic; and with much less in the way of attractive countryside upon which to feast my reddening eyes I plumped for a seat instead. My decision to slum it almost backfired.

The Caledonian Sleeper web portal at that time, on the old rolling stock had a handy carriage plan to facilitate the easy booking of ones preferred seat (and at no extra cost, please note EasyJet). I paid particular attention to securing a single seat next to the window in airline configuration, rather than four seats with a table in between. I didn't want accidental footsie or unnecessary eye contact to divert me from slumber.

Well I messed that one up. Maybe the seat plan was wrong. Or more likely I wasn't looking properly. I matched up my ticket reservation with the badge on the baggage rack and my shoulders drooped. I was wedged at the end of a car where a thin bloke with legs like beanpoles and an array of stuffed bags at his feet was looking back at me from his seat opposite. "Cosy isn't it?" he observed.

I returned a thin smile and shuftied my feet around until he moved one of his holdalls to the rack above. After we left Euston (bang on time), I found an empty seat behind him in my preferred airline set up and settled in for the journey.

The sleeper car had a strange atmosphere. Most people were solo travellers and once the lights were dimmed, there was a sense of intrusion on other people’s habits. The old chap across the way from me said he’d been sent in error to King’s Cross to pick up the train. He had two seats to himself, but even this luxury was insufficient, judging by his twitching and restlessness. At various intervals, I’d catch glimpses of his deep red cords in a new angle in, around and over the reclined seat.

Before we departed, a young businessman in an expensive open necked shirt with glinty cufflinks and sporting eye-catching, two-tone brown brogues was talking on his mobile phone just loud enough for us to hear about his day. This had involved meetings at which Richard Branson had talked about trade options in Brexit fallout-World, before he was whisked off to meet Theresa May. I did wonder what such a high-flying executive was doing in the sleeper cheap seats. Anyway, after Watford, the guard tapped him on the shoulder and off he went. A spare cabin had presumably been procured for an appropriate fee.

A middle-aged American lady, travelling slowly around Europe, was going back to Edinburgh to hook up with friends she’d met on a previous journey. She fell in to intriguing conversation with a Polish woman with whom there was a shared interest in whisky and face creams. The latter was heading up to Islay to start a new job in a distillery.

For my part, I had something in common with King’s Cross Man. Others around me were fast asleep in exactly the same position as they were sitting. Feet neatly tucked away, arms folded, head back. Me? Fidgetting and squirming. I accidentally kicked my M&S bag, full of discarded plastic food wrappers. In the muted sleeper carriage it sounded like a cat in a waste bin. A few people glanced over, even lifting up their blindfolds (thoughtfully provided by Caledonian Sleeper, together with yellow earplugs – please note, EasyJet) to check what was the noise. Then I snapped down the little metal footrest with too much vigour. It clicked into position with a resonant clang. More inquiring looks.

Eventually I nodded off for a couple of hours, stirring as the first fingers of morning light were spreading from behind dark clouds. That memorable first time I took the sleeper, I was struck by soft early sunshine playing delightfully in the mist rising from Loch Lomand. Here, a few tentative rays illuminated a deserted and bleak Preston station where a train of car transporters was rumbling though on the adjacent freight line. I hate Preston. Always have.

We rolled into Edinburgh Waverley bang on time. I took the chance to wash and brush up in the loos, once the concourse geography had been navigated: this is the only station I've ever been to with more roads than platforms and more vehicles than trains.

Edinburgh is a handsome, stately place; known as the English City to the independence- Remainer-inclined Scots. Although a while since my last visit, I wanted to explore a new district. In a decision that has subsequently come to benefit this Seaside Special endeavour, I headed to the coast on a No 22 fuel-hybrid, wifi-enabled Lothian Transport bus. Leith and sunshine. Breakfast was next on the itinerary.

