Warsaw

The monstorous Palace of Science and Culture towers over the centre of Warsaw as Piotr and I leave the station. Done in the style of Stalin's Seven Sisters in Moscow, it is a masterpiece in architechtural dominance. Now, capitalism is gradually eroding the building's influence on the skyline, as hotels and banks topped by words of bright colours and flashes rise beside it. Even so, from the windows of the apartment where Piotr and his brother Jacek live the heavily ornamented spire still sticks out, like a sore thumb on a big spiky hand. Piotr, who I went to school with, now works for an American consulting firm, after graduating from Harvard. The hours are fairly tough and after seeing me safely installed at the apartment he must head back into the city to work on a banking project.

After the hectic dash across Europe it is nice to slow down a little in Poland. Piotr's hours are long so we are walking through the city very late in the evening. 85% of Warsaw was destroyed during the war after Hitler was incensed by the Uprising in August 1944. Some of the Old Town has been rebuilt to a predictably mixed reaction. After the Royal Castle, the reconstructed column King Sigismund (Who moved the capital from Krakow to Warsaw), the thinnest house in the city (Very slim) and Winnie-the-Pooh Street (Ulica Kubusia Puchatka) we reached the River Vistula which splits the city in two. None of the house face the water, unlike other European cities. A couple gaze dreamily at the brightly lit St. Florian's Church, which dominates the Praga district on the far bank. This too was a casualty of 1944 but was rebuilt 28 years later.

In the nearby Old Town Market Square there is a statue of a vicious looking mermaid, brandishing sword and sheild. Legend has it that Sawa was captured by a greedy merchant but then rescued by a handsome fisherman called Wars and then vowed to protect his town. Or the handsome fisherman captured her then fell in love with her. Or she didn't exist but the handsome fisherman, this time called Piotr, had twins who the king named Wars and Sawa. However it happened the name has stuck and the mermaid appears all over the city, even on the coat of arms.

The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier sits under the last remaining fragment of the once magnificent Saxon Palace in Pilsudski Square. In the cold of the night the honour guard stand rigidly to attention, then without warning they begin their slow march around the monument. They are not allowed to bend their knees when they march, giving them an odd gait that can apparently lead to knee troubles in later life.

On my last night Piotr and I eat in Chlopskie Jadlo, or Peasant Food in English. Their menu offers Electrically Shocking, Delicious Fare including Tender Loins of a Farmer's Wife. The food is delicious without, thankfully, being electrically shocking and very, very filling. That night, to talk with his girlfriend Sue in America, Piotr has to stay up until the very early hours, compensating for the time difference. I stay up most of the night too writing before grabbing an hour or so of rest before my train leaves at 7.20.

Berlin - Warsaw

Kamil, the long suffering trolley pusher of the Berlin to Warsaw Eurocity, comes over to my table for the third time with a sigh. Having asked for the menu, I then needed help translating and then found I couldn't pay by card. So I order an ice tea and drink it slowly, looking out of the window as the landscape changes from the suburbs of Berlin, to thick but orderly forest, then to quaint Polish villages with the occasional surreal sight of large Tesco's superstore.

My first interview is with Patricia, a polite German girl who speaks excellent English, travelling to Poland to visit the concentration camps. Her motivations are understandably complex and it is interesting to discuss them. She feels the subject has not really been discussed enough while she was growing up for her to be able to grasp fully the implications of that period in her county's history.

Damien and his friend, two very tough looking exteriors but friendly and funny on the inside, have had car troubles. Buying the car yesterday in Berlin they set off for Warsaw but a few hours later it broke down. They took it to the garage who said it would be fixed in two hours, four hours later they returned and were told it would need two days. So now they are sitting on the train bound their university in Warsaw, hoping to return at the weekend and reclaim their hopefully more reliable motor. They do have difficulty remembering the name of the tiny village where they left it, as much as I have difficulty pronouncing it. At the end of the interview they give me a bottle of Macedonian wine, which is a completely unexpected level of generosity. All I have is the contents of surprises from Berlin so I give them some of the glittery stickers. One big one says Babydoll in pink but I don't think they mind.

Slavomir is my final interviewee, though I met him as soon as we got on in Hauptbahnhof but he has been sleeping much of the time since and it has given him a crick neck. He is coming from the Max Planck Institute, where he has been supervising a project at the centre for Social Anthropology. His area of expertise is the effect of religion on politics in Eastern Europe and he talks very eloquently about the subject. He is on the way to give a speech at a conference in his home town and I know the audience will not doze off as he has done.

Berlin

Fatma, long haired, big glasses and a flowing white shirt, comes and sits down next to me and tells me that I must stop taking photos of his night flea market because some of the people there are very private. I apologise and promise to send him the photos when I can, so he can vet them for private people. A number of wrongs turns and a dash of misinformation had almost thwarted my trip to this hall, in the south of the city, but its worth it. Das SO36 Nachtflohmarkt is a monthly gathering of people with stuff they don't want and people who want to look at it. Not much in the way of trading seems to go on, but the music is cool, the venue is warm and I can talk to Lola the little bulldog who is sitting on the stage, recuperating after a trip to the vet. Speaking of doctors, this market is also the home of Dr. Hartz, who dispenses free social advice to a large number of patients who earnestly talk with him for lengthy periods. I thought it would be fun to try but when I see the waiting lists and the apparent seriousness with which the process is being conducted, I decide against it.

Just outside on the doorstep of the market I pay a visit to the lady who sells surprises. I buy two of the brightly wrapped parcels. One shows Fidel Castro with a caption that is a pun on the word for crossroads. I won't tell you what was inside.

Hamburg

I am in the corridor of an old hospital ward. In the room, the brown covered bed is faced by a large landscape painting of a small white temple next to a river. There is another room, similarly decorated. I have a headache.

This was the point in the Hamburg Museum where I think I reached my modern art limit. I had enjoyed seeing the famous Warhol works, Marilyn and the Soup. Then there'd been other pieces that had certainly piqued my interest but after a neon sign in some wire netting saying 1 + 1 = 2, burnt walls, a floor covered in gravel and now this hospital for healing through art my brain called time and I stumbled out into the rain and murk.

In the food court a man in a top hat walks round and round the revolving doors, then comes in and starts a tirade of abuse at the delicatessen counter, perhaps they have served him a bad olive. A large and somewhat intimidating man with a shaved head picks him up, pushes him back through the revolving doors and throws him into the street. Top hat begins to harangue people entering and an old man who wants to leave sits down next to me so that he can avoid the commotion. I enjoy what the delicatessen counter served me. It is chicken with sun dried tomatoes.

Amsterdam - Hamburg

I met Eddy again in the station but here we must finally part ways. He has been to the Anne Frank Museum and he says that it made him cry. Now he is heading to Brussels and I am heading to Hamburg.

Julia, in bright pink with big earrings, is sitting opposite Chris, goateed and pony-tailed, at one of the tables of the open compartments. I struggle past them with my rucksack, then, looking at the rest of the carriage, decide the empty seat looked inviting and that they looked interesting. The few hours sleep I have had, combined with the rucksack wanderings and the constant inhalation of various fumes, have conspired to leave me feeling a little lethargic and lightheaded. The conversation with Julia and Chris is stimulating and as they are going all the way to Hamburg, I feel I can relax a little. They have been at a psychaldelic trance party this weekend (For listeners of Radio 4 there is a detailed description of this type of music included in the interview) so they are feeling similarly fragile. I feel bad though, because there are a number of classic interviews that I feel I let go begging, for fear of neglecting Julia and Chris: A pair of KLM uniformed airline stewardesses and a man earnestly composing music both would have been good subjects but I can't bring myself to start the conversations. In part it is because I will be telling exactly the same story I have just told, within earshot of people who have already heard it and I feel it will sound rehearsed and fake.

Julia has kindly said that I can stay at her flat for the night, which is a blessing because the thought of trudging around a dark Hamburg with a backpack, never knowing when I might bump into an unfriendly Hamburger, had not filled with joy. She has done alot of travelling herself and so understands my plight. The apartment, where she lives with her sister, is in the suburbs, I'm too bleary to notice that we have failed to pay for both the train and the bus to get there. Not long after I have wearily hauled my baggage up the stairs, I am lying on a comfy mattress and sinking into a grateful slumber.

Amsterdam

Getting off the tram, I start to follow the Asian guy across the bridge, as he's also carrying a backpack. When I catch up I ask what hostel he's going to and he names a different one from the one recommended to me at the station, but its much cheaper so I stick with him. He's Eddy, another South Korean guy on his own, doing an even tougher route than Ba-Kong, from the Sacre-Coeur, had been. His incorporates many of the major cities but also Hungary and several other Baltic Countries. He has however studied English at Portsmouth University, so is perhaps a little better prepared language-wise. He's certainly more prepared than I am, having booked the room in advance, whereas I'm lucky to get the last bed going. The Flying Pig Hostel is the first real backpacker haunt that I've stayed in, and becuase its Amsterdam this means the bar area is enveloped in a smoky marajuania eiderdown.

Celebrations in the Getafe penalty area turn to disbelief as the Real Madrid players realise that their goal has been disallowed and that the opposition have taken adventage of this to break for the other end unopposed and score. The flags and scarves on the walls predict a sombre mood in this tapas bar tonight, their players disbelief mirrored on their own faces. Jan, a Croatian working behind the bar, hopes the boss will not be in as foul a temper as last time his team suffered such a defeat. Said boss is a large man sitting next me, munching angrily on some chicken, but earlier he offered me some food to go with me beer. No more favours will be forthcoming I fear, as his mood is further blackened by a friend of his, a Barcelona supporter, who runs in and points at the replays and bursts out laughing, then proceeds to gloat rapidly in Spanish. I turn to Jan, who is philosophical about the whole thing. In fact he is philosophical about everything, after serving in the Croatian army for several years. This experience taught him to enjoy life while its there and he's traveled extenisvely, particularly falling in love with Cuba, where, despite having little, the people are happy. Its the sort of thing you'd expect to hear in Amsterdam, but the fact that Jan has learned these lessons the hard way is obvious and gives his words considerably more weight.

