A Great Rail Journey

Travelling backwards on Eurostar was obviously not the best of starts, but there is a big difference between the English section and the French one in terms of visible landscape. On the now not so new bit from St Pancras to Folkestone, you spend quite a lot of time staring out at concrete, then at vertical sound reducing barriers erected for the benefit of the railway’s neighbours, or else deep in cuttings probably designed with the same purpose in mind - to keep the line from view. It’s really only when you get to France that the countryside opens out consistently before your eyes.

We’d spent the previous evening wandering between two contrasting urban zones either side of King’s Cross; the one to the north of the station which is brand spanking new and inhabited by a tribe of smartly attired young people, who can afford a glass of wine at a trendy bistro at £20 a go, and the rather less glamorous Pentonville and King’s Cross Roads to the south near our hotel, where every step was an exercise in trash avoidance - and worse. Chris asked the girl sweeping up outside her shop front the morning after if she has to do that every day before she opens up, but apparently it is usually just weekends.

Extreme contrasts are not solely a British problem. Within minutes of being warned about pickpocketing in the French capital city, one of our number had sadly been added to those statistics during the short walk between the grand facades of Paris Gare du Nord and Gare de L’ Est. 

Strasbourg felt similar. The station is entombed in glass and resembles some sort of giant, primitive organism. There was impressive old town, touristy Strasbourg, with its mighty-high cathedral - a vertical stone rocket aiming skywards, and the station approaches, where, instead of enjoying the nightlife that was presumably on offer elsewhere, the local youths were mostly mooching around in close-knit groups without any obvious stuff to do. Suddenly the area was full of ambulances, fire and rescue vehicles and armed police. Passers-by stood around waiting for the action to unfold but nothing happened so, like us, they all just drifted off.

The onward journey to Tiefencastel in Switzerland was in 3 connecting parts, which meant that we arrived there around teatime. You just couldn’t help but notice by then that Switzerland is clean – in fact, it’s extremely clean. They don’t seem to do rubbish-strewn streets, over-full bins or graffiti, which was actually very refreshing. It just somehow all felt very well-ordered, affluent and relaxed. People were courteous and helpful. Motorists were suddenly slowing down to allow us to cross the road and not just at the crossings. I started wondering why everywhere can’t be like Switzerland, and that was even before we had reached any of the seriously dramatic scenery or started to talk about the trains.