Monisha recalls her journey aboard The Royal Scotsman, a Belmond Train, following the release of her new book
28 August 2025
This story was originally featured on: https://www.cntraveller.com/article/an-ode-to-scotlands-most-iconic-sleeper-train-from-monisha-rajeshs-moonlight-express-around-the-world-by-night-train
Ten years ago Europe’s sleeper trains were being shunted into the sheds, their carriages uncoupled, their headlamps dimmed as they made way for bullet trains and budget airlines. Gone was the romance of the night train… or so we thought.
After the Covid lockdowns, sleeper services began to find their way back onto travellers’ radars. Many were nervous to fly, booking private compartments and taking the time to explore closer to home. In 2022 and 2023, Interrail saw a record year of sales – and then it began: bit by bit, sleeper trains were inching back out of the darkness, headlamps ablaze. The change in pace and perspective, and the reality of climate change, was undeniable, and passengers were increasingly concerned about carbon footprints, keener than ever to rekindle the flames of nighttime travel. Private companies like European Sleeper appeared with ambitious plans to launch new sleeper services across Europe, and existing operators like Austria’s state railways, Sweden’s Snälltåget and Belmond were keen to extend their routes, encouraged by campaign groups such as ‘Back on Track’ and ‘Oui au train de Nuit!’ For four years, author Monisha Rajesh travelled around Europe and beyond to track the rise of the sleeper train for her new book, Moonlight Express: Around the World by Night Train. Here, Monisha shares an extract from her tales.
Moonlight Express: Around the World by Night Train, by Monisha Rajesh
That evening an informal dinner was served, with guests loosened up and chatting away over perfectly crisp sea trout and barley risotto. Unlike its sibling, the Venice Simplon-Orient-Express, life on The Royal Scotsman was a relaxed affair. The journey from Venice to Paris was centred on the train and its place in popular culture, powered by a healthy dose of nostalgia. In homage to the golden age of travel, it demanded cocktail dresses and black tie. Here, in my Converse and jeans, I felt no less pampered but much more at home. Passengers engaged freely owing to the long, communal dining tables instead of individual ones. Earlier in the evening we’d transferred from the main network at Aviemore to the private Strathspey railway, where we had now parked at the village of Boat of Garten for overnight stabling. After petit fours, I got down onto the platform to stretch my legs, enjoying the freshness of the cold. The sky was light enough to see the ridges of the Cairngorm Mountains and I stood still, hands in pockets, listening out for the song of the River Spey. After the rock and thump of the train, the peace was overwhelming. Taking in a lungful of sweet air I got back on board and looked forward to a night of stationary sleep.
The following day was spent off the train, a coach taking us to the Rothiemurchus Estate, in the heart of the Cairngorms National Park. Scotland only has one other national park – Loch Lomond and the Trossachs – and at 1,700 square miles the Cairngorms was the UK’s largest. Here, we split up for a mixture of clay-pigeon shooting, archery and fishing before a spot of lunch, followed by a visit to Culloden Battlefield in Inverness. This was the site of Scotland’s last violent uprising, resulting in the annihilation of the resistance. The excursion was starting to feel a bit like a school history trip, with the group splintering off into factions: some drifted towards the gift shop for bottles of honey and Highland cow plush toys, while others went back to the coach ‘for jackets’, never to return. The train had moved on, picking us up at the town of Nairn, and as it journeyed east towards Keith, I sat down for a chinwag with Mark Tamburrini, the train’s executive chef. Over the previous twenty-four hours, I’d been spying into the galley, watching trays of cling-filmed pains au chocolat being prepped at 10pm I was in awe at how his team managed to perform in the confined space, with the hazard of high speeds to boot. A Glaswegian, Mark had been on the train since 2009. It had taken him six months to find his feet and to sharpen his spatial awareness, but after so many years on board he was in tune with the turns on the route, knowing what time the engineers would stop and shunt. I asked if disaster had ever befallen, and he rubbed his chin at one vivid memory.
