I left the train at Glasgow Central Station, and pulling the lapels of my greatcoat closed and gripping my hat and cane, I headed for the ticket office to purchase my berth on the Caledonian Sleeper. I expected a queue but what I found was worse than my expectations. I was faced with a ten-meter long line of irate passengers. It was peak traveling season as many of those who left the English countryside to seek work in Glasgow city would be returning home for Christmas to spend their precious few days off with their loved ones.
“Excuse me miss, what appears to be the trouble?” I asked, trying to be heard over the hearty din of the Salvation Army choir with bell, trumpets and drum accompaniment.
The Irish woman raised her voice as she replied to me. “Sir, did ye not hear? The last train left two hour ago an got snowbound in Carlisle. It’s awful bad in England. Not a train movin’ on the tracks in the whole of the country. We’re stuck, so we are.”
On hearing that, I brimmed with frustration. I decided I would not join the queue and needed to be on the move. I imagined that the other guests who had departed before me were on the train stranded in Carlisle. I was lucky to remain in a big city where I had more choices on how to proceed. This whole debacle to Scotland had been a huge waste of my time and I did not see myself standing around in a chilly train station to wait for news of how and when I was to travel to London.
I claimed my trunk from the luggage car of the West Highland train and with my cane; I pushed my case under my arm. Feeling overburdened and ridiculous, I dragged the wheeled trunk, and with my bullish, no-nonsense gait, I made swift work through the crowds and hubbub.
I found my way to the stagecoach stop. There was already a large crowd assembling there too, so other travelers had the same idea as me. A line of ten coaches waited but not one was laden with baggage and the horses wore their nose bags, so they were still feeding and not yet readying for the off. There was muttering and angry words among the crowd complaining of the delays.
“If we don’t set off now while the daylight is upon us the night will soon come and the roads will be impassable,” One irate man argued with a driver in a most improper manner. I was sure that the driver knew his business and would set off when it was time.
I turned to see the glass-covered arcade with paneled pilasters of the Central Hotel which was adjoined to the station concourse. It would be a nice place to ease the aches from my bones and take tea while awaiting the latest report about the weather. The Central Hotel was a four-star establishment and an expensive place to stay overnight, but the more I thought of a journey in a jammed stage-coach the more it did not appeal to me and dragging my baggage around Glasgow seeking a room did not appeal either. Knowing how the snow could make the whole country grind to a halt I needed to secure lodgings immediately and so I made my way to the entrance.
The hotel foyer was proper and comfortable, and one would not have guessed we were just two days from Christmas Day. There were no garlands, ribbons, or boughs decorating the foyer, and I was reminded that the Scottish Church punished any who celebrated Christmas. A porter stepped to my side,
“Can I be of assistance to ye sir?” He hurriedly relieved me of my burden and not used to carrying my own luggage, I was grateful for it. He wheeled my trunk to the mahogany reception counter and pushed the brass counter bell for service.
“Thank you my boy”, I said and gave the young man a copper. In the office behind the counter, I recognized the rapid clicking of a telegraph machine. The desk clerk was hovering in the doorway his attention sidetracked by the telegraph operator.
“A moment sir”, he called to me. The operator handed him a message and when he had read the ribbon of message tape, he harrumphed and then came to the counter.
“My deepest apologies, sir. This bad weather has had a significant effect on everyone it seems!”
“Indeed. Do you have a room available?”
“If you would have asked me an hour ago I would have regretfully had to turn you away. However, the telegraph has been clicking non-stop with messages from customers who are unable to travel because of the brutal weather.” He said exasperated. “But their bad fortune is your good fortune. There are several rooms now canceled and available until Hogmanay.”
I was relieved to hear this and thought it best that I immediately signed and paid in advance for three nights stay. The porter hefted my luggage into the lift and assisted me to my room. I was pleasantly surprised by the spacious corner room with a lounge area, bathroom, and double bedroom and when I peeked through the drapes I saw it overlooked the hustle and bustle of Gordon Street and Hope Street, where Glaswegians went about their daily business, treading carefully on the slippery snow-covered pavements.
When I had changed my garments I penned a missive explaining my predicament which, when I returned to the reception desk, I asked to be telegraphed to my auction house, my sister Gracie, and then to my household so they knew not to expect me on Christmas Day.
I took tea in the lounge, smoked a cigar and read The Times newspaper, and then The Scotsman. The Scotsman ran a rather salacious story on the
