Many cultures have rights of passage. In ancient Sparta, boys would be sent alone into the wilderness to kill a lion. In certain American Indian tribes, boys would perform a similar feat of bravery by killing a bear. In Wales there was another kind of right of passage. It to concerned a journey, an endurance test and a killer. It was called The Scottish Trip.The Scottish trip took place every two years when the tribes of the Taff sallied north in order to remind the clans of the Picts and Scots that any illusions they had about being the superior Celtic rugby playing nation was just that an illusion.Old warriors who had earned their spurs would save up for two long years, book into a nice hotel, travel to Scotland on a Wednesday and return at leisure on the following Monday. They would return with trophies designed to placate their wives; phenominal amounts of whisky, haggis, Pringle sweaters, plaid shawls, Scots bonnets, Arran cardigans and tartan blankets would travel south two days after the game at Murrayfield.The more impetuous of the Taff however, who, being young and or just plain stupid would opt often on a whim to travel to Scotland without a match ticket on The Killer.The Killer was the name given to a train and a journey that entailed travelling from the South Wales valleys to Scotland and back in 36 hours. We would depart at 20:00 on Friday night and arrive back at 08:00 on Sunday morning. In that time, myths were created, legends where born and some were lost forever in the mists of the Scottish moors. The more fortunate were lost in the arms of a welcoming Scottish lass.The trip for my compadres and I would start at Treorchy station. We were greeted by a twelve car set Pullman with very comfortable seats. We were also greeted with posters that had twelve inch high letters categorically stating that no alcohol whatsoever would be permitted on the train. To ensure that this edict was obeyed, a police officer was assigned to be our councillor and friend. The officer, who was wise in the ways of rugby supporters, knew full well that this was a bad law written by a bad god and so after a brief pep talk about behaviour would disappear into the guards van for the duration. He was rewarded with our complicity; by the time we left Cardiff General Station, some twenty miles away, the train was in effect a peripatetic brewery with a couple of distilleries and vineyards thrown in for good measure.The outward journey was usually a calm affair as we wound our way north through the Saxon lands. We would pass non stop through Gloucester, Lancaster and Carlisle finally reaching Waverly station in Edinburgh at 06:00 on Saturday morning. Those with enough sense had stopped imbibing at around midnight and had settled down to be lulled to sleep by the clickety clack of the rails. Others, who regarded themselves as stuntmen of rail travel and alcohol consumption, would continue partying until around four in the morning only to find themselves in a terrible mess two hours later as they were ejected into the cold Scottish air.On arrival at Waverly there was a sudden realisation that kick off at Murrayfield wasnt for another eight hours and the bars didnt open for five. Despite this set back we would all wander into Princes Street in search of frolics and food but mostly food. Fortunately the good burghers of the city, who were never short to see a financial opportunity, had opened such outlets as British Home Stores and Marks and Spencer. Inside these emporiums it was warm and cosy and all day breakfasts were on hand. This was when the first culture shock would hit.The Scots had a predilection for frying almost everything they ate in beef dripping. This included eggs, bacon, sausages, tomatoes, hash browns, and bread. It also appeared that everything had been cooking for about three hours before we reached Edinburgh. The eggs were of the consistency of vulcanised rubber whilst the sausages defied cutting by all but the strongest of serrated knives. Brittle bacon rashers would disintegrate on sight and convinced us that consuming the stuff was as close as most of us would ever get to eating broken glass. I and my brother Chris attempted to get through this fare but failed miserably. It was the coffee that finished us off; we realised it had the look and smell of Bovril and so we decided to search the metropolis for something more palatable.After wandering around for sometime we noticed what appeared to be a small restaurant at the very top of Princes Street. There were only a few people sitting inside and so we decided that this was the place for us. We sat down and asked for the menu only to be told that there wasnt one as the only food they served were pancakes with or without syrup or cream. Allright! We thought. Lets have one each to start off with - both with cream. Kerrist! The pancakes were the size of dart boards presented on flat plates. Eating them piping hot with the accompaniments was obviously an art form that would need a ten year apprenticeship. There was no fear of putting on