Nige Burton explains how his wondrous continental rail journeys always start with a trusty Eurostar trip from London’s St Pancras

I looked up at the destinations board abstractedly as I shouldered my way across the concourse of Paris’s Gare du Nord, a smirk of delight spreading across my countenance. Zurich, Cologne, Charleroi, Amsterdam… these were places that I used to think of – and I now really don’t know why – as only being feasibly reachable by flying.

In fact, flying had always been my transport of choice, even for a short hop from Manchester to London. I thought it was quicker. I’d never really had a fear of flying, but I also can’t say that I particularly enjoyed it either; it was always a means to an end, a necessary part of travel.

And then came the three dodgy flights, all in a row like so many spiteful buses, to shake my confidence in aeronautics for life. Having never really given it much heed aside from the boredom, I was suddenly and indubitably aware that hurtling through the sky at over 500 miles an hour six miles up, with nothing but a rinkydink aluminium tube, a seatbelt and a laminated safety card for protection, was no longer so de rigueur after all. Sure – the statistics tell us the chances of anything happening are slimmer than slim, and all the ancient Sages advise that ‘if it’s your time to go, it’s your time to go’, but – what if it’s the pilot’s time to go?

Travel to cities such as Maastricht is surprisingly easy by train, and affords a closer exploration of some of the hidden gems of Europe

Anyway, notwithstanding any of this, and from a pure enjoyment-of-the-journey point of view, I had taken the decision to explore alternatives, and thus found myself all aglow with exultation on the Parisienne terminus. In theory, I could get anywhere by train! Well, nearly anywhere. And it was a revelation.

I have since come to call this little adventure my Pan European Odyssey: in short, my exploration of no less than eight European cities – each in a different country – over a two-and-a-half-week period. I had plenty of time in each one, beginning my adventure in London, from where I gained Paris, Zurich, Vienna, Budapest, Bucharest, Bratislava and finally Munich before returning to the United Kingdom.

Chill in laid back Leuven, Belgium’s oldest university seat

All this was undertaken on trains various, each leg revelling in the ever-changing landscape incumbent upon it to be presented with mawkish pride; arriving in the stately Austrian capital with its fine architecture and grandeur; watching the Hungarian countryside melt into the deep blue of the night before settling down in my compact but comfortable sleeper car; slowly sipping a glass of wine whilst dining on the rolling stage of a sunset behind the Transylvanian Alps – all these exquisite moments sparkle in the memory of this behemoth expedition. There was something very special indeed about looking out of window and seeing more than a carpet of clouds whilst holding my breath at every bump or thump, despite the fact that most all of these sounds are perfectly ‘normal’. On a train, I don’t have to look at the flight attendant’s face to see how ‘normal’ the sound was to them; on my dodgy flights, I realised that fear is pretty much fear, and can stare out of the most well-trained and professional visage just as much as the meagre passenger one.

It was at this point I made my decision that, wherever possible, I was going to travel without wings. So many exciting destinations were available to me without my once having to set foot inside an airport terminal – I would just have to plan things a little more carefully.

Time is undoubtedly the biggest single factor you need on your side if you’re going to adopt a similar principle, and it certainly helps that my working life allows me the freedom to operate from most anywhere on the planet. But I still have cats to feed at home, and whilst friends and family will step into the breach and dish out a regular daily bowl of kibbles, for Irma and Gomez that’s no substitute for the first hand company of their Dad. And so I set about experimenting with places and time-scales that would not present a too chronologically challenging undertaking to the vast majority of holidayers who are subject to the vagaries of a more restricted working practice – the 96% of the working population of Great Britain.