Outside the rain is streaming down, people shelter in whatever doorway is available, even, for brief moments, that of Cock Ring, until the hatch slides open and a bearded face glares out. Adam, an Australian, and Eddy were heading to a Coffee Shop for a smoke but they've gone by the time I get there. I wander in the rain and briefly consider borrowing one of the many bikes that lies unchained around Dam Square. In the end, after a short walk, I take shelter in the bar with the loudest music. The tunes are a fairly eclectic mix, as are the clientele. Rose Marie and her sister Dora are two Irish ladies keen to enjoy their stay. The sisters, in between accusing many of the women of being lesbians, would also like me to meet Rose Marie's daughter Fiona, who is apparently lovely and doesn't drink very much. Then a song comes on that everyone starts singing and they look at me as if I should know it. Thankfully, years of choir practices mean I can mime along to just about anything but afterwards I decide to make my excuses and leave, hoping to avoid an embarrassing song-related disaster.

TRAVELLERS TIP: Just because it looks like someone has left their fur hat behind, don't just try and pick it up to wave at the barmaid. Look closer first because it may be the barmaid's cat.

I meet Eddy again at the Van Gogh Museum, in front of the Sunflowers. I agree with him that the exhibition is very inspiring, following Van Gogh from his humble beginnings as an art dealer to his posthumous worldwide acclaim. The paintings make me want to go and draw something. Eddy recommends the John Everett Millais exhibition and he is not wrong, the collection is stunning, even more impressive perhaps than Vincent's work upstairs. To complete a morning of museums that had started with the world's smallest diamond (harder to create than it sounds), I head to the House of Bols, home of the famous genepe and the School of Bartending. After my cocktail I spend several minutes in the "flair booth" trying to make the screen work, then several more trying to juggle a bottle.

I wend my way back to the station through the canals and the streets, past two children drawing chalk dragons on the road in an alley. Crossing a bridge, one notices a predominence of ruby coloured neon signs and full length windows. The ladies wave as I walk past towards the station and I wave back, some talk on mobile phones, some stare out at the sky. There are posters in the windows protesting some planned legislation, the gist seems to be that it will force the girls out onto the streets, unprotected by their glass. The whole thing is more surreal than sexual.

Brussels - Amsterdam

I head out to the station to check train times, having spent another night sleeping on the floor. It had not been a particularly long one, as until 4 am Nick and I had been conversing on a doorstep, which could be described, not unjustly, as piss-soaked, while sampling a selection of the Belgian beers we had seen at the museum video earlier that day. We were joined by a slightly dishevelled Belgian, Michael, with a furtive Latino companion, who walked some distance in an attempt to cajole his friend away from us, then gave up and walked back, nervously pacing and rolling a joint. Michael was going to be visiting Canada soon and was thus overjoyed to talk with Nick, a real live Canadian. He did not like Brussels, comfortingly saying that it was easy to get killed in this area of city. We thought/hoped he was exaggerating and when a girl walked by with a pizza we went to get something to eat. The night had started out in Chez Luis, a delicious moule restaurant in the centre of town, then moved to a jazz cafe, where we caught the end of perfmance by an excellent female flautist from the US. Then to Falstaff's, with some exceptionally strong cocktails, perhaps part of a slightly odd ruse to get us to leave quicker. On the way back, half looking for a place to dance we see one packed Irish bar and a strange bar with thick smoke emanating from the basement.

On the way to the station I must pass through the market right outside our hotel. Like many around the world there is an eclectic collection of fresh fruit, cheap toys, belts, second hand phones, odd mirrors, unwanted books, fish and old records. Here in Brussels it is again not quite what you might expect from the guidelines.

Rushing through the Museum of Mordern Art, to catch a brief glimpse of Marat (We were too late, he was already dead) we realise we should have done this one first, as modern means post 1800, which is quite alot of good stuff. We'd spent a long time looking at Church n' death stuff from the 14th century onwards and while there were highlights (Lamentation of Christ and Bruegel's Icarus and his deranged Fall of the Rebel Angels) my feet were starting to ache. Then we realised that our train loomed and yet we wanted to see the Museum of Musical Instruments. Dashing there from Modern Art we were given the infrared musical headphone tour as part of the entrance fee. When you stand in front of an exhibit, the instrument starts playing, which creates a surreal experience as we run from floor to floor. Runners up are some of Adolophe Sax's early creations, including a six mouthpiece wonder, some intricate pianos and various bagpipes (Winner of Best Flemish Name though: Doedelzak) but I think the overall winner is the violinpet or the trumolin. Feeling perhaps that orchestras were growing too large, some genius solved the problem by combining the string and brass sections.

Marie's husband asks if the seat next to me is free and I offer him my seat so that he can sit next to her. However he dismisses the suggestion and I'm glad he does, because she provides a lovely and informative interview about Antwerp, where they have been for the day, and Amsterdam. She even has a Russian daughter-in-law, after her speed skating son met her at competition in Omsk in Siberia. Marie and her husband have flown to Omsk and the family from Russia has also been out to Holland, though this nessecitated a two day train trip to Moscow, three days wait there and two days back, to obtain the necessary visas.

Brussels Sprouts

The thing that really strikes you about Brussels, especially if you have ever been lucky enough to peruse a policy document of one of the many esteemed bodies of the European Union, is that it is nothing like the place you'd imagined these documents were created. Last time I was here I did visit New Brussels, the shiny, glassy centre of power where from which these guidelines, laws and policies emanate, and it was suitably sterile. But here in the old town life is quite different and examples of flagrant contraventions of health and safety guidelines are never more than a kebab shop away. Nick last night was tucking into a tasty chicken number when he crunched on a pea sized chunk of glass. Now if the rules were being followed to the letter, I think this would require the creation of a 3km exclusion zone around the offending shop and a fine/prison sentence for the manager, chef and their immediate families. However, right here, in the heart of bureaucracy, no-one batted an eyelid.

The fact that Brussels is not a living EU policy document is a blessing, as such a place would be hellish beyond Orwell's darkest nightmares. Instead many consider the heady indulgence of a mixture of excellent beer and excellent chocolate to be heavenly. The Chocolate Museum appears to have melted away but Beer Museum does go some way to enlightening us about the industry. The informational video does lack a certain finesse, in the cinematography, script and choice of actors, consisting primarily of the names of various beers read out slowly while zooming out from the respective beverages, complete with their large, decorative head of foam. Occasionally there is an explanation or a recipe read at the same torturously slow pace. Mention must also be made of the appalling soundtrack. I know it sounds like I'm just exaggerating for laughs but this really was dire, like a 15th century Gregorian monk's first explorations of a cheap Casio keyboard, remixed by a 63 year old Beligian DJ who was only slightly cool in 1984 but still thinks he's down with the kids.

Outside in the Grande Place there is a proscession that we had seen preparations for earlier. It consists of a marching band ("For when volume is more importnat the tune" mutters Nick, who plays jazz trumpet) surrounded by large wicker and papier-mache puppets, worn on the shoulder of the operator. At the back is a fierce looking soldier with a bow and arrow, standing about 4 or 5 metres tall. I ask one of the operators what it is like to wear and he descibes the harness and says that it weighs about 100 kilos. Then, incredibly, he offers it for me to try it on. I am not familiar with the health and safety regulations regarding the use of large to very large traditional wicker models in medium to high density crowds on a firm but uneven surface. However, I have been required to complete an EU course on heavy lifting in office situations (5 - 10 kg) so I cannot believe I will be allowed to do this untrained. But minutes later, here I am, staring out through a giant soldier's crotch at a spinning crowd of delighted tourists. I have been egged into a spin, something I condidered unwise after what even I will admit was some fairly poor handling of the simple straight line manouvere. After a few minutes of spinning I get more and more disorientated, and the weight of the harness, which presses on the top of the head and the shoulders, starts to become more apparent, I am seized by the urge to try and kiss one of the lady puppets. Thankfully, before I reach her, I am overcome by fatigue and set the thing down. I exit through the back of the soldier's skirt and an official white suited Belgian operator rushes to take my place, quickly starting a series of spins that make a mockery of my cumbersome and unsubtle technique.

We are looking at Brussels' most famous monument: Manneken Pis, a statue of a small boy relieving himself. Though a statue has been there hundreds of years, perhaps since even as early as the 14th century, one can't help but feel that it acts as a perfect modern metaphor for the city's attitude to the European rules created there.

Brussels

Tintin adorns the walls of Brussels Midi, standing on the front of a rushing steam train, ready to jump. I've just been to Waterloo to see some friends and eat some delicious Danish shrimps. On the way back a rowdy group of young Belgians are laughing at everything, cavorting in the carriage, making a real show of being well drunk. The ringleader is a girl who is half French and half Swedish, living in Belgium. "I think this has more vodka in it than orange juice," she boasts. We talk with increasing seriousness about the trip, until somehow, as we are nearing the station, the discussion has moved to whether there is a god and an afterlife. Her companions, even the one with the ukulele, are silently nonplussed.

Waiting to meet a friend from university off the Eurostar, I meet Pete, another friend from university who is also waiting to meet friends off the Eurostar. Pete is working in Brussels at the European Parliament but has found a little time to follow my progress. My slow updating means that my appearance in Brussels is something of a surprise. As we are chatting Nick appears with Anna and Vanessa, friends vsiting Europe from Canada.

On the way into town that night the taxi driver recommends a street to drink on but warns that it has a number of gay bars. However, when we ask what these are called he hastily responds that he has no idea what their names are. Methinks the lady doth
protest too much...

The bar we choose does not have the slightly suspect Latino heritage of some other venues in the area but it does have an Aisan barman who's only cocktail is a pleasant gin fizz. Outside, where we sit in decreasing temperature, it has a three legged dog, a four legged dog and their two legged master. The two canines begin a cautious courtship, presumably primarily concerned with whether sex on seven legs will be structurally sound. The single human being boasts loudly to two young women that his girlfriend is on her way. The dogs eventually decide to give copulation a miss as apparently does the girlfriend.

Encore du Paris

The ghost flits past me and down the alley to where an old man digs in a flowerbed, watched by a girl in period costume on a second floor balcony. A small scene from a piece of street theatre, for which I was a guinea pig audience member. The walk took us through tiny streets, into carefully manicured gardens, over and along the Seine, into a church, a block of flats and finally back to the Seine again, where we wave as the tour boats chug past.

