The pipe band struck up a rousing rendition of Flower of Scotland as the grandee of the steam age rolled majestically into the station, a pillow of steam billowing overhead.
Everyone cheered and the driver tooted his whistle in appreciation. You couldn’t help but feel moved, as though you were taking part in something really rather special.
The Flying Scotsman may have just turned 100 but it still oozes glamour and courts affection wherever it chugs. If only I were ageing so well.