The Hague is one of Holland’s best kept secrets and makes for a superb romantic retreat by train

I have since, apart from my eight country extravaganza, taken many wonderful jaunts by train, including a beach holiday in Menorca by rail and ferry. The total trip was completed in exactly two weeks, although just one week was spent on the island. The trick here is to make the journey as much a part of the experience as the destination itself; there was a great satisfaction in hurtling through a vista that slowly, but very perceptibly, changed from the bustling skyline of metropolitan Paris through to the lush, verdant pastures of southern France, and on into the drier, equally impressive Spanish plains. And sailing into Mao harbour at a little before eight on a sunny September Saturday morning is nothing short of sublime, and without a single butterfly in my stomach save for those more welcome ones anticipating the excitement of the week to come. I have also explored those cities which most of us hear of but would never dream of visiting, and I’d surely have been a lesser person without the experiences; the romance of The Hague, the ancient charm of Leuven or the majestic beauty of Maastricht to name but a handful. Oh, and for a true summer break without even the need for a ferry, I became deliciously acquainted with the lazy, hazy, long-shadowed, sun-baked walled city of Avignon; now there is a little corner of perfection.

But, residing on one of our great British islands still seems to present a barrier to some fellow journeymen, psychologically informing thoughts which in turn entertain the notion that one must fly to escape to climes more exotic and meaningful. To these uninitiated creatures, I utter one word of encouragement and hope: Eurostar. That magical conveyance has whisked me tout de suit to either Lille, Paris or Brussels on so many occasions now that I have genuinely lost count. And it is from these three wonderful cities – all worthy of thorough and regular exploration in themselves – that so much more adventure beckons.

Avignon proves that a sun-baked summer holiday doesn’t need a coastline and can still be easily reached from the UK by train

Services are quick and easily undertaken, with journey times shorter than those of many domestic rail trips, Lille being a mere hour and twenty minutes from London’s state-of-the-art international hub of St Pancras, and Paris a very little over two hours away. With eleven daily services from Brussels Midi to St Pancras, and journey times often as swift as a minute over two hours for fares from €88 return, flying seems to make less and less sense. Onward travel is a divine piece of cake, with connections and timetables making planning pretty much as easy as any UK rail journey, allowing the intrepid sojourner a freedom only bound by the limits of his own imagination. But for me, one of the true great advantages of travelling by Eurostar in particular is the generous baggage allowance; each passenger can take on board two suitcases and a single item of hand luggage – after the limitations imposed by airlines, this is extremely liberating.

So, as I plot my next expedition with an eagerness that can be known only to those who have already joined the fold, those fortunate individuals who know that flying is not the only passport to foreign adventure, I oftentimes prepare to simply stick the proverbial pin in the map. I think of the true promise of adventure, and I feel the words building inside me. I can’t stop them, or tell you why I say them, but as I trace imaginary lines across the page, entertaining thoughts of wonder and bliss, these words come to me in a whisper; I say them as prayer, as thanks, as praise; I say… Eurostar… Eurostar…

Tickets are available from eurostar.com or 08432 186 186.

Main image courtesy of Eurostar

Article images by Nige Burton

As mentioned in our article about Rannoch Moor, whether you arrive at this wonderfully secluded spot via the legendary train station, just about midway on the West Highland Railway as it snakes its route from Glasgow to Fort William, or indeed by car, along the B846 through the village of Kinloch Rannoch, a road whose path must be followed until the very end in order to reach this beautifully desolate spot, you will find upon that arrival but one hostelry at which to lay your head.

That this auspicious place is just about as good as it could be, is welcome news to the weary, if excited, traveller. Stealing up by car, one cannot possibly stand in the shoes of the intrepid rail traveller who, disembarking at the quaintly picturesque station aforementioned, would be a hard nut to crack indeed if he, or she, or they, did not feel some trepidation and wonder at just how, and why, one could fetch up at such a wild, if exhilarating, locale, and putting to themselves the question as to whether there might have been some trace of madness in ancestry which, as these things are sometimes wont to do, had made a sudden and successful bid to resurface and be reasoned with.

Any such doubts however, by whichever track one eventually arrives, are completely banished by the warm welcome of Scott and Steph, your hosts at the prestigious Moor of Rannoch Hotel.

This grand little establishment is as pleasing to the countenance as the very breath of fresh air one seeks by first determining to repair to such a spot, with its charming and comfortable en-suite rooms, all individually styled, right down to the cosily inviting lounge bar and superb restaurant.

