WE HAVE SEEN THE FUTURE, AND IT 'GLONGS'

At the end of a route spanning 8.5 miles, with 15 stops and at a total cost of £776m, Broughton’s first in-service tram of the 21st century whispered into York Place this morning just before 5.30am.

The ungodly hour had not deterred a respectable smattering of interested observers, some of whom cheered as Tram No. 275 pulled to a halt.

Among them was 'Greener Leith’s official dog', who was, her companion told us, keen to be the first canine to travel on the new system.

Flossie said nothing in response, but fixed him with a pitying look which spoke volumes.

Cheers came from inside the arriving tram, too, where dozens of even more interested observers – who had crammed aboard at the Gyle and travelled nostril to oxter all the way since – gulped in lungfuls of fresh air and hoped against hope someone would now get off.

Very few did. Indeed, even more squeezed aboard, including possibly the morning’s only genuine travellers – a party of three and their suitcases, all planning to catch an early flight to Belfast.

Spurtle at first had difficulty using the ticket machine to buy an £8 open return. It rejected a wide variety of pre-war francs, Mexican pesos and counterfeit £1 coins, then got sniffy with a debit card, and only reluctantly accepted proper cash under staff supervision at the last. In return it issued the much vaunted but frankly underwhelming limited-edition platinum ticket.

So rammed was the first return service at 5.29am that Spurtle elected to wait for the second. It arrived, serene and spacious, seven minutes later.

Early stages of the journey were shared with kilted wedding guests who had not slept since the day before and were still amply refreshed. They began singing Bob Marley’s lesser known ‘We’re trammin’ as we swept along Princes Street. Also aboard were some Australian tourists who had heard much of the tram’s travails and were now keen to sample their delights. More numerous than any other category were serious-minded gentlemen of a certain age, most of whom shared a love which dared not speak its name ... locomotion.

One such (who even before challenged, denied that he was a public-transport nerd) had travelled in from Fife. He had a complete schedule in his hand and took down the numbers of all the other trams we passed en route. He knew everything about the history of the trams, the track, and the technology which made all this possible. He confessed to having once interrupted a holiday in Germany by travelling to Holland to sample a trolley bus. But he was not a ‘tram nut’. He liked them, he assured us, ‘But I’m not mad or anything. Although perhaps I am’.

Several pantograph-related facts later, we began the most exciting part of the route, where the tram leaves the road at Haymarket and travels along hitherto undreamt of areas behind Murrayfield and out into the Great Unknown.

It is surprisingly verdant. Parts of the route resemble countryside, in which we spotted deer, pheasant, and any number of semi-feral middle-aged men with cameras and note-books. Pictured below is the park-and-ride at Ingliston. We saw no evidence of parking.

Both legs of our trip should in theory have lasted about 34 minutes, but in fact took more like 40. Understandably, there was a distinct sense of ultra-cautious restraint from tram staff. They were keen not to slip under the merciless gaze of the media. And they did not. 

Now, whilst Spurtle of course shares some of this city’s cynicism about the whole trams project, much of that was at least temporarily erased during this morning’s experience. The journey to the Airport (pictured above) and back was hugely enjoyable: smooth, comfortable and surprisingly scenic. We were impressed by the intelligent and friendly young staff on platforms and in carriages. We liked the fact that our driver on the way home wore aviator shades and was the epitome of cool. We enjoyed the talkative company of fellow travellers and the track’s surprising curves and undulations through parts of the city we had never before realised existed. The weather was perfect.

Only one thing clouded our trip. A mysterious button at shoulder level which reads STOP.

Surely, it can’t be an emergency signal, not at that easily nudged height? Surely it can’t be to remind the driver to apply the brakes? What is it for? What noise does it make? What are the spark-flying, ear-splitting, fine-inducing consequences of pressing it for the wrong reasons?

That button called to us all the way there and all the way back. One day, we will not be able to resist. 

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See also:

'Braking news' (Breaking news, 1.3.14)

'End of the line for York Place tram stop?' (Breaking news, 1.4.14)

'Crowds throng to thrill of the "Glong!"' (Breaking news, 24.5.14)

'Outlook Sunny, Clouds Possible' (Breaking news, 27.5.14).