By the river, on the far bank, a man sags against a low wall, occasionally bending to slowly sip from a bottle in a bag. On our side a couple embrace passionately. Theirs is by no means a youthful romance, it has the look of a clandestine affair but I am probably jumping to conclusions. It started with a kiss but I never thought it would come to her wrapping her legs round him like this, like a public game of bench twister. There is no doubt that the French are not averse to public displays of affection, a cultural difference that is bound to impact on the psyche of the nation.

While my clothes are taking a spin in the laundrette I have walked up the stairs to the Sacre Coeur. I meet Ba-Kong, a South Korean guy travelling alone through Europe. He doesn't speak very much English, let alone French or Italian. Its a pretty brave thing to attempt but he has survived so far, though confesses he is quite scared. Back by the washing machines an old man stares at his rotating laundry, until I make a comment, perhaps about the weather. We converse for the duration of a thorough drying cycle. I struggle to cope with his polemical French, I fear sometimes that his opinions are less than open-minded but I am occasionaly forced to just nod, hoping that I am not agreeing with anything too far to the right. He looks away while I hurriedly get changed into my clean clothes then bid him goodbye. The neighbourhood around us is predominantly Ghanaian, festooned with barbers shops that are themselves festooned with wigs of every possible size, shape and colour. Perhaps this is the cause of the balding Frenchman's discontent.

Paris

Beneath the Eiffel Tower is a big, red London Bus, apparently on its way to Picadilly but in fact stationary and populated by a delightful Parisian soiree. I am waiting for Jack to call but he is at a French theatre school so I knew there was a strong possibility of hazy timing. I pass this time drinking orange juice at the bus party, organised to promote its arrival in Paris and its availability as a venue for such shindigs. I was invited in by one of the owners because she is curious about my venture as I am about hers. Then Jack calls so I wave goodbye to my fellow passengers and set out accross the city to find him.

Just below the Sacré Cœur, Jack's studio apartment is painstakingly Parisian: battered spiral stairs, Toulouse-Lautrec posters, absinthe, crumpled bed, ancient typewriter, commode (thankfully with a real toilet underneath), bird cage (sans bird, too expensive), old chair, window that won't close, piles of books, sheet music on the walls. Its an atmospheric place to stay but Jack says it can sometimes be a little solitary and claustrophobic. I don't help matters with my big bag and sleeping cushions, which use up the very last of the available floor-space.

The drama school the next day is bubbling with manic, creative energy, the Jacques Lecoq International Theatre School. It is tucked away behind a blue door and courtyard amongst the eclectic mix of products and services that populate the area around the Chateau D'Eau Metro station. (Interesting fact: This station is the target in the Paris version of Mornington Crescent). On leaving the station you are bombarded by the hard sell, African guys convincing you to buy everything from haircuts to cigarettes, shouting at the top of the lungs. There is the same sort of energy at the school but the focus is on physical rather than vocal expression. In the main hall, everyone dressed in black, groups are performing, strange shapes are formed, faces twisted, things shouted, masks worn. I usually don't have a whole lot of time for theatre that takes itself too seriously, but here you can't help but be swept up in the enthusiastic atmosphere of total commitment. The school is guarded and administered by the wonderfully prim Marinne. Her neat grey hair and conservative skirt and blouse are in marked contrast with the vast array of styles emerging, sweating, from the workshops.

Brest - Paris

The elderly lady on the bus this morning doesn't like sky scrapers. I show her the map, pointing out Exeter, she asks if there are many planes there. I say no and she nods approvingly. There are alot of such buildings near where she lives on the suburbs of Brest and, as she says she grew up on a farm, I can understand her dislike for them.

Kite-surfing is Kevin's main passion but he is on his way to Paris to meet his second, his girlfriend in Paris. It is a good story and he is a great interviewee but as with so many people I am nervous when I initially approach him. My brain is constantly telling me that the person I'm approaching looks uninterested or will be unfriendly. I run over possible openers in my head, glance over a few times hoping to catch their eye and feel courageous at the same time and then suddenly I am speaking without even realising it. I know that's a cliche but honestly, it feels like closing your eyes and the next thing you know you're plunging over a cliff. I am continually surprised by the beginnings of these conversations, because my mouth just seems to start talking on its own. I have to admit this whole paragraph sounded a little more manly in my head, but its true.

Speaking of manly, Herve is from the French navy. I'm amazed that he is OK to do an interview, considering the reluctance of all train personnel. I ask what the navy is like, relating my some of my own small experience of life on board ship, and he concurs that it is similar. Having talked about the less than strict standards of fidelity among sailors, I am embarrassed when he then mentions his girlfriend. He's just joined up and she is finding it hard, but he says that is just something she will have to get used to. The ship is currently based in Brest but Herve is looking forward to travelling abroad, the main reason that he joined.

The dining car is a hive of activity, not unexpected considering that it serves food that is enjoyable to eat. I am joined by five apprentice train drivers. One is initially keen to be interviewed but another warns him from associating with the press. I put the recorder away and talk about their studies, that they are going to complete in Rennes. I say that I have never met any trainee train drivers in England, which they ascribe to the fact that English train drivers never actually learn how to drive.

Another man is having a heated phone conversation about money, small, wiry with patchy grey hair and big glasses. I have a feeling its a messy divorce because he shouts down the phone for a few moments then sits before his anger crescendos again and he bangs the train walls and looks near tears. Then he realises he is on a train and sits once more, rubbing temples, shuffling papers.

In Brittany the landscape has been beautiful, sunlit hills and beautiful towns, dominated by huge castles and churches. As we near Paris it does become more dull but after Le Mans the train accelerates to over 300km/h and landscape, boring or otherwise just becomes a blur.

Charles, a consultant returning from a meeting with a client and frequent train traveller, is looking forward to the rugby. We have an in depth discussion on many different issues but at the end I eschew my usual wishes of good luck and all the best, because I would prefer that he watches an emphatic English victory. (Charles - I'm very slightly sorry that your trip to Paris may have been a slight disappointment. Hindsight Ed.)

Brest

Alone in the dark of the basement hallway, I can't help feeling a tad nervous. Perhaps walking several miles to this youth hostel had not been as brilliant a scheme as I had imagined. I had arrived just as the manager was about to shut for the night, at about two minutes to ten. I was glad that I had not dwadled long on my way there. On the other hand there was a real sense that this man was only a few stations away from Grand Central Crazy. He had receding hair and thick glasses, very much in the manner of the quietly insane one. He also talked to me like I was roughly six, though even my six year old self would have found it patronising. If being drunk with power was illegal I would have him immediately breathalysed. The foreboding atmosphere was not helped by the fact that in a hostel capable of sleeping hundreds only five people were staying, including two staff. Because I was told, very patronisingly, to eat my food downstairs, in a kitchen decorated mainly with rules about washing up, I have now ended up here in this pitch black hallway, the lights are timed to go off before you can reach the stairs.


In the TV room it is also dark, lit only by the white glow of the TV. I'm not sure if anyone's there but as I sit down, someone slurps a soft drink disturbingly close by. I watch a French travel competition, called Peking Express, but set in South America. As always people are kicked off on a tense ceremony at the end, apparently because they had not found enough eggs that day. I can't concentrate. The duty manager comes down and whispers goodnight. I flee for my room and lock the door.


The Etap hotel I had stayed in the night before had been souless. To the extent that I had not needed to speak to a single human being in order to stay there. Credit card machine in the hall, code for the door, no-one on my floor. Everything is bolted down to minimize damage possible. That means, as in prison, no loo seat and a toilet moulded into the bathroom wall. I couldn't find the remote until I went to sleep and found it bolted, facing the TV, to the bunk above my head.


The next day the youth hostel proves similarly equipped, no loo seat, push button showers. All the rules make me desperately want to vandalise something but it appears I am unfortunately law-abiding to the core. I have to make do with folding my sheets untidily (Breaking Bedroom Rule 2) and doing a poor job of hoovering my carpet when I leave (In violation of Bedroom Rule 7). At exactly 9.59 the second member of staff, slightly rotund as befits his role as henchman, comes in and asks why I am still here. I indicate the hoover but he tuts and shakes his finger and his head (really) saying that check out is normally at 10.00. When I get downstairs they have my French Youth Hostel Association membership card ready, so I can stay at any of their other establishments across France.

La Rochelle - Nantes - Brest

The occasional meowing had piqued my interest all the way to Nantes and when I saw Lucie getting off, with her cat on a lead I felt i had to get an interview, which Mustek, the cat, very kindly contributed to as well. On the train I had been speaking to Mohammed, a Syrian who is now studying in France. I was uncomfortable for most of the journey, not because of anything that he was saying, but because my bum was still sore from the 60km on the bike the day before.

In Nantes I was looking, at my grandfather's behest, for a boat called Phantom that proved to be as elusive as the name suggests. Near the tourist office though I did find an amazing old camera shop, staffed by two eccentric French guys who acted like a sophiscated and subtle comedy double act. I'd left my handle for my recorder on the seat next to Mohammed, but this new tripod, which springs out like some kind of medieval torture implement when you flick it and looks a little like a light saber, is a worthy replacement.

I do get time to see the castle, an impressively solid fortification that looks as though it were almost dropped in the middle of town, complete with moat and ducks. Inside it is rather more ornate, with shining spires atop brilliant white, window filled walls. The rucksack is something of a strain, up and down all the steps of the battlements and I am sorely tempted to leave it in the parking area for prams. My train leaves soon and I am slightly disappointed to see, as I walk back towards the station, that I have missed the flower garden, less disappointed that I have not been exposed to the differently seedy delights of the various "live shows" that line the station road.

Solene and Jerome have just returned from Camden, their shopping piled beside them on another slick French train. Solene is very complimentary about London, to the extent that I feel she is being deliberately over nice to avoid offence. However, they do make an interesting point about the way in which flamboyance is better tolerated in England than over here, saying that while her pink tinted hair and piercings do not raise a single (similarly pierced) eyebrow in Camden, they mark her out as a trouble maker in France. To be honest, I am ashamed to admit that they were perhaps more reserved than I was expecting/hoping, having very much judged them by their covers so to speak. It is difficult to do otherwise, though, when one is trying to single out the stories of interest that will be willingly told.