Leith used to have a seedy, crime-ridden reputation feeding off its declining ship building and poorly-paid dock-related activities. Like many British ports, since the 1980’s Leith has seen significant renewal, regeneration and repurposing of maritime infrastructure. The fine granite warehouses that lined Leith Water now house gastro-pubs, galleries and gift shops. At the end of the bus route, Ocean Terminal has a top-end shopping centre with the Royal Yacht Britannia moored alongside.

I ambled around the handsome buildings and over bridges that criss-crossed the Water, before settling on the Clock Café, a former pub, for a top quality fry up. The exact level of that quality had to be established in real time via facebook photos and commentary before a tough jury comprising Colin, Bryn and Bacchy over 400 miles away.

The docks are connected to the city centre via the mile-long Leith Walk. If ever a street told the story of waves of immigration, this was it. Many of the Victorian edifices that form the backbone of the walk remain – converted factories and workshops, protestant churches, gin palaces and the Central Railway Station, saved from demolition and given a new lease of life. However, building signage gave away a more recent history. Early 20th century Asian cultural centres, money shops and food stores have made their mark. Then the Turkish community’s late 20th century stamp is seen in a few places, notably to my eye, one take-away sign declaring ‘The Best Kebab Shop’. No geographical or temporal delineation necessary. Simply the best. Except that, rather confusingly, three doors up stood ‘The Original Best kebab shop’. I was picking up mixed messages. A little further down the road, the story was brought up to date where the most recent settlers had opened a collection of Polish shops – a large deli called ‘Polonia’ and a few other a groceries and newsagents. 

There was even a racecourse here until it moved to Musselburgh in 1816. It’s been there ever since. Talking of racecourses, it was time to make my way to Perth to meet Tim and Sarah.

The train journey took me across the Firth of Forth, a stretch of water that is to bridge building what the M42 is to junction remodelling, only much more attractive. My four-car unit felt like a toy car in a giant game of Sim City. 

The line then took in an oversized arc along the Fife coast from south-east to north-east through the village of Aberdour whose 12^th century castle spun past the window before the upmarket resort, golf destination and wide sweeping bay of Burntisland swung into view. Then on around the coast through Kingstown and Kirkaldy, before a left turn projected us north towards Perth. Meanwhile Google Maps was showing a curiously direct, but far less interesting route along the line of the M90…

This was pretty much the end of the journey’s coastal interest, but having brought you this far north, I feel I can stretch this project’s terms of reference (as drafted approved and enforced by my own offices) to include the rest of the day.

Once off the train in Perth, I found Tim and Sarah waiting in the garden bar of the rambling Victorian Station Hotel. As I found out a couple of years later, when making a pilgrimage to Ayr racecourse, the good Caledonian folk love to make an effort for the races, no matter how low-key the fixture. The pub was full of blokes in shiny suits and shoes with no socks, whilst the gals sported strappy stilettos and stringy tops, ready for a day at Britain's closest racecourse to the Arctic! The mood of the pub was buoyant with a spike of anticipation. I tried to photo bomb a gaggle of effervescent racegoers in the loo corridor, but was too slow. They snapped me amongst their group anyway and we all wished each other good luck.

We saw some of the women later on, staggering out of the dining marquee towards the rails bookies, high heels sinking into the grass like knives into butter. Did they care? Had their smiles slipped? Not one bit.

Outside the boozer, we climbed aboard an old London routemaster bus, chartered by the track for the shuttle from the town centre, and enjoyed some expansive views of the Tay whilst trapped in a line of traffic heading up to the track. It was highly tempting to ring the phone number on London Transport sign left over from the vehicle’s last days in active service to complain about the delay.

Perth racecourse had been on my radar for some time. I always enjoy the three-day Spring festival that comes hard on the quality meetings of Aintree and Ayr. The track doesn’t offer up anything like the same level of prize money as those, but the races are always supported by some good trainers. The previous season – 2015 – currently the dual Champion Trainer of both the UK and Ireland, dispatched Up For Review to land the decent novice hurdle at the same meeting we were crawling towards. It had been a while since I last went Summer jumping. Probably Newton Abbot in 1982 on a Torbay family holiday before I was old enough to gamble. So it doesn’t really count.