weight with this food as the effort needed to control the cream meant we had to burn up at least a thousand calories per pancake keeping the stuff on the table. Nevertheless, we ate three each.Looking out of the restaurant windows between frenzied cream corralling we could see that the city was coming alive. Pipers had been strategically placed outside various establishments to drum or should that be pipe up business and small groups of red and white wearing punters had gathered to listen to the unfamiliar. We wandered out to join them and I distinctly heard someone say as they passed I love the sound of bagpipes disappearing into the distance. Then it started to rain.The drizzle persisted throughout the morning. Familiar faces appeared and disappeared in the greyness of Edinburgh and its looming castle. We were wet, cold, tired and very thirsty by now. After a quick recce we realised that the centre of Edinburgh had scant few watering holes. This coupled with the fact that there was a temporary population explosion of beer deprived Taffs led us to form a plan. We (Myself, my brother, Will Panic, Gwyn Jenks and Old man Eynon) would climb the hill to Edinburgh castle and drop down into the old town on the other side and find a nice quiet place to sip and rest.The hill to Edinburgh castle looks innocuous enough until one stands at its base. The penny dropped after the first fifty yards; we were in fact trying to get into a castle charming buildings designed to oppress and dissuade unwelcome visitors. By the time we reached the top, old man Eynon was looking for an oxygen tent, Will Panic could see doom in every step and Gwyn Jenks swore hed never look at another Woodbine again as long as he lived. Chris and I were veteran mountain walkers and failed to see what all the fuss was about. Mind you I wouldnt have fancied the climb if someone had been shooting arrows at us at the same time.The climb down the other side was equally as steep but a dawdle for all. At the bottom Gwyn Jenks lit up a Woodbine and professed to have enjoyed the mountainous excursion whilst Panic was looking intensely at the slope wed just descended and seemed to be making mental notes about the return journey he would have to make in the semi darkness. Eynon, succinct as ever, looked at his watch and gasped Right! Thats it! Its eleven oclock. If we dont find a pub in the next ten minutes Im going to fucking kill you all. As providence would have it we did. It was called The Scots Grey and it was open.When we walked inside I remember saying Why did we travel to Scotland? - this was because it had the look and feel of a pub called The Bricks in Tynewydd just up the valley from where I lived. The bar was small with a pot bellied stove in the middle of the room. There was a TV stuck up in a corner behind the bar. There was a dartboard, the smell of old tobacco and there were about ten punters in there who looked as though they had stayed there throughout the previous night. Panic whispered to me Where have you brought us to boy? We must have looked rougher than the clientele who never batted an eyelid but to say that the landlord was bemused is an understatement of the first order. He gave us a knowing look and asked Up for the game? As we were festooned with leeks, daffodils and all things red and white I felt a quip was in order. No I said Were fishing. Isnt this Loch Lomond. Thank the stars he laughed out loud.It wasnt long before we had gleaned that the game would be shown on the television if we wished to stay and watch. And so we did. The usual three hours of pre match revelry ensued where Celtic connections were re established at the expense of the English establishment. We drank copious draughts of Tennants Extra beer and the occasional scotch. By the time the game ended we were convinced we could run back up to the castle and down the other side. Fortunately we were directed away from this tortuous route and told that there was a gentle slope that would take us straight to Waverly station. We thanked our hosts for a memorable afternoon and made our farewells at around half past four. The train home was due to leave at six that evening and so after a swift mooch for gifts in Princes Street we headed for the platform and the anticipation of another fourteen hour journey. I bought a packed quilt which was on offer at a farcically low price; I figured I may as well be comfortable on the sobering return trip.Many of the walking wounded met at the Waverly platform clutching their bottles of Scotch and memorabilia. The train was standing waiting for us - as were about forty police officers who had been told to confiscate anything alcoholic. This wasnt theft though as the goods could be redeemed once we had re entered Wales. It was standard policy apparently because of all the trouble English football supporters had caused in Glasgow over the years.. Whatever, I retained my quilt, found a comfortable seat, placed it behind me and settled down for a snooze. I woke at around 2AM somewhere in Northern England.TO BE CONTINUED.