We left early, mist braiding itself along drystone walls as the Ribblehead Viaduct appeared, larger than any photo promised. Sunrise bled copper across the arches, and the carriage went quiet. Someone poured tea, another pointed to curlews, and suddenly we were all traveling companions, humbled by the Dales.
Clouds shredded against Buachaille Etive Mòr as rain and sun traded guardianship of the moor. The train pressed on, windows filmed with silver, then cleared to a clarity so bright that loch and hill felt nearer than breath. A deer lifted its head, and the whole carriage sighed together.