There is certainly an odd story behind the boxer shorts and other clothes strewn across the seats in this single carriage. It does not even have a seperate engine, it is a whole train in one, very new and exciting. However, my attention is somewhat distracted by the owner of the aforementioned underwear, who is as worse for wear as I have seen someone, including dutiful efforts at university to reinforce student stereotypes. The conductor clearly wants an excuse to eject him, yet at the same time seems terrified to do so. He spends the entire journey pacing up and down, staring pointedly at the antics but saying nothing and neglecting all other duties, such as announcing where we are or checking tickets. The guy gets up and slowly makes his way to the toilet, his hoodie on upside down and back to front. After about ten minutes he makes an attempt to reemerge, but after extensive grunts, bangs and swearing he relapses into silence. A second attempt several minutes later results in him successfully bursting forth then returning to his seat to begin the extensive clearing operation required to return all his clothes to his bag. After an enthralling struggle with his hoodie I realise I must try to interview someone, perhaps cowardly feeling that the blonde haired disaster is not the best candidate. Instead I talk with Pierre, a young and idealistic French economics student, who's conversation I enjoy immensely, not least because of its uplifting optomism and desire for change. I am interested to hear the views of himself and his peers on Sarko, increasingly amazed by the French president's audaciously irresponsible behaviour.

La Rochelle

I have rented a yellow bicycle many times in La Rochelle except always while sitting in a classroom in rain soaked England not in sun soaked Place de Verdun in La Rochelle. I explain my excitement to the jolly, white-haired Frenchman behind the counter and he laughs saying they have excellent advertising.

The previous night I arrived late but in time for a brief saunter through the town that of my textbooks. I ended up reaching a small grassy spur that juts out into the harbour in front of the famous towers. Feeling that the trip has recently lacked the reckless stupidity that has characterised other journeys I decide to go for a swim, piling my clothes neatly on the steps. I get in up to my knees but the water is painfully cold and just makes me want to go to the toilet. Thus in the dark waters of the harbour, where the reflections of the towers shine brightly, I stage a small English assault on the once well fortified and well fought over town.

In the morning a take a more conventional tour of the towers, climbing to the top through the ingenious double spiral staircase and small stone passageways, to admire the stunning view of the town.

TRAVELLERS' TIP: Mind your head.

In the Captain's Room there is something called a bestiary, which is thought to convey hopes for the town through animal metaphor. France and England are shown as two dog-like beasts fighting over a bone, representing La Rochelle, then being placated by the mayor and finally becoming "entwined" as a result of mutual trade. La Rochelle was important because it was the largest trading port on the Atlantic coast and had then been granted commune status making it autonomous, to an extent, from the French king, and a refuge for the protestant Hugenots. However, Louis XIII declared war after a revolt in 1625 and Cardinal Richlieu then attacked the city, leading to the Seige of La Rochelle: Parte Deux (Parte Une had been in 1572 - 73). This is all much more pithily conveyed in the city motto 'La Rochelle: Belle et Rebelle', without doubt one of the best tourist slogans I've ever seen.

Ile de Re

After getting onto my rented yellow bike I am at something of a loss. While role playing games at school had included a suggested itinerary I can not remember much apart from the hotel de ville and I feel this would be a waste of my new found vehicular freedom. I can remember mention of the Ile de Re though and so I glance at my map and set off.

TRAVELLERS TIPS:

1. Don't just glance at the map. Look closely at the scale.

2. Wear proper clothing. Jeans may usually look cooler than cycling shorts but chafing never has and never will be fashionable. Hiking boots may well be an anagram of biking hoots but this gives the wrong impression about their suitability for cycling.

3. Don't use the Autoroute.

4. Don't stop to photograph everything. Not the impressive flocks of wildfowl, the oyster farms, ruined churches, kite surfers, graffiti strewn suberbs or even a beautiful sunset lighting the ile de Re bridge.

5. Take plenty of water and food other than delicious french chocolate with orangey bits.

6. Use a bike with gears. Though the yellow bikes are very symbolic, they are not designed for long distance riding outside the city.

7. Remember to cycle on the right. Children are positively encouraged to pitch themselves headlong into the La Rochelle traffic system yet are not allowed conkers.

8. However lovely they are it is important that you don't stop to talk with sprightly, old ladies called Christine who are having their houses rennovated in the traditional style. It matters not that she is knowledgable about Russia and speaks fondly of the 60's while wearing colourful clothes under a dark coat and mourns the decline of conviviality in Western Europe, you must just ask directions and move on before your legs get stiff.

9. Remember that the tail wind that was making it so easy to cycle out will be a bugger coming back.

10. Check what time the rental point closes. If you get this wrong you will have to spend another night in La Rochelle but if you find a good restaurant (Le Lopain Kesse) and a lovely couple to talk to (Agnes and Phillipe) then this may not be all that bad.

Bordeaux - La Rochelle

Both the guys beside me are reading, one the sports paper, the other a gory looking Japanese comic. Walking through the train I can't see anyone but just before I reach the last carriage a head pops out of one of the compartments and calls out the wrong name. I turn and it retreats hurridly, followed by a flurry of giggles. I glance at the last carriage but this compartment seems the best bet for talkative types. It turns out to be a group of French teenagers, again returning from a school trip, this time to A Coruna. When I ask what was best about Spain one girl blurts out "The beach!" then admonishes herself "That's too easy, I must say something more interesting for the BBC".

Bordeaux

Julie has pressed the wrong button and has started to wash someone else's clothes. on entering the laundrette it had taken me a long while to decipher the instructions but I am able to use some of my new found knowledge to stop the spin-cycle. After talking a little about the trip, she says she has some friends over and asks if I'd like to pop over to the flat for a glass of wine. Julian, Ines and Irene are Spanish but in France for the Erasmus program. After a delicious dinner of brocilli pasta, washed down with an excellent Bordeaux in a Coca Cola glass, we decide to head out for a walk in the town.

TRAVELLERS TIP: Beware conversations in three languages. for example:

Persona Una: 'Bonheur' is 'feliz' in Spanish. What is it in English?

Personne Deux: A penis.

Person Three: Well, yes, but that's quite a slang term. You're right it can refer to an erection though.

Persona Una & Personne Deux: ?

Person Three: (Mimes)

Personne Deux: I thought it just meant 'appiness.

Person Three: Er... (Embarrassed silence follows)

Bordeaux's recently restored buildings are gloriously lit and it is a beautiful place to stroll through at night despite being considerably chillier than Spain. We walk beside the river badly singing Beatles songs badly translated into French: Nous habitons dans une jaune sousmarine, anyone?

Hendaye - Bordeaux

The policeman checking my passport asks if I speak German and when I say "a bit", he hands me a plastic card. The picture shows a dark, haired woman, the writing says she is an Armenian who is resident in Austria. When she was escorted from the carriage I saw her hair had now been dyed blonde. The policeman thinks the card is not valid and is pushing for my opinion. I find it difficult to think in German and French. The card is only valid for residency, not citizenship, which is what the policeman wanted to hear. I pass the woman, seated, surrounded by a group of intimidating looking gendarmes, standing. She is trying to explain in German that she can't go back, that she has no money. I feel awful and try to say something but the policemen indicate that I should just keep moving and that the matter is closed.

Sylvia is buying a croque monsieur in the dining car. We sit down to eat and talk. She is originally from Columbia, she is a film maker on her way to a meeting in Paris. She is working to set up a festival of film and wine, based in the vineyards of Bordeaux. The project was inspired by the vivid autumn colours of the region, that she saw on a trip from her home in San Sebastien. It sounds exciting, especially the way she describes it, full of passion and enthusiasm.

Two coaches are crammed entirely with French school kids. I interview the teachers who have bravely taken 96 children for a week in Bayonne. Coming from Paris the kids have found the experience of the countryside an enthralling one. They applaud after the recording, and then follow up with questions, many of them charming. I'm afraid that I disappoint by not being "bien connu dans le monde" as they'd hoped. I wish I could chat for longer but the train pulls into Bordeaux and I must run and get my bag.

Hendaye

I'm "Chez Mickel", just across La Bidassoa, the river that here forms the border between Spain and France. On this side of the bridge is Irun, on the other, Hendaye. In this excellent restuaurant, unlike at the barbers, I have more success with my ambiguous hand gestures. Ordering dessert, I ask for "Something like this" making a vaguely mountainous movement on the table in front of me. A plate arrives laced with raspberry coulis and chocolate containing all the desserts on the menu bar the cheese board, a superlative culinary effort.

TRAVELLER'S TIP: When asking a hotel owner if there is somewhere cheaper nearby, take the time he says it will take to get there and divide it by 10. Also take the price he quotes and divide it in half.

The next day there is a rowing race on the river that I watch while I wait for my train. I ask whether there are Spanish and French competitors, but one of the coaches, a man with large cheeks and a stopwatch resting on his belly, replies vehemently that there are neither, only Basques.

A Coruña - Irun

The phone rings at 6 and again at 6.30 because the owner of the hotel doesn't feel I've made much noise in the intervening period. I roll out of bed and shave, an arduous task I had meant to do the previous night, but a much tidier face stares bleary-eyed back at me from the mirror.

In the station cafe I order breakfast. Even in a language I don't understand the news is still bleak: A shooting in the US, trouble in the Balkans, climate change and a footballer breaking his leg.

On the platform a single carriage waits behind the engine, it is just like a coach on rails. Its too early in the morning to worry about how difficult this will make things. Having settled down the conductor makes me move seats to make way for an interesting looking girl who is also in the wrong place. I know I should try and start a conversation but she is intimidatingly good looking and there's no way my tired morning advances will look anything but creepy.

Waking an hour or so later, I know I have to do some work, so I turn uncomfortably to the girl behind me and ask where she is going. This is the simplest opener, even if so far no-one in Spain has understood my first attempt at the question, just cocking their heads to one side and assuming a puzzled expression.

Her name is Elena and she is keen to improve her English, so we talk for a long time. Unlike some conversations that have dried up the moment I finish asking questions, Elena is keen to know all sorts of different things, often interrupting enthusiasticly when a new thought comes to her.

