Giants in The Forest, Vile on the Disused Railway Line (episode 5, interlude 2)

One of the best things about travelling close to the ground (making contact with people local to the area, not being part of a package tour) is that information comes from the journey, not the planning. Having travelled along the Google Map route to Drum Castle, the staff of the National Trust building suggest that I go back via  the Disused Railway Line.

I am about halfway through my visits to the Giants in the Forest, but this is the first part of the trip that
reminds me of the freedom of cycling outside of the city. The Old Deeside Railway has been given a tarmac make-over and while some of the platforms are still in place (and the station houses have become homes), the industrial optimism that once saw this route serve the city with commuters has been replaced by an idyllic pastoral calm.

Speaking to my father later in the evening, I find out a few fantastic facts about the line. Apparently, Queen Victoria had freaked out when she heard about the plans for the railway to go near Balmoral, and made sure it had a shorter length. It was mostly used as a commuter line (it had the nickname 'The Subbies'), but had a far whack of freight. It is almost inevitable that it became a victim of the Beeching Act.

Throughout my trip around Scotland, I see a great many 'lost' railway lines. I am wondering whether there is any mileage in a conspiracy theory that sees Beeching as a conspiracy to disconnect rural Britain, isolating anyone who wants to live outside of the urban sprawl.

So, there is a melancholy when I cycle along this beautiful stretch. I am glad to be out of the traffic, shamed as pensioners pelt past me on their bikes, enjoying the view and the easy roll of the wheels, sad that the railway had to die to make this route possible.

When I scoot around a corner, and the River Dee opens up beneath me, I am moved to pause and stare: the width of the river makes it shallow enough to see the brown rocks beneath and deep enough to make the water skip and splash over them. Later I sit on the old platform at Culter and eat an orange.

I feel like my father. I can remember him when he was the age that I am now. I know, as I eat the orange, sitting on a railway platform, my legs aching from the cycle, that he would enjoy this - and probably share the same melancholy about the absence of steam trains. I know he enjoys the cycling, being outdoors, although he might have cut out citrus fruit when he discovered that it ate at the enamel on his teeth.

The more usual connectedness is big and dramatic, a sentimental oneness with nature. I don't get that. I don't even get any particular affection for the beauty of the countryside (although it clearly is wonderful). I am recognising where half of my DNA came from, and how its enthusiasms and loves are embedded in my experience.

Is this supposed to be happening? Aren't I meant to be looking at Giants in the Forest?