There were three trains departing in the next hour, one to Disneyland, one to Paris and one to Brussels. Identifying passengers headed to Disneyland was easy. They were either (a) wearing Mickey Mouse ears, or (b) carrying vast quantities of Trans-Atlantic baggage in suitably garish colours, or (c) all of the above. Once they had set off I readied myself, but an announcement was made about a “small technical problem” with our train. The delay was only 20 minutes, but it made me think about the consequences for anyone with a tight connection.
I positioned myself with a hopeful crowd at the escalator gate to platform 9, and waited for the doors to open. Propelled forward amidst a party of school kids, I was distinguishable on the escalator as the only person not wearing a red school baseball cap. Up on the platform there were two trains, our delayed service and the next one, and I quickly found carriage number four on board my train – a new E320 Eurostar. What was unusual about my carriage was it had a film crew on board, the full smash with loads of equipment. I found a rather nice PR lady sat in my seat. We agreed that it was my seat, and with a lovely smile she admitted that she didn’t even have a reservation. “We booked the whole carriage” she explained. A few of the production crew were surprised I had a ticket in the middle of their film set, but we agreed I had a valid ticket for seat 63 in coach 4.

A couple of the creatives gave me a good look over, and I heard one woman say to the other “he’s okay there”. It seemed like I might have a part to play, so kept quiet about my lack of an Equity card. They were all rather nice and chatty, like I might be in the green room before a popular TV show. I only hoped make up were on board too. It was about at this time that one of the film construction crew felt something was wrong. “This is your train?” he asked me. I thought it was much my train as his train, but I got my ticket out once again and showed him too, as if to make my presence legitimate to the film crew. He pondered over it for some time. “But this is the 11.24 – you are on the 10.24 – I thought we had the whole of this carriage”. And so the situation dawned on me. Opposite me on platform 10 was my train, about to depart. It was a cock up of Mr Bean proportions, and all my fault. How could I be such a fool? I was supposed to be a long range rail adventurer, but yet I had just made the most basic schoolboy error in my blind rush for baggage space. I then got to re-enact that train scene from the much under rated 1980’s John Cleese comedy “Clockwise”.

I looked at both end doors to the carriage I was in, now blocked by cameras and scaffolding, said goodbye to the posh PR lady and legged it. “You’re on the wrong train” the conductor told me as I got myself back onto the platform. Top marks for stating the obvious, if only he had been there to direct me before I boarded. Fortunately I didn’t have time to be embarrassed. My train was making final preparations to depart, but as a result of the delay it wasn’t clear exactly when. My bag was still in the wrong train at the other end of the coach. I had to make this my priority, so ran down the platform and extracted it. I almost made a clean getaway, but was blocked by more film type scaffolding being carried on. Once I had persuaded them to reverse, I made it back out and bundled myself and my luggage into the door of the train on the opposite platform. Thank heavens my bag only weighs 13 kg this trip. I’m sure it wasn’t the advertised platform, but it was clear on the door display, and I just hadn’t paid attention. I hadn’t even had time to find out what the film was. Had I just turned down a part in a Hollywood blockbuster? Only time will tell, as I shall recognise my carriage and my seat on the set.
I was surprised to find space for my bag as the last passenger on the train, but I did. I was in second class but the seats were spacious enough. The carriage was a mixed bag of businessmen on cheap tickets, a party of school children (the red caps – I should have followed teacher) and well dressed women off for some major retail therapy. I hope they hadn’t seen my performance on the platform. No one seemed to notice me inside, so I shuffled to my seat and hoped that I might have got away with it and my rail adventurer credibility was still in tact.

I’m a big believer in the luck that comes from something going wrong early in an adventure. What had just taken place was a timely reminder, a “get a grip” moment, but hopefully the only major glitch for this mission.

Emerging an hour or so later from the channel tunnel, we streaked through the French countryside towards Paris at just under 300 km/h. The sun came out as we ventured further inland, something that improved my mood somewhat. With my minimalist packing I was dressed in just shorts and sandals. I must have been thinking Greek beach when I chose my wardrobe. Although the train was full, I was happy with my big new seat in second class, if only I wasn’t feeling a bit unwell. Anyway, there was no time to get depressed – I had some more trains to catch today.

Waverley Station has a strange atmosphere on a Sunday night. Police officers patrol a fairly deserted concourse. The bar is busy with stag and hen parties winding down after a busy weekend. They mix rather uncomfortably with walkers and cyclists returning from the mountains dressed in a uniform of lycra and sporting impressive outward bound accessories.

The Caledonian Sleeper sits at platform 11 waiting for its passengers. There is no hurry. You can get on  40 minutes before it sets off. I head for carriage C and “check in” with the stewardess. Angela gives me the impression that she has been doing this for years. To her the lifestyle is a vocation, a calling. We quickly establish that I’m having a bacon roll for breakfast and I know the drill. She let’s me on, after scribbling something artistic but without any obvious meaning on my ticket.