The track didn’t disappoint. Set in the stunning parkland grounds of Scone (that’s ‘Skyooon’ - I learned quick) Palace, the racecourse sits above the city and has grand views to encircling hills. The racecourse buildings suit the landscape and help to create the welcoming atmosphere: modest, characterful stands without being showy, and an accessible parade ring at the back.

The beer tent was a little gem. Real ales from a few different local brewers served up by a knowledgeable and enthusiastic patron. Ossian from the Inveralmond Brewery was amber and sharp; whilst Head East from the Strathbraan Brewery a couple of stops further up the line at Pitlochry was smooth, fruity and dry in the finish.

The finishes of each of the seven races on the card were drier still. For me anyway. I barely troubled the frame all afternoon. Meanwhile Tim was hoovering up, and not just with his customary 25p each way online bets either. Folding stuff came out of his wallet at the rails bookies on more than one occasion. I was left regretting the missed opportunity of some serious form study that a broken night’s sleep on the train should have presented me. I did not even take advantage of some basic facts. Such as Gordon Elliott and Richard Johnson being top trainer and top jockey at the track. Together they took the opener with Faraway Mountain at a perfectly respectable 4/1 and then landed another one each.  

"Arrested for shit tipping" said Sarah. Ho.Ho

The racecourse is good for viewing with a configuration a little like Doncaster’s teardrop shape, except that the narrow end was close to the stands, affording some fine sights when the fields navigated the tight bends. Taking photos on the rail was literally as near as I got to a winner all day.

Back in the Fair City after the races, we stumbled seamlessly off the shuttle bus and into Dickens on South Street. Perth’s premier malt whisky bar was a top place: a sustainable mix of back street local and welcoming tourist joint. Like much of Perth, low on pretension but high on impact. 

My eyes goggled at the choices. The top rail of the bar was lined with whisky bottles of all shapes and sizes fighting for attention. Thoughtfully, the handy A4 menu on the table detailed alphabetically each of the staggering 100-plus malts on offer. We all began carefully with sensible choices of medium-proof shots. I was even allowed a couple of begrudged chunks of ice with my Highland Park. Inevitably our well-set even keel hit some choppy waters. Last thing before we bailed for the curry house across the road, we were supping Bunnahabhain 18-Year-Old from Islay – a fearsomely strong concoction of peat, heather, bog water and naked flame that sipped as smooth as Desert Orchid over fences but kicked with the venom of an oversprung Buckaroo. Wow.

A curry really was the only option by that stage of the evening. Tim and I were rolling and I don’t think Sarah was far behind, though she was sharp enough to keep taking photos for the running social media commentary of our day.  Another nice venue. The main room was a high ceilinged, elaborately mullioned and moulded affair that may once have been a chapel. Not that architectural badinage overwhelmed enjoyment of the fare laid before us. Not at all. I was also full of appreciation for the rogani naan that accompanied my karahi: flatbread made with egg yolk. A day full of new experiences.

I was done in, and probably over-done, by then. We parted at Perth station and I headed back to Edinburgh drifting in and out of alcoholic-hazed naps. That became the template for the rest of my night. After a head clearing stroll along the beautifully-lit Princes Street and Royal Mile, fitful probably best describes the journey back to Berko. I wasn’t so lucky in my seat alignment for the return trip and there was a little foot play with the young man opposite me before we fell into a mutually agreed but unspoken personal space arrangement. To be fair, he was always going to be on the wrong side of the argument. Apart from my involuntarily twitching feet emanating 98%-proof bromodosis, I was also giving off a proper acrid whisky-sweat and oozing a fine blend of garlic and lime pickle fragrance from most of my exposed pores.

I jumped off at Watford in the early morning drizzle and was home in bed for some proper shut-eye by about 7am.

Long way round to the races, anyone?

Series navigation: Intro and chapter guide

Previous episode: Moray and Aberdeen

Next episode: Borders