After acquiring some new carriages in Ourense, including a dining car, the train travels alongside the Sil river, flowing in the opposite direction to become the Minho and to eventually reach the sea at Vigo. The view from a train is immeasurably improved near a river and here is no exception, the flat calm waters a perfect mirror for the pine studded cliffs.

The on board cafe remains shut for the majority of the journey until just after 2. Here, I speak with two toughs heading for Bilbao, who read Men's Health, which this month promises to give the men of Spain "More and Better Sex" and "Bigger Muscles", articles with international appeal. We eat chorizo in a bun, the cafe's only real culinary offering. Is there butter? Nao. I ask if there is cheese. Nao. Can I have it warm? Nao. Just chorizo in a bun.

A tiny old man, with a huge smile and wispy grey hair, is going with his wife to Paris. He used to work in Avignon and every year the couple make this trip. His time in France means we can talk much more easily and he agrees to an interview. He starts in Spanish but then switches to French half-way through.

Vigo

Sitting in his office, the station master finds it difficult to understand me, as I try and get used to lisping my c's but end up just lisping. This is the least of my problems with the Spanish language yet I always feel if I crack it I'll be mistaken for a native in no time.

On television no one's mouth moves when it should, the dub is well and truly on. American programs are no surprise but even Jamie Oliver chats to his friends with remarkable fluency. Gone is the loveable cockney, replaced by a smooth-tongued foreign extra from El Dorado.

The next morning the window in my basement room turns out to be a sham, as it is bricked up. I thus wake late in darkness. I flood the bathroom and then head out to find a cafe. Later, after an excessively long lunch, the result of my ordering two group portions in hopeless Spanish, I waddle back towards the hotel. Spying some stylish old barber's chairs, I am reminded of Sweeney Todd and enter on a whim. The proprietor jumps up from reading what looks like a Spanish version of Hello! except the women on the front is incongruously topless. He cannot speak a word of English so I make what I believe to be the international gesture for "A little bit off the top and sides", my index finger and thumb a short distance apart, pointing at my head.

As I sit down, tightly wrapped in three layers of towel, apron and absorbent neck cloth, another customer enters and picks up Hola! to read. Only five minutes, my barber assures him. I too am reassured because surely only a trim would be possible in such a short time. Five minutes of frantic snipping later I realise I was wrong, both about the international comprehension of my hand gesture and about the speed at which my curls could be dispatched. At times the barber moves so fast that he cuts at empty air for several snips before changing tack and plunging back into my tousled mop. Except it is a mop no longer. Just when I think my follicle count is a low as it will go, the barber flicks open a proper old cut throat razor and test the blade with his thumb. Having witnessed his speed with scissors and remembering the chair on which I sit I cannot help a twinge of worry that I have somehow stumbled upon El Peluquería Diabólica. However, he prcoeeds only to shave the back of my neck and round my ears, leaving my throat well alone. Ten minutes after walking in, I leave hurriedly, a post-Delila Samson.

Porto - Vigo

The train to Spain is going to be my hardest one yet. Four carriages, three second class and one first with no dining car and very few people. Furthermore, even though it is going to another country, it is a regional train and many are only on for one or two stops.

I speak with one or two people but no-one knows much English and I am rapidly running out of cars where I am not regarded as the weirdo to be resolutely ignored. Thankfully, after returning to my original place a chap called Nuno (again) comes to my rescue and does a great piece about his home town, Viana di Castello.

Just before Valença, on the border, I notice a guy across from me, his arm over the back of his seat. The woman behind him, a tall, buxom señora with dyed blonde hair, has been on since Porto. He, short dark hair and pale, joined the train much later and so far they hadn't exchanged a word, yet I and the rest of the carriage are increasingly convinced that he is not only staring at her as she sleeps but also stroking her leg. Eventually, she wakes and sits up but still no one says anything. However, as he gets off he bends and whispers something to her as he passes, she touches his hand gently and he leaves. Then suddenly he turns around, dashes into the carriage and kisses her, his right hand fumbling for her breasts. She slaps his hand away but seems completely unfazed. He strides off into the night.

In the kerfuffle an old lady and her bags are left on the train by her husband. She shrieks in alarm and someone rushes to stop the door closing. The husband shrugs and can't understand the fuss.

Porto

I like it here a lot. This slightly uncritical attitude may be due to the warm sun on my face, the beautiful view of the architechtural jumble descending into the river or the sweet Vinho di Porto warming my stomach, but I can't help any of that, the combined effect is lovely.

Two chatty couples from Somerset make their way with me down the same set of steep stairs, also on their first day here and also blown away by Porto's eclectic beauty. They were drawn here almost solely a cheap flight, the promise of sun and port but it can't be bad for this World Heritage sight to be more accessible. Despite the quaintly haphazard architechture the infrastructure is slicker than Lisbon, with shiny new yellow metros and suburban line trains, one glides slowly across the Ponte Luis I, high above, as I write.

TRAVELLERS' TIP: Don't point out the massive sign saying Cockburn's and laugh. Anyone who knows anything about port will witheringly remark "Its pronounced Coburns actually, its a well known brand" as you watch all respect for you drain from their features.

I still like Porto. After climbing up from the river, weighed down by a rucksack packed for Siberia, I am rewarded by stunning views from the Palacio de Cristal. In heaven, I and many others are for some reason sure that there will be peacocks and sure enough they wander here among bushes bedecked with fragrant pink flowers. Sure, there are geese here too, so it is probably not the actual fields of Elysium but its very nice all the same. In the Aromatic Garden I can't really smell the flowers because of a slight cold (uma constipacão, not to be confused) but it also meant I couldn't smell the leaking sewer pipe in the corner of my room last night, so every cloud...

I'd headed to the park to find the Port Wine Tasting Bar. It doesn't open until 4 so I head for the Museo de Romantico next door. I didn't know what to expect though I guess I was secretly hoping for a softcore version of Amsterdam's Erotic Museum. Thankfully, as with the "World of Salt!" I was prepared for disappointment.

After obtaining a ticket I was asked whether I was English. When I answered in the affirnative the short lady who seemed to be in charge said that no-one there spoke English but that I should wait 15 minutes for the tour to begin. I sat down, in what was admittedly a very comfy chair and listened to the lady sniff. Now I'm no prude when it comes to sniffing and understand that sometimes its the simplest thing to do but this small woman was hoiking it back like a sailor every ten to fifteen seconds. This made the wait a tad trying on my previously flat calm nerves. The electricity cut out and the room went dark. The man who'd been on the computer behind the desk now had nothing to do. He decided to make jokes. There is a cute habit that people have when speaking to a foreigner: They make a joke in halting English of four or five words, in this case something about electricity bills. They then translate their witticism for the benifit of their linguistically challenged friends except in the process of translation the jokes has morphed from a few unfunny words into a fantastic anecdote of several minutes including pauses for uproarious laughter. The man does this a couple of times and after each the sniffing lady glares accusingly as if to demand why my sides are not also splitting.

After 15 minutes it would appear that nothing has changed but apparently the tour can now begin. Much to my delight I realise it is the sniffing lady with whom I will be exploring the Museum, a collection of rooms preserved in the style of the early 19th century, when the exiled King of Sardinia, Charles Albert, lived there. The house is interesting but as I bend to examine something a grunted sniff behind my ear dampens the sense of history.

At the end of the tour, which takes less time than I spent in the reception area, I ask where the toilet is. She kindly shows me, but my hopes for peaceful ablutions are dashed when I hear a distinctive snorting waiting just outside the door.

Any frustration has long since melted, sitting on a bench in the park once more, bathed in sunlight watching bees buzz lazily from flower to flower. When I arrived at this bench by a cave I encountered Antonio, who said he'd been a chef in London, yet did not speak any English. He asked if I wanted to take a photo of him. I rose to oblige and he whipped out a booked entitled something like My Friend Jesus, with a picture of Christ adorning the cover. He seemed pleased with the shot, the cave in the background, book in hand and face turned heavenward with a pious expression.

In a neat garden I look out over the Douro towards yet another superb bridge. The Portuguese seem to excel at bridge building. In Lisbon there is the 17km monster, Vasco di Gama and the Ponte 25 de Abril, which looks like the Golden Gate, San Francisco. In Porto there is this one, the Arrábida Bridge, which when it was built had the largest concrete span in the world and the massive iron bulk of the Ponte Luis I and in between there are numerous impressive viaducts, river crossings and the like. This is the Solar do Vinho do Porto, a slightly faded white town house, with smart shutters and an excellent bar on the bottom floor stocked with almost every Port imaginable. From a simple glass of sweet red up to a 1961 bottle selling for over €200. The waiter recommends a dry white to complement my chorizo. A Dutch couple are the next patrons to arrive. Their son, a composer, has a Portuguese wife who is due to give birth to their first grandson in Porto today. They are excited but worried that their phone is not working and they will miss the call to the hospital. We both leave reluctantly, because it is wonderfully tranquil but I know I'm already later than intended.

Walking swiftly round a corner I see a hill sloping down to a large open crossroads, overlooked by a blue tiled church. On the otherside the hill climbs steeply to another church similarly decorated. This was certainly the building I'd seen as I left the station this morning and judging from the map and factoring in Sod's Law I knew I'd have to climb the hill at speed to get to my train. As I reached the crossroads a tram pulled up, but after allowing several ladies aboard I made to grab the handle and swing myself up, only to have the driver accelerate off. Several locals gesticulated to the driver, feeling I'd been unjustly treated but I just chased after the tram as it climbed, determined to reach the summit close behind it, knowing this motivation would make the climb easier. At one point it had to stop, a car was parked on the tramlines, but it was quickly moved and I puffed on. Reaching the top, breathing heavily I felt exhausted but relieved that I'd make it on time.

However, relief turned to dismay as I couldn't find the station. I had not come far enough! There must be another hill to climb. I asked a group of young skateboarders, but they pointed back down the hill and I wasn't going to fall for that. Then a kindly old man with wispy white hair, seeing my puzzled glares at the map, pointed down the hill as well, giving directions in French. I could not summon the energy to run so descended the hill slower than I'd ascended, I'd run straight past the station chasing the bloody tram. I hope there's a profound moral there.