From Steph’s mouthwatering breakfast offerings, including, of course, the full Scottish if you’re up to it (and our advice would be to see that you are, at least once during your stay) to the perfectly balanced dinner menu, conjuring the very best home-cooked dishes, prepared using fresh, locally-sourced, seasonal ingredients, to absolute perfection, one could entertain not the remotest possibility of going hungry for the merest instant.

No wifi, mobile or TV signal is the supreme enhancement of your stay, causing you to partake of that wonderful, enforced rest and relaxation time, where you can just shrug your shoulders at those demanding constant contact with you, and say, in a feign, wistful manner, “what could I do?”

You might think that such a blissful sojourn would come at a premium, but not a bit of it. The rates at the hotel are surprisingly competitive, and the dinner menu just £29 for three courses, or £23 for two. Non residents are welcome for dinner, but booking is absolutely essential.

Remember, heading to the Moor of Rannoch is a long journey by road. Make sure your car is well prepared (especially if you’re travelling in the winter), and pay particular attention to the tyres. Websites such as Tyre-Shopper.co.uk and National.co.uk make it easy for you to find the right tyres for your vehicle.

So, in summary, this is one of those little indulgences every soul needs to sink deep into every now and then; when the world gets a little too much, and you need to get far from that ever madding crowd, seek out this unspoilt corner of Heaven, and plan your retreat to the majestic Moor of Rannoch.

Moor of Rannoch Hotel
Rannoch Station
Perthshire
Scotland
PH17 2QA

Visit www.moorofrannoch.co.uk

Tel.: +44 (0)1882 633 238

Email info@moorofrannoch.co.uk

It is the long held desire of many a mere mortal to find a place of absolute solitude; a quiet spot where one can truly leave behind all the cares and woes of everyday life. The human condition, however, romanticises such a circumstance beyond the true desire of most of us, and what we really seek is a quiet, stress free hidey-hole to which we can repair for a few days, usually by car or some other modern conveyance, with a significant other or like minded friend.

Such a situation awaits deep in the Moor of Rannoch, a boggy moorland west of Loch Rannoch in Scotland occupying some 50 square miles. This breathtakingly beautiful part of the world, which extends into Perth and Kinross, Lochaber in Highland, and northern Argyll and Bute, is designated a Site of Special Scientific Interest (SSSI) and a Special Area of Conservation.

Notable for its wildlife, Rannoch is particularly famous for being the sole British location of the Rannoch-rush, which is actually named after the moor.

Approachable by car – although if undertaking this extremely pleasant journey under your own steam in this way, do make sure you fill up with fuel at Pitlochry if coming in from the south, as there’s no other repository for such a necessity within a 40 mile radius of Rannoch, leading many a hapless motorist to come a cropper – true hermits tend to approach by train, pulling into the fabled Rannoch Station with great anticipation.

The West Highland Railway runs straight through this station, on its journey from Glasgow to Fort William and, rising to over 1300 feet above sea level and covering over 23 miles of moorland, is considered the most scenic railway in Britain, being served also by the famous Caledonian Sleeper from London Euston. When the line was built, the peat deposits for which the moor is famous presented a major problem to the engineers, and their ingenious solution was to float the track on a bed of tree roots, brushwood and thousands of tons of earth and ashes.

Once you’ve set foot on this legendary rugged moorland terrain, you’ll find something of the remoteness you seek, and with just one hotel presenting itself for your accommodation considerations, it’s a fortuitous circumstance that the establishment is one propitious to a more than happy stay.

The only other house of refreshment is a very part time station tea room, whose trading-time brevity seemed to us a pity, given the wonderful location and aesthetically pleasing structure of this quaint little café. However, from our arrival on Friday evening right up to our departure on Monday lunchtime, we never once witnessed this hostelry open for business, although local rumour has it that it does come to life for a few hours on some days. Pot luck, I guess, but a situation that does not go down exceedingly well with cyclists – some in family groups – who have pedalled earnestly upwards of 17 miles in response to a road sign advertising the said establishment; just a word of warning.