‘Sometimes when the train goes a bit quick round a corner, things fall in the fridge. One time I had a stack of lemon posset sitting there. There was a tree on the track and the driver spotted it, but the train braked really hard and it all hit the side.’ He made a squelching sound in his cheek.
Travelling around the Highlands meant that fresh produce was easy to source and Mark made it a point to match the menu to the regions through which we passed, picking up scallops in Kyle of Lochalsh, kippers in Loch Fyne and beef in Aberdeen.
Although he was always prepped for whims and fancies, his fridge stocked to the hilt. His own cabin was filled with eggs, canapé cups and other dry goods, so tight was the storage on board.
‘I’ve done fish and chips for breakfast with a can of Irn-Bru,’ he said with a wry smile. This was not a job for a chef with ego. I couldn’t imagine the likes of Gordon Ramsay taking kindly to such requests, but Mark came across as measured, or perhaps experienced with the demands of the eccentric. ‘It can be frustrating, but it’s actually easier to go over and ask what they’d like instead of me trying to guess.’
‘What’s been the weirdest request?’
‘Beef olives,’ he said, leaning back to brief his sous chef, Rian, who was hovering gingerly at his side. We were nearing Keith and his team were preparing for arrival.
‘It’s a Scottish thing. You put sausage meat inside beef and then you roll it up. It was an American who came across it once and then he asked the manager for it.’ He pushed himself up, draining his tea and handing his cup to Rian. ‘We once arranged a helicopter. There were twelve of them I think – Russian – and they wanted to reroute the train to Liverpool to see The Beatles Story. It didn’t happen but we got a helicopter. Flew them to Liverpool and flew them back later, in time for dinner.’
As Mark disappeared into the galley, I wondered what it would take to turn me into the kind of insufferable arse who would ask for fish and chips at breakfast. Perhaps it was boredom that pushed people to behave in this manner. Boredom and wealth. Fortunately, I had neither in abundance and was content to start my day with a fry-up. Dinner felt different. After my chat with Mark, I looked around the table with a newfound appreciation for the salmon papillote, langoustine and caviar that was crafted and styled to precision. Tonight was prom night. For the only formal dinner of the journey, everyone had dressed in kilts and gowns, hair freshly tonged, the scent of many perfumes mingling. True to her signature style, my mum swept through in a silk sari that shimmered a peacock green, its gold brocade dusting along the carpet. Surrounded by sequins, diamanté and chiffon shrugs, hers was the most elegant outfit on board.
The train was running along the Shevock, a burn in Aberdeenshire that joined the River Urie. As expected, Mark had sourced local Angus beef, which was now gleaming pink beneath a peppercorn café au lait sauce, horseradish mash on the side. It sliced like butter, something I was never able to achieve despite my fancy pans, thermometers and timers. The food on board was flawless, cementing my belief that a dining car can make or break a journey. Around me, guests were thoroughly at ease, discussing the day’s shooting and fishing, and I soon bonded with an American couple, Johnna and Jack. Fellow dachshund owners, they pulled out videos of their furball, Mr Hansel, riding on a train in Yosemite National Park. Louder after Chianti, passengers spooned up chocolate and almond tart as we sped along the grassy clifftop, twilight descending through the sea mist.
There was an absurdity about the scene. Here we were, a group of forty strangers from around the world, dressed like a clan gathering and packed into a string of wooden carriages. I wondered how we appeared to onlookers, the workers at the Aldi supermarket we’d passed near the town of Montrose. Or to the cottage owners drawing curtains in the hamlet of Kirkton of Craig. Did they see the lights of a dinner party? Maybe they yearned to be on board. The likelihood was that the train was nothing more than a flash in the darkness. Perhaps therein lay the magic of train travel. Those fleeting moments. The ones that vanished as fast as they came.
https://www.bloomsbury.com/uk/moonlight-express-9781526644121/#