Aveiro - Porto

As I'm booking my ticket to Porto a colleague comes over to help the girl serving me. He strokes her shoulder and then leans in disturbingly. Its not the first time I've seen this.
On the way to Lisbon from Faro the conductor's behaviour towards the waitress in the dining car, if replicated in Britain, would cause the train to grind to a halt under the weight of sexual harrassment suits. Today, a delivery man persistently wolf whistles a girl in tight jeans for several minutes, long after she'd turned a corner and walked away. Even Nuno loudly declared, so the object of his affection could hear "That's why I like God and Jesus Christ, because they made beautiful things like that".

Aveiro

I've not been to a Catholic cemetery before, at least not one like that in Aveiro. I had wondered about the cluster of spires and wandered until I found a side street leading to the wrought iron gates. It is busy, families clad in black, with head scarves and hats, sweeping graves, changing flowers and lighting candles. The crypts form the outer wall and vary hugely in size, age and state of repair. Some have doors hanging open, others are bedecked with flowers, some are ornate, others are slick and modern with glass swing doors like a modern office building. Most have the coffins on display but a few hide them behind lacy curtains. Many have photographs that sit on tiny altars at the back, and there pictures too on the graves within the walls. These individual tombs have sometimes been added too, with marble plaques commemorating other family members neatly arranged in little stands atop the original grave. Its a very public display of grief, that keeps a reminder of death close at hand throught people's everyday lives.

The lady in the tourist office shows me the oldest bridge in Aveiro on a map, as well as the fish market, some old churches and an eco-museum on the site of an old salt farm. Outside boats advertise trips to "Mundo do Sal!" but I decide to walk. I have to admit that I was prepared to be disappointed by the World of Salt! but it is often the case that despite low expectations, an attraction like this can in fact give a really illuminating insight into traditional local industry. Unfortunately this time it was not the case.

Despite a sign saying that over a million Euros had been invested here, there was not a cinematic tour with a loveable but hip cartoon duo called Sodi-YO and Chlori-DUDE. This was truly an eco-museum simply by virtue of there being almost nothing there, apart from six boards with information in Portuguese on one side and English on the other. The site had been left exactly as it was, but not in a good way, left being the operative word.

Still determined to learn, I left my bag on a bench by the Palheiro, a salt pan hut because I was certain no-one would be along to steal it. I trod carefully on the muddy pathways between the salt ponds, reading all the boards until the final one which told me I'd done it in exactly the wrong order. As I walked back along the banks of the farm I saw a condom wrapper spinning gently on the surface of one of the ponds. It would take a considerable amount of alcohol, a strange fetish for the production of seasonings or some very strict Catholic parents to make this seem like a place for wild romance.

At the hut I find an extra board, which someone has set fire to, presumably expressing their disappointment at "Mundo do Sal!". It details who worked on the farm: Apprentices, called Moços, were picked at the "Fiera dos Moços" in March. Women worked here too, though they "also worked in agriculture and carried mud and salt". Thankfully, emancipation was not long in coming and so "By the end of the 1970's [they] abandoned this job".

Despite not being heart-stoppingly brilliant and perhaps not being the best use of over one million EU euros, I've enjoyed sitting here by this hut for several hours, writing undisturbed.

Lisbon Again

Police have Segways in Lisbon, those toy-like two wheelers with handlebars to hold as you stand. I want to ask for a photo but they're too fast. Actually, what I really want is to have a go but I realise that will be an even less popular suggestion.

The metro is very nice in Lisbon. The trains are not particularly shiny but the stations are new and lovely. Huge multicoloured tiles adorn the large air stations. There are four lines, red compass, green boat, yellow flower and blue bird. Even though there is not a massive amount of conversation, as I get off to change lines a young lady waves, so it feels friendlier than London.

On the platform I finish my sandwich and start talking with Antonio, measured in his speech, with a leather jacket and a close shaven head. He has been working in Northern Ireland, where he says it has rained non-stop for six years, save for the two or three weeks of summer. He was working in a chicken factory but has returned for the birth of his first child.

Across the aisle from Antonio and me is William, he has heard the interview and asks what it was for. He is about to set up a small community in Portugal to try and escape from the madness of global economics. He says an inspiration for him is "Small is Beautiful" by E.F. Schumacher and I promise to read it, liking the sound of the ideas behind it. William is from South West Ireland and apparently can't get Radio 4, but I give him the website address. I ask if he'd like to share his story but he politely declines, saying it'd be a bit surreal. He gets offin Coimbra to meet the friend with which he is to found his community and I wish him all the best.

Lisbon

It is night time in the centre of Lisbon, my room looks out on Rossio, one of the main squares, where kids skateboard at the foot of large bronze statue. Walking through town, I am accosted and asked to help with a student film project. They are wanting opinions on the largest of Lisbon's squares, Praca do Comercio, unfortunately they have intercepted before I've seen it. I the guy holding the mic what he thinks of it then repeat that to the camera. They seem pleased but they don't know where an internet cafe is.

There's a cute yellow funicular which is one of several mechanical methods of ascending Lisbon's steep hills. I walk up behind, needing both the excercise and the €1.20. On the way back down later, when the funicular is closed for repairs, I meet a group of Australians, two of whom live in London.
"We thought we'd be original," the guy jokes. A few steps further down: "But the Poles are catching up."
"I guess you Aussies just aren't as good at plumbing."
"Oh no, I know some good Aussie plumbers, " he replies, nodding seriously.

CSI: New York is on the telly and because Portuguese is not widely enough spoken to justify dubbing they have to make do with subtitles. I've never watched a whole episode of CSI and its fairly entertaining as long as you're not put off by the whooshing noise as they go for another super close-up.

Lisbon Oriente

Nuno looks like a slightly shorter, stockier, Portuguese Craig Charles. He is begging for money because he has overspent on a big weekend in the capital with friends and his card has been eaten by a cash machine. He needs to get to Encontramento. I give him some change and then decide it'd be good to hear more of his story so I ask him if I can record it. After a thorough retelling of the tale I gave him the last euro he needs but he insists on guiding me around Lisbon first. We walk along the dockside of Expo , Lisbon's large commercial district built in 1998 and populated by glassy malls, restaurants, large towers and a telecabine. Nuno is not happy with Portugal's current state. He says that it is areas of beauty, surrounded by problems, staring at a computer monitor floating folornly in the river. He is also worried about the lack of motivation among the young, stemming, perhaps, from poor job prospects. Nuno, at 33, has just quit as a security guard and has started work in call centre. We are now in the mall, only the second largest in Lisbon, and after he has kindly shown me exactly where all the facilities and exits are (He used to work here) he wishes me luck. I wish him all the best with the call centre, hoping he will become a manager there. "Yes," he says, "but that is the dream".

Faro - Lisbon

I head for the dining car on the morning train and meet Rosalia and Carlos, a couple on their way to Lisbon. We talk for a long time in English but she gives the interview in Portuguese, talking at great length, delighting the other passengers in the carriage. After I've finished recording and packed away, a heated discussion is underway, amongst many of those in the dining car, concerning the relative economic and social merits of various countries around the world, including China, England, India and Brazil. The cars are set up with seats and tables making them much more sociable. One couple, a German husband and Portuguese wife, say that in Germany trains are not as friendly. They wonder if perhaps it is because not only the culture but the language is more reserved. There's no doubt it must have an effect, something I may be able to get a feel for in conversations throughout the journey.

Vila Real de Santa Antonio

Its an hour on the local train from Faro, but that wasn't long enough to prepare me for the change of tone. All I knew of this place was what I had seen on their website, an impression of a brilliant white port bathed in bright sunshine.

As I walked into town, I remembered Maria Feliz's lament: Portugal is not rich, we have worked hard but for nothing. The most striking evidence of this was just outside the station, in the car park of the adjoining supermarket. Here were three large tents, constructed from ropes, branches and plastic sheeting, housing a family of about twelve who now stood around a roaring bonfire. The interior was carpeted with hay and the family pony was tie dto a nearby tree. A large group of stray dogs wandered in and out of the camp, alternating between fighting and mounting each other. I wanted to go and talk with the family but felt I should explore the town, so I headed towards the centre.

This is the tourist area, with cafes, wide squares, the marina, shady awnings and slightly faded clothes shops. On the way, though, I pass quite a number of derelict houses adorned with Vende-se, for sale. It looks as though some have been this way for many years. In the window of the "Erotic House" all that is displayed is a poster for information about a missing 5 year old girl called Mariluz. It appears in shop windows throughout the town and one can't help but think of the search for Madeline McCann, who disappeared just up the coast from here. The posters of this innocent face are unlikely to become the starting point of a global hunt, but despite not having the resources of the media, the police and even the Pope, I hope that the search for Mariluz is not in vain.

I turn a corner and the lighthouse beckons, I head towards it, passing lively cafes where many local sare glued to various football matches, including Egypt's victory in the African Cup of Nations. At the foot of the lighthouse is a children's park which a council sign proudly proclaims cost 77,905.10 Euros. There is a Vila Real de Santa Antonio logo at the top, perhaps another expense. The slogan at the bottom: Esta a mudar. I think it means something about change. I hope so.

Back at the station I check the train times and for a moment I think I have missed the last one. Consulting the local timetable I find I have about an hour and a half to wait. I walk out and a small boy in the gipsy camp beckons me over. I go and sit with the family, struggling to read my phrasebook by the firelight and make conversation. The boy´s name is Andre and he is holding his little brother, Dai. I give him my camera and he takes a photo, then his elder brothers take it from him and strike poses but the batteries have died. I meet David, Jose and two Luis, junior and senior. Junior is the baby and senior is 22, playing with a mobile phone. I don't learn the names of any of the women. I feel I have to record something, because if I do not tell this part of the story on the radio programme, right next to the first station, then I won't really be telling the truth. But when I take out the recorder, almost inevitably, Andre asks for if I will give it to him as a gift. "Amigos" he repeats. His family admonish him but he persists from time to time.
It is frustrating, because even with fluent Portuguese I don't think I could explain properly. The rest of the family go inside, turn on a little petrol generator and watch a small TV. After I refuse once more Andre shouts that the train is coming, I should go and ducks inside the tent. I'm angry because once again I have walked into the midst of poverty and not only failed to help but I have made things worse. I walk to the supermarket and buy some fruit and tin foil. I return with the apples and satsumas and improvise an aerial from the foil as I noticed the reception had been poor. They are watching Snake Eyes with Nicholas Cage and it is a little clearer with the new reciever. The family are grateful and walk me to the station. Luis comes inside with meand we talk a little but then he sees little Luis and his mother waiting outside so he mumbles goodbye and hurriedly leaves.