A few days battened down here will inform even the most obdurate stress head that life can be savoured; enjoyed; taken easy; relaxed into, and the fact that there is no mobile phone or TV signal or broadband connection is surely the perfect excuse to duck your head deep below the parapet for a brief sojourn, and truly experience a calmer pace of life which, in the hustle and bustle of our modern existence, has lamentably been left well and truly behind.

As we travel around this wonderful planet we call Earth, it’s not difficult to compose what many call a ‘bucket’ or ‘must do’ list.

These, as their names suggest, tend to comprise all those places to visit and activities to achieve before we’re either too old to accomplish them, or indeed, we slip off the hook permanently.

Some of these are major undertakings, such as visiting the Great Wall of China, or getting as close as one can to the North Pole, while others, although more sedate and less sensational, can take an equally valid and respectable place on the best of lists.

One such adventure is the relatively simple enterprise of travelling the whole length- yes, all 68 kilometres (42 miles) – of the Belgian Coastal Tramway, or Kusttram, as it’s known locally.

Operated by the De Lijn transport network, and with a fleet of relatively modern HermeLijn tramcars with low platforms for accessibility, the tramway is both the longest, and only remaining interurban, line in the world, connecting passengers between cities.

Running all the way from De Panne, at the French border, to Knokke on the Dutch frontier, this heavily used service connects all the resorts, towns and cities on the West Flanders coast, and is a satisfying journey to undertake.

Unlike the world famous Blackpool to Fleetwood Tramway in the UK, upgraded at massive cost to reopen in 2012 with sparkling new Bombardier Flexity cars, the Belgian line actually runs along the beach for just a short few kilometres west of Ostend. Although close to the shoreline for most of the journey, it is tucked a few hundred metres inland, so don’t expect a view of the sea for much of the route.

Taking around two and a half hours terminus to terminus, don’t forget that, unless you’re literally departing from De Panne bound for an eventual stay in Knokke, or vice versa, you’ll need to double that time for a start and return from any other point on the route, so if you’re going to do any exploring, you’ll need to allow plenty of time. If you have a few days to spare, it’s well worth getting a one, three, five or seven day pass, the useful three dayer coming in at just 10€ per person when bought in advance (12€ on the tram).

It would obviously take quite some time to explore the whole of the coast, so it might be sensible to base yourself in Ostend, and do the trip in stages. Trams run every fifteen minutes or so throughout the summer season, so you can literally hop on and hop off as you please. Noteworthy disembarkation points are the beautifully Victorian resort of De Haan, kiss-me-quick Blankenberge, and Zeebrugge if time is limited; you can always add in more of your choice if your schedule permits.

One of the points of interest along the 70 stop length of track is the two alternative routes slightly east of Zeebrugge, and a similar diversion around the inland end of the Boudewijnkanaal lock, avoiding delays to the tram schedule when the road bridge that the tram line normally follows is raised for passing boats. A similar arrangement is in place south of Ostend Train Station, around the entrance to the Vlotdok lock.

A good one to tick off your list, particularly if you love Belgium as much as we do, the Kusttram is an enjoyable and fairly easily accomplished summer adventure, suiting fans of the more traditional beach holiday, tram enthusiasts and completists in one fell swoop.

Visit www.delijn.be/dekusttram

Choosing the first winner of our prestigious award has been no easy task…

When it comes to travel and holidays, there are those of us who consider ourselves tourists, and those who think of ourselves more as travellers. Whilst for some, the perfect holiday is returning to a favourite resort year after year, relaxing in the sunshine with everything around us immediately to hand and familiar, others are more intrepid in their taste for adventure and crave exploration a little more off the beaten track.

World Travel Blog has always been committed to discovering those roads less travelled, which can always be found even in the most popular of tourist spots, and our anecdotal advice and articles are aimed at providing some insight into how such endeavours are best undertaken. But sometimes, for some trips, a specialist is needed, and that’s what has led us to launch our Travel Company of the Year Award this year.

