Trainspotting

Hello. My name's Michael and I'm a trainaholic. (Everyone else in the group then goes, "Hello Michael," and nods knowingly, beycause they're all here for the same reason. Er, therapy.)

So there you have it. I have now admitted my failing. I have, metaphorically, come out, if. not from the wardrobe then at least the station.

I have always loved trains. As a lad my Dad built me a huge train set with multiple lines and sidings, a tunnel, a station, even a duck pond. There were signals and lights that glowed green and red according to my whim as the train controller. I can still smell the unique electrical odour from the transformers, and hear the buzz as I ramped up the voltage. Perhaps he hadn't wired it correctly.

A real railway line ran past Malvern, my primary school in Liverpool, and us lads always used to watch the local trains go by. They were electric, but I do also remember the smoke, whistles and chuffing of steam engines at Liverpool's Lime Street Station in the early 60s. The smell of train smoke is still like a perfume to me; Eau de Fume, Parfum de Boiler, Charcoal No. 5.

One house we lived in had a main line going past the end of the garden, and the mournful whistle of the Flying Scotsman as it went by as part of its farewell lap of Britain istill echoes in my ears.

In 1972 I had my first experience of First Class rail travel. It was my first return journey to the UK after emigrating to New Zealand three years previously, and my Mum shouted me a ticket in First Class for the final leg of my journey, from London to Liverpool. I felt very special, despite being utterly jet-lagged after the horrendously long Jumbo journey, and appreciated the oasis of relative calm, the table service, the crisp white napkins. Bliss. Little did I know it would be 42 years before I travelled First Class rail again.

But this week I did it, finally. And it was a bit of a fluke. Given that Liz and I sold up in new Zealand last year and have been on the road (or river, or canal, whatever) since, with no income or visible means of support, we wouldn't ordinarily have chosen first class travel. But having been back in the UK for a week for half-term with daughter Yasmin, we started to book our journey back to the boat in the south of France, the first stage being a rail journey from Merseyside to London.

Searching for available and convenient trains online (well, where else would you expect to find a train if not online?), thetrainline.com offered us a broad timetable with plenty of choice, but one in particular stood out: the 1403 from Runcorn to Euston, with First Class available for the two of us at £103 total. The next train, and the one previous had no such offer, in fact the standard fares were actually more expesive.

I clicked all the appropriate clicky things, filled in all the details, completed the credit card details and hit submit, fully expecting to be told that there were no more seats available, or that it was an error, that my money had safely arrived in Nigeria, or that something else was wrong and we would have to travel in a carriage-load of loud Italian schoolkids on a so-called "educational holiday."

But no; it processed our request, gave us a reference number and seat numbers, and told us we had saved £214 on our booking. Thank you very much.

Our mate Shaun dropped us at Runcorn station after we'd placed Van Rouge in storage (decided not to take her back to France this time, not with the cruising season coming up), and pointed out the station's First Class Lounge. This we weren't expecting, but there it was, and our tickets gave us access to an airline-like lounge with comfy furniture and complimentary this'n'that.

Half an hour later and we boarded our Virgin streamlined train to Euston, settling in to an almost deserted First Class carriage. We had a table, laid out with glasses, coffee mugs, and real napkins. It reminded me of the journey back in '72, except this time we'd be doing it at high-speed and less than half the time. And, icing on the cake, a train person came round with free coffee, followed by free wine, and then a selection of "light bites" of sandwiches, buns etc. We had expected to pay extra for these, but instead willingly accepted Mr Branson's hospitality.

The time, like the countryside, sped by, and all-too-soon we were pulling into London's Euston Station, right on schedule.

Our train adventures weren't over yet though, as we had booked to go by rail all the way to Avignon; however first we needed to overnight in London, so trundled our way to a hotel near St Pancras from where we would catch the Eurostar at the ungodly hour of 5.40 the next morning.

Unfortunately, no first class opportunities this time. Double-unfortunately, after we were to settle into our carriage, so too would about 25 loud Italian students on a so-called "educational holiday."

Still, we consoled ourselves knowing that we were heading back to the peace and quiet of the boat. Oh, and in April we will be appearing on UK television. But that's another story...