The station master and driver say they cannot talk about trains but I ask about the town. The response is not hugely positive, but in the summer they say there are lots and lots of tourists and in winter athletes come to use the running track. The train from Faro pulls in, people get off, then it moves a little further down the platform so that we can walk across the tracks to our train.

On board my first interviewees are Elders Nelson and Croshaw of teh Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. They are missionairies and we talk about their work until lteh conductor says we must stop as it is illegal. As Elder Nelson talks into the mic he punches his right hand into his left to psych himself. He is from California and Elder Croshaw is from Utah and they have been working in Vila Real de Santa Antonio for the evening, spreading the word of the Chuch and practising their Portuguese. It seems ironic that the first guys I speak to on this trip, where I will be constantly trying to converse with complete strangers, spend their lives doing the same.

Faro Again

Woke up this morning in a lovely bed, forgetting where I was. Then it hit me and the ludicrousness of the scheme made me nervous. The Cartoon Network seemed like a welcome dose of sanity serenading me in the shower.

TRAVELLER'S TIP: If you dry your clothes on a ceiling fan, close the window.

At the internet cafe I walked in to find the manager finishing his breakfast. He hurriedly downed the milk while hiding behind his desk. When he reappeared there was a lareg drop of milk on his chin. I couldn´t decide whether to tell him or not.

An American couple had trouble printing and accidentaly made 10 copies. To apologise the husband offered 5 euros, even though printing was 16 cents per sheet. Initially the owner refused, but eventually, after another accidental American wad, followed by loud apologies, he relented and accepted the money. Still, embarrassed by the sum he offered the couple some coffee. "No, merci beaucoup" was the wife's reply. I was surprised because earlier she had said "Obrigada", then later "Gracias", her gratitude gradually losing geographical accuracy.

Waited in the cafe next to the train station for the train that would take me to the beginning of my journey. Was shot by a bold young Portuguese kid, along with everyone else sitting outside in the afternoon sun, his plastic Smith & Wesson clicking menacingly. He eventually grew bored and went to harass a dog.

Faro

After forgetting a map and stubbornly refusing to go back to the hostel I am fruitlessly searching for an internet cafe. I follow road signs for the Centro but to no avail, passing an old lady with a brunette perm who has paused from walking her two dogs to stare closely at lingerie in a sex shop. She hears me and spins, embarrassed, then scolds her dogs as if they had led her unto temptation.

Then I here the sweet sound of Mick Jagger and see the blue flash of police lights. This irresistable combination is a parade called Fiera do Lokos. It is aptly named, dancers, jugglers, fire-breathers and a group of colourfully bewigged lunatics march through town on a wave of chaos, led by a moustache twirling director with a loud hailer. Occassionally the madness concertates for a few minutes at roundabouts or in a square but the procession continues for hours, touring in circles through narrow streets.

At the last of these concentrations of chaos, three platinum blondes join the crowd. As I snap pictures, trying to look professional, one says in accentless English "Do you want some of yourself?". Crestfallen that I have been clocked as a Briton abroad without even opening my mouth I mumble a sulky "No, thanks". The girls, Olga, Iva and Iveta, are Russian but have lived in London long enough to say to me "You have English written across your forehead". With the parade disapating we head for a club. Several do not meet the high Russian standards, even one with a genuine Russian doorman. In fairness, they contained either a few lecherous old men or a horde of underage drinkers (May the two never meet).

A satisfactory club was eventually settled upon, where the three beautiful Russians inevitably attracted alot of attention, among the almost exclusively dark haired clentele. I could feel a not inconsiderable resentment emanating from the male half of the room but no-one tried a single drunken one liner. I guess this could be another bad sign, because if the men of Portugal are not tempted to use their knowledge of English now, how likely are they to want to talk to some silly bloke on the train?

Lisbon

Walked through tiny up and down streets near Santa Appolonia in Lisbon, following a trail of signs searching for Bonhito, a cat, clearly beloved. Blue tiles brighten the shady streets. Bought the ingredients for a cheese and sausage sandwich. Cheese was a mix of Goat and sheep's milk, immediately pointed to when I suggested "local speciality", but actually quite nice. Waiting for the train to leave I got crumbs on the nice green seats of the Intercidades.

Slept for a couple of hours after leaving Lisbon, having crossed the Golden Gate-esque bridge over the estuary that sits under the watchful gaze of Jesus, arms open ready to hug a long lost relative. The landscape is drier now but punctuated by heavily irrigated patches of vivid green. Sometimes these patches are themselves punctuated by vivid orange oranges.

Realising the only hope of avoiding interminable doze is to get to the dining car and converse over an iced tea, I do just that. My partners in concersation and Lipton were Guido, Tiago and Fillipa. They study accounting in Lisbon but hail from Vila Real de Santa Antonio, my starting point. Worryingly they don't speak English but perhaps their forte is numbers. I ask them what they do in their free time in their home town. "Nada" is the immediate reply. Also disappointing. We talk, mainly about football, but the conversation is continually interrupted by the necessity for long forays into the phrasebook.

Two Australian girls, who've lived in London for a couple of years and feel a five hour journey is a bit much, are slightly horrified at the idea of the trip. They work as corporate travel agents and hate organising trains, especially in Russia. They say if I ring and they hang up I musn't take offence.

Irun

Short hop through the station and a cursory security check and I am on the Sud Express. I´m in a cabin with Jose (a balding, friendly man with a neat moustache and a colourful jumper) and a melancholy elderly lady. When the conductor comes to make up the beds Jose and I head for the bar, where I am rescued from my painfully slow phrasebook Portuguese, by a youngish man with a pony tail and a firm grasp of the Queen´s English. He says he is an electrician and like the Super Mario Brothers. This conjures a surreal image until I realised he meant he was a plumber, though more traditional than the crazy, jumping Italians. Ordered a beer, ended up with several and a simple looking burger, then bed.

TRAVELLERS TIP: Don´t be tempted to push the flush early on the Sud Express. To discourage such frivolity the lid is rigged to come down with embarrassing consequences.

Everyone in our cabin woke early at the Spanish-Portuguese border, we turned the lights on, sat around then we went back to sleep. I don´t really know why.

A little later someone ran up and down the corridor with a bell, to warn of an obscure station. A little later still the elderly lady got a phone call with bad news, as such early morning phone calls often are. She started to cry and Jose woke to comfort her but this seemd to involve a slightly insensitive chuckling on his part. This made me think perhaps it was a beloved pet who had past away.

This particular line is wonderful because one wakes up to the incredibly beautiful landscape of Northern Portugal, red and white towns peacefully crumbling in shady forests of stiff, straight trees, a huge lake with morning mist blurring a bright orange sunrise. The train is slower than the French TGV but it is still difficult to take photographs, achingly lovely scenes, are perfectly framed for a second then gone. You either have to bring a lot of batteries and glue yourself to the window or just enjoy it and later make do with a schmaltzy description on your blog.

After breakfast, that Jose kindly bought, he continues to laugh at the old lady´s troubles. Her name is Maria Feliz, and she does seem to be happier now. She shows off her new mobile phone to us, though we had heard the ring tone several times already as she slowly searched her bag for it to be informed of new developments in the feud.

Jose leaves at Palabro, Maria and I get on famously using Francoguese. We stop in Fatima, which Maria has visited three times. I stare out of the window and Maria kindly keeps me from falling asleep by informing me of the location of various hospitals. She also points out her home, or at least the hill which is behind. Unfortunately she must go to Lisbon and then drive all the way back there, because there is no stop near by.

We pass some kids doing football training in Entrecamento. Apparently, I was informed last night, Ronaldo is from Maderia rather than the mainland. So is Nelly Furtado. The men at the bar last night said that this is because the beer is so cheap in Portugal one has little time for greatness.

Maria speaks louder and louder to her French son as we get closer to Lisbon. She has made the 13 hour journey between the brothers often in the past 17 years. She is not pleased with the influence of her French daughter-in-law, slotting neatly into the stereotype of mother-in-laws across the globe. She empashises points with the phrase "Beaucoup, beaucoup, beaucoup".

When we arrive I wish her good bye, she wishes me a healthy trip and goes to find her son.

Gare du Montparnasse

V. long walk to the carriage, felt like I had uncovered the secret of French rail superiority, as I must have been halfway to Spain already. Bruno, middle-aged with a thick, dark moustache and goatee, chatted about politics, after I asked about his newpaper: "The Chained Duck". Apparently it is a satircal perspective of the goings on in the French government. It is less than complimentary about Sarko, a view echoed by Bruno. He got off in Bordeaux but said I could pop in when I come back through France.


A shy student was diligently reading Sport magazine. I asked him whether he was looking forward to the Six Nations. He said he hated all sports. I changed the subject. The girl reading Vogue did like fashion ("Comme tous les filles" says she. "Vive la feminism" say I) but is scathing of the British passion for "le trash", like Heat. Some Spanish guys revise for their driving theory test. One makes a mistake on the mock exam and the ensuing argument about rights of way mirrors many future ones by the roadside.

Paris Gare Du Nord

Arriving in Paris, I tried to record train announcements. I would hear the bong-bing bong-bing that heralds them, frantically grab the recorder and wait in vain for them to be repeated, my arm dismally aloft. The heat of super chic French disdain was palpable.

Anxious, young man trying to get through the Metro barriers, accompanied by a polite sotto-voce "Shit, shit, shit..." I gave him a Gallic shrug and pulled my "Cést la vie" face but then he was through. We reached the train as it pulled out of the station. I shrugged again, assumed the face but this time said "Cést la vie" just in case he´d misunderstood the first time. Turns out he was French, so he had seen straight through my attempted nonchalance. I discerned that he was from the country, up in Brittany, and had recently begun studying in Paris. My French speaking is a little like a train, as it takes a while to get going and sometimes makes unscheduled stops. To add authenticity I fill these gaps with a protracted "ooouerrrrr" sound. When we reached Gare Du Montparnasse there was a long travellator thing. As if to prove he was capable of European calm he got on this and then stood still for the duration. Not wanting to be rude I stood too, and as people pushed past and huffed, he frowned at the Parisians´ stressful, rushed lifestyle. I mumbled agreement but couldn´t help feeling relived when we got off, my train now five minutes closer to departure.

London St Pancras

My dear parents were there to see me off this morning. We settled down for a hot chocolate to steady the nerves whereupon I realised with some dismay that the ticketI held was for a train half an hour earlier than the one I had booked. I hurriedly downed the sweet froth and headed for check-in. Now, this blog is not for extolling the virtues of train travel, virtuous though it is, because I am not doing this out of some passion for rail bound locomotion. However, check-in at Eurostar make Heathrow seem like hell on Earth, though I believe Satanists do go there to worship the unholy chaos of the festive season, coinciding with industrial action.

Unlike previous trips, however, making it to the train at the very last second (My punctuality is infamous) is now no longer enough. I have to record each event for you, dear readers, listeners and watchers. So, with perhaps a little foreboding, I got off, took some pictures and recorded the sounds of St Pancras.

Through the tunnel I chatted with a smooth silver-haired Frenchman called Jean-Michel about his job, the trip and driving in Paris. For some reason that I can´t fathom, perhaps nervousness because it was my first time, I didn´t record his story about the first time he came to the City of Smashed Tail-Lights, bringing his small car with him, but you´ll just have to believe me when I tell you it was funny.

In the dining car I met George and his friend Charlie. They restored vintage cars in North London and on their way to an automotive exhibition in Paris. George had lost an eye and thumb while polishing a car part but both he and Charlie (A retired firman) were disdainful of current trends in health safety. George was happy to tell his story, having been the subject of an article some years ago written by legendary mountaineer Sir Chris Bonnington. I struggled to live up to George´s expectations of good journalism.

As we got off a few people in the carriage who had heard Jean-Michel and I talking wished me luck. Score one for the optimistic view of humanity.

Bad Omens

1. Missed train home last week.
2. Got blisters from new boots.
3. Paid for wrong sort of underground ticket.
4. Lost credit card, subsequently stolen.
5. Runny nose.
6. Runny eyes.
7. Pissed of Church of Scientology.
8. Didn´t sleep well on trains.
9. Got the wrong time for Eurostar.
10. Left lucky toad foot at home.
11. Broke mirror.
12. Walked under a ladder shop.
13. Ran over black cat.

And I can only think of thirteen. That´s another bad omen.

Paul Theroux starts his Great Railway Bazaar by saying: "Ever since childhood, when I lived within earshot of the Boston and Maine, I have seldom heard a train go by and not wished I was on it." He ends the trip feeling slightly less positive, having dipped even lower at times in the middle. I´m starting on a negative note and hoping that´ll I will end up an optimist. The week in the run up to this trip has been if not a catalogue of horrors, then at least an impressive hobbyist´s collection of minor terrors. None of them have boded well. Thankfully, I am not one to dwell on bodings, fore or aft, and now I´ve shared them I will worry no more.

The fact is, if I get to the end of the trip without being arrested, my balls stay similarly sized and my sleeping bag remains unsullied I will be over the moon.

Route Summary

Trains so far: 47 (42 Vila Real to HCM)

Photos here: http://www.flickr.com/photos/23573706@N06/sets/72157604066697777/

Friday 8th February
10.30 Board Eurostar at Kings Cross St Pancras. Arrive Paris Gare Du Nord at 13.53
15.50 Board TGV at Paris Montparnasse. Arrive Irun 21.25
22.00 Board Sud Express in Irun.

Saturday 9th Feb
Arrive Lisbon Santa Appolonia 11.03.
13.20 Board Intercicades at Lisbon Oriente. Arrive Faro 17.22

Sunday 10th Feb
16.25 Board Regional at Faro. Arrive Vila Real de Santa Antonio 17.39
20.41 Board Regional at Vila Real de Santa Antonio. Arrive Faro 21.51 (34 miles)

Monday 11th Feb
09.05 Board Intercicades at Faro. Arrive Lisbon Oriente 13.06 (200 miles)

Tuesday 12th Feb
11.39 Board Intercicades at Lisbon Oriente. Arrive Aveiro 14.00
18.11 Board Intercicades at Aveiro. Arrive Porto Campanha 18.44

Wednesday 13th Feb
17.55 Board Regional 423 at Porto Campanha. Arrive Vigo (Spain) 22.08

Thursday 14th Feb
16.45 Board Regional at Vigo. Arrive A Coruna 21.35

Friday 15th Feb
08.05 Board Diurno 280 at A Coruna. Via Ourense, Montforte de Lemos, Miranda del Ebro. Arrive Hendaye 20.35

Saturday 16th Feb
14.11 Board TGV at Hendaye. Arrive Bordeaux St Jean 16.27

Sunday 17th Feb
14.03 Board Corail 3854 at Bordeaux St Jean. Arrive La Rochelle Ville 16.13

Tuesday 19th Feb
12.31 Board Corail 3852 at La Rochelle Ville. Arrive Nantes 14.24
16.22 Board TER 58211 at Nantes. Via Redon. Arrive Quimper 18.54
19.05 Board TER at Quimper. Arrive Brest 20.16

Wednesday 20th Feb
13.45 Board TGV in Brest. Arrive Paris Montparnasse 18.20

Friday 22nd Feb
14.58 Board TGV Paris Gare du Nord. Arrive Lille Flandres 16.00 (120 miles)
16.08 Board Regional-Express Lille Flandres. Arrive Ghent St Pieters 17.02
17.15 Board Interregio Ghent St Pieters. Arrive Bruxelles-Central 17.51

Sunday 24th Feb
17.19 Board Intercity 9245 at Bruxelles-Central. Arrive Amsterdam Centraal 20.06

Monday 25th Feb
16.57 Board Intercity 1561 at Amsterdam Centraal. Arrive Amersfoort 17.32
17.41 Board Intercity 147 at Amersfoort. Arrive Osnabruck Hauptbahnhof 20.07
20.23 Board Intercity 2024 at Osnabruk Hauptbahnhof. Arrive Hamburg Hauptbahnhof 22.12

Tuesday 26th Feb
15.03 Board Intercity-Express at Hamburg Hauptbahnhof. Arrive Berlin Hauptbahnhof 16.39

Wednesday 27th Feb
12.29 Board EuroCity 45 at Berlin Hauptbahnhof. Arrive Warszawa Centralna 18.35

Saturday 1st March
07.20 Board D91001 at Warszawa Centralna. Arrive Sestokai 14.48
15.03 Board D194RJ at Sestokai. Arrive Vilnius 17.57

Sunday 2nd March
18.20 Board Lietuvos Geležinkeliai 392RJ at Vilnius.

Monday 3rd March
08.20 Arrive St Petersburg Vitebskii.

Monday 10th March
17.18 Board 801 (Elektrishka) at Moscovsky Station, St Petersburg. Arrive Novgorod 20.33

Tuesday 11th March
21.20 Board 042 (Kupee) at Novgorod.

Wednesday 12th March
Arrive Leningradsky Station, Moscow 05.30

Monday 17th March
18.50 Board 018 (Platskart) at Yaroslavsky Station

Tuesday 18th March
Arrive Moscovsky Station at Gorky (Nizhny Novgorod) 01.13 (274 miles)

Thursday 20th March
12.10 Board 128 (Kupee) at Gorky.

Friday 21st March
Arrive at Svedlorsk (Yekaterinburg)10.07 (Moscow Time*) (+2) (853 miles)

Sunday 23rd March
17.40 (+2) Board 076 (Platskart) at Svedlorsk (Yekaterinburg)

Monday 24th March
Arrive at Novosibirsk Glavny 14.49 (+3) (948 miles)

Wednesday 26th March
14.14 (+4) Board 086 "Krasnoyarskaya" (Platskart) at Novosibirsk Glavny

Thursday 27th March
Arrive at Krasnoyarsk 04.11 (+4) (473 km)

Friday 28th March
21.25 (+4) Board 046 (Platskart) at Krasnoyarsk

Saturday 29th March
Arrive at Irkutsk 15.27 (+5) (676 miles)

Friday 4th April
03.43 (+5) Board 12 (Platskart) at Irkutsk. Arrive Babushkin (Mosyeovar) 09.13 (+5)
22.33 (+5) Board 362 (Platskart) at Babushkin (Mosyeovar).

Saturday 5th April
Arrive Ulan Ude 01.18 (+5). (283 miles from Irkutsk)
01.58 (+5) Board 362 (Platskart) at Ulan Ude. Arrive Naushki 08.04 (+5). (551 miles)
12.50 (+5) Board 362 (No seat, small bribe) at Naushki. Arrive Sukhbaatur 19.05 (Mongolian time: Moscow + 4) (16 miles)
21.25 Board 362 at Sukhbaatur. Arrive Ulan Baatur 06.05 (238 miles)

Thursday 10th April
08.05 Board K24 at Ulan Baatur.

Friday 11th April
Arrive Beijing 14.04 (964 miles)

Saturday 19th April
10.46 Board D31 in Beijing. Arrive Shanghai

Wednesday 23rd April
17.09 Board T99 in Shanghai.

Thursday 24th April
(Morning) Arrive Jiulong.

Sunday 27th April
Board in Jiulong. Arrive in Guangzhou. (Queue for two hours for ticket. Miss train. Sleep in internet cafe)

Monday 28th April
07.17 Board K230 at Guangzhou. Arrive Nanning. (Evening)
(Night time) Board in Nanning.

Tuesday 29th April
(Morning) Arrive in Hanoi.

Thursday 1st May
(Evening) Board in Hanoi.

Saturday May 3rd
(Morning) Arrive Ho Chi Minh City. (1072 miles)

*All long distance trains operate on Moscow time, but suburban services operate on local time, which can sometimes be a little confusing.