Choosing our first winner hasn’t been easy – there are many agents in the market today offering a wide range of trips to suit varying budgets. We’ve been rigorous in our selection, though, and scored each of our shortlisted operators on the areas which matter most, namely quality of the itineraries on offer, overall value of holidays, how well organised the trips are and, all importantly, how knowledgable the staff and representatives are about your chosen destination. Feedback has been gleaned from not only the World Travel Blog team, but also independent reports from individuals and groups who have used these companies first hand.

We are, therefore, very pleased to announce that after very careful consideration, the winner of the first World Travel Blog Travel Company of the Year Award is:

Regent Holidays have been chosen for their unquestionable product knowledge, their willingness to be of assistance both before and after booking, and during the holiday itself, the friendliness of their team of experts, the fantastic choice of locations available, the overall exceptional value and for having innovation in spades.

So, congratulations guys – this award is not given out easily, and you should be very proud. Long may you continue to provide the excellent service you do!

Regent Holidays
Colston Tower
Colston Street
Bristol
BS1 4XE

Visit www.regent-holidays.co.uk

Tel: +44 (0)20 7666 1244

Email: regent@regentholidays.co.uk

Twenty minutes in a darkened tunnel never looked so full of promise…

It’s when standing on the platform at Paris’ Gare du Nord, or Brussels Midi Station, that the impact of what’s just happened can be felt. You’ve crossed the English Channel, you’re in northern Europe, and you’re ready for adventure. You haven’t had to fly; to be honest, you’ve barely had to queue.

Such is the wonder of Eurostar. Now, I have to admit I was very much a latecomer to this most superb of services, first availing myself of it for a trip to Bremen in March this year. But I’m now a dyed-in-the-wool Eurostar fanatic, and would urge anyone who hasn’t yet done so to try it at their earliest opportunity.

For exploring either Paris or Brussels, you can be up, close and personal from London’s awesome St Pancras Station in as near to two hours as makes no difference. There’s no ‘checking in two hours before’ nonsense, no being separated from your luggage and pretty much no fuss. Standard class is comfortable and airy, and there’s even a touch of gourmet buffet going on if you feel a bit peckish (I’m one of those rare people that really likes inflight meals too – isn’t it all part of the experience of travel?).

But the real excitement for me is in the huge gateway Eurostar opens to the rest of… well, I was going to say Europe but, in theory, I suppose it’s the world. I took a fantastic rail trip this summer, spending time in Paris, Zurich, Vienna, Budapest, Bucharest, Brasov, Sighisoara, Bratislava and Munich, and the whole extravaganza was book-ended by a return Eurostar trip from London. And before you say ‘yeah, but you have to be in London’, I live on the northwest coast of England, and make an overnight stay in the capital part of the treat – it doesn’t cost a fortune if you stay at the London Euston St Pancras Ibis (which – as the name suggests – is perfect for both stations), but if that’s not to your liking then remember Preston is only a couple of hours from London on the Virgin express. Book well enough in advance and it adds very little to the cost of your trip, which is hardly excessive with return trips to both Paris and Brussels coming in at under £70. But you can book your onward travel with your Eurostar ticket too – we’ve added both Bruges and Amsterdam on in the past for an extra few quid by choosing ‘any Dutch station’.

But the real buzz for me is that I can do it all without flying. That aviation and me are not the most comfortable of bedfellows is no secret, so to be able to get all the way to Bucharest without a single diazepam is something of a coup. And whether tree for tree it actually works out that way, the whole experience just feels a little greener. And I like trees.

Visit www.eurostar.com

Tel: 08432 186 186 or +44 (0)1233 617 575 (from outside the UK)

Email Eurostar

Situated in northwest Russia, Murmansk is the largest city north of the Arctic Circle, and midway between Moscow and the North Pole.

Murmansk, nestling high up in the Kola Inlet and half way between Moscow and the North Pole, is not usually high on the priority list of those who want to visit the mighty expanse of Russia. It’s true to say that, for those whose experience of the country is going to be limited, St Petersburg or Moscow offer a cornucopia of all things accepted to be Russian, but straying off the beaten track in this huge melting pot of culture, nature, politics and people delivers sparkling rewards for those brave enough to embrace the adventure.

The largest city north of the Arctic Circle, Murmansk feels like real Russia. No particular airs and graces are put on for relatively infrequent tourists; this is a working city, stoical and resourceful, and proud to be emerging from its bleak, wilderness years of the 1990s, when its population plummeted sharply. But thanks to a very profitable fishing industry and a little help from its Scandinavian and western European friends, this bustling metropolis, with its busy shopping and social scene, feels contented, calm and relaxed. Far from being the grey, Soviet wasteland that some reports would suggest, Murmansk offers a peaceful if unremarkable little haven, and provides an excellent base from which to explore the stunning Kola Peninsula.

As with many of the more unusual undertakings featured on World Travel Blog, the devil is in the detail, and planning a trip to Murmansk will likely be met with a glazed stare or furrowed brow from your regular travel agent. Even Expedia, although able to furnish you with an excellent hotel in the city, will struggle to actually get you there. It’s not that easy a journey, but it is simple. However, the combination of plane and train adds unnecessary confusion and quite often, sadly, computer says ‘no’.

If you want to turn this around in about a week, our advice would be to head for St Petersburg. No real problems there as flights are readily available, and if you give yourself a couple of nights here you’ll get a great opportunity to explore this wonderful imperial city, which is treat enough in itself. The Petro Palace Hotel, situated on Malaya Morskaya Ulitsa, is both comfortable and affordable, and is a beautifully placed hub from which to access many of the city’s highlights, including the Winter Palace, the Hermitage, the Admiralty and Nevskiy prospekt, St Petersburg’s main commercial thoroughfare.

Your onward journey to Murmansk is best undertaken by overnight train, and a Monday afternoon departure from Ladozhskiy Vokzal (this is not the Moscow station, St Petersburg’s main railway terminus, so beware) will get you into Murmansk (Му́рманск) at around 8.30pm Tuesday. Remember, if you don’t want to share your overnight cabin, you need to book a first class twin berth (SV – pronounced ‘es veh’), for which you’ll need to pay an extra supplement if you’re travelling alone. Sharing a sleeping compartment with unknown counterparts can certainly add to the adventure, but is not everybody’s cup of chai. Booking trains in Russia is straightforward if you know how and have a little language at your disposal, but if not you’d be well advised to book in advance (www.russiantrains.com are great for the US and UK, or www.regent-holidays.co.uk offer an excellent service from the UK).

On arrival in Murmansk, remember the tourist is not common place, so don’t be too daunted if the local police stop you and ask to see your passport. You’ll have to let them, but under no circumstances surrender it. If you’re offered a taxi by the local police official, you should be ok to take it, but bear in mind you’ll probably pay two or three times as much as if you flag down your own. It always pays to use a properly signed, official taxi for an uncomplicated service that won’t try to fleece you. The little old Russian man with the flat cap and the unmarked, orange Lada may seem genial enough, but could well have his child locks on and, inexplicably, no change.

You could do a lot worse than to choose the Park Inn Poliarnie Zori, on Knipovicha Street, for your accommodation. Again, it’s ideally situated and feels quite western in its approach to guests, something which cannot always be taken for granted in Russia.

Three nights is a reasonable time to spend in Murmansk, but to get the most out of your trip we’d definitely recommend a guide. An hour’s walk around the city, particularly when its rush hour roads are thronged with smokey traffic, is enough to make you realise that the attractions it has are quite far flung. A tourism office is situated on the ground floor of the hotel, and the staff speak very good English. You pay for your guide by the hour, and the driver separately, but the combined price does not amount to a fortune, and it’s a great way to get the local knowledge you’ll require to discover the city. Our guide, Olga Kuzovