Maybe it was an early obsession with The Railway Children, or the simple joy of shortbread dunked into mediocre tea from a creaking trolley as sun-doused fields roll by, but train travel, for me, has always felt thrilling — if not a little poetic. Great swathes of countryside flash past you like paintings. Soft, civilised rituals (the shortbread ilk) are encased and protected, while below, the steel grates violently and the train whips through towns and villages like a bullet. Unless, of course, you’ve had the privilege of stepping on board South Western Rail (pulled by a mule, no bottled water for hours, loos nearly always revolting). In fact, most British commuters reading this will scoff at any form of locomotive sweet talk. But for a weekend away, when you consider the airport malarkey, the carbon footprint and the cortisol-laced hours wasted on choked motorways, with eyes on the road, rail travel becomes really quite appealing.
Far from limited to Paris, Eurostar has connected us to the Continent’s impressive squiggle of tracks and efficient services — with carriages where you’re guaranteed a seat, even lunch, and no coercive baggage policies. A Croque Monsieur, a few emails, films and a catnap later, and you’re hissing into a different country, a different city, where the food, language and architecture are all different. It’s enough to elicit a childlike awe.