I dump my bag in my compartment and head for the bar carriage. It’s not the nicest type in the Caledonian Sleeper fleet (they have leather sofas) but is nonetheless comfy enough. I treat myself to a late night cheese plate and a glass of Chilean merlot. Hopefully they will help me sleep without strange dreams. I know from experience that there is no point trying to go to bed before Carstairs, where the train gets connected to the Glasgow service with some fairly serious jolts and bangs. The bar carriage is busy but not full. As always it’s a mixture of tourists, businessmen, priests and politicians heading for a week in London. I can’t quite work out the accent of the man sat opposite me, maybe it’s Danish. He feasts on haggis, neaps and taties, washed down with a bottle of Irn Bru and some ice.

Back in my compartment I settle in to my eight by four foot space. The carriage is ancient, but at least everything works. The bedding is surprisingly nice, and once I have figured out how to turn off all the lights, I manage to get a few hours reasonable sleep.

I have worked out from past experience that breakfast served in your compartment sounds good, but impacts on sleep, as one feels the need to get up and dressed before it actually arrives. Instead I ask to have it served in the bar. The first light of dawn backlights Watford Junction station as I enjoy a reasonable bacon roll and a terrible cup of instant coffee. Great Britain is an age behind Western Europe in train coffee terms, and I hope it catches up soon.
Euston has to be one of the most depressing stations in England to arrive in. We come to a halt at platform 1 in the underground bunker. It takes me five minutes to walk the length of the extended train and get out into the concourse.
I need to get into my rail adventurer mode today. This means never passing on the opportunity to eat or get clean. Euston has a lounge with showers, so I take full advantage. Depressingly without thought for passenger needs, there is no washbasin in the shower room, so I shave and brush my teeth in the shower. Hard core InterRailing on day one!

Ready for the day ahead I stroll over to St Pancras and drink expensive coffee in Searcys Bar until it’s time to check in for the next leg, to Paris.

I have fond memories of this journey when I used to be a man in a suit, but invairably my journeys would start at a crazy time in the early morning darkness and often finish late at night. But today the sun streamed through the windows of the coach and I sippled fizzy water whilst trying to remember what I might have forgotten to pack. The best I could come up with was some beard oil, so hopefully a good sign that I have indeed brought all the essentials in my overstuffed bag.

First class was full of inter-city shoppers and couples heading off on weekend breaks. They seemed to have few cares in the world, and drank gin and tonic whilst lazily reading the papers. A rather good smelling beef curry tricked my brain into thinking that I might actually be onboard the “International Express” from Bangkok to Penang (one of my favourite trains).

Having just whizzed past a sign pointing back the way I had come from saying “EDINBURGH 50 MILES”, I contemplated that I just had just 20055 km to go until arriving in Kowloon next month. But I was quickly jolted back into the present as the engine put on the brakes and we came to a halt in the outskirts of Berwick upon Tweed. Had Scotland decided not to let me go?

Only in the United Kingdom would the guard announce over the PA that “the PA is not working in all the carriages and if you can’t hear this I would like to apologise”.. A train had broken down in front of us, so we were held for an hour or so until we could switch tracks and “overtake”. As we passed the striken train I could not help but feel sorry for the miserable looking occupants, who I suspect were in for a long day.

As you approach Newcastle at this time of year all you see from the rails are swathes of houses brightly lit with more Christmas fairy lights than you would imagine the National Grid could power at one time. My night out in this fine city was a good one, and included being denied access to a Japanese nightclub as I was wearing my Trans-Siberian footwear. I tried to explain this to the ever friendly bouncer, but I think he just though I was a bit odd. I promised to return in my Crocs next time.

I spent the next day sheltering from the unforecast snow until it was time to get myself down to North Shields to board my ship, the DFDS “King Seaways”. The lady at the foot passenger check in looked a little condescendingly at my luggage. She clearly has not been to Asia via the North Sea before. Anyway she warmed a bit after a quick chat and checked me in to my cabin. Finally she handed me a map which she said would show me where to meet the bus to bring me back to the ferry in Imjuden. “I’m not coming back” I said, and before she could ask any further questions I walked off purposefully towards a big sign saying “TO SHIP”.

If you have read about past adventures on this blog, you will know how things work on the DFDS ferry between North Sheilds and Imjuden. On board the boat offers a tantalisting flavour of the Titanic, having a separate area for Commodore Class passengers, who have access to their own lounge. I have to say this is a worth while upgrade in my view, as it keeps you at arms length from the party goers who are on a so called “mini cruise”. My night was a peaceful one and I fell asleep in my slightly hot cabin fretting about forward travel problems that don’t actually yet exist.

I woke to a discrete tap on the door, and a friendly Philippino crew member served me breakfast. This was a rather strange part continental, part DFDS affair that I could not quite get tuned into.

Amsterdam looked welcoming in the sunshine. The Central station construction project looks now to be finally completed, after several year’s serious work. My top tip is to head up to platform 1 and use the range of bars, restaurants and lounges there – they are far better here than in any other part of the station.

I had just over an hour to wait before my connecting train, and spent it making the most of the facilities and fast wi-fi in the EuroCity lounge. Sadly there was no time to find my favourite Malay restaurant in the red light district on this visit to Amsterdam.