I’m somewhere south of Paris when it occurs to me that, had I flown, I would be there by now. At the far end of the carriage, I can see the train speedometer touch 300kmph (186mph) then settle at 296, a pace that, before the invention of the jet engine, would have left most civil aeroplanes for dead. The most advanced Belfast-built flying boats, beloved of Imperial Airways before the second world war, cruised to South Africa at lesser speeds.
The guard comes on the intercom to thank us for “travelling ecologically”. Outside the window a ruined chateau sweeps past, then a herd of deer grazing peacefully. To the east I see the pale shimmer of snow-capped peaks, with Mont Blanc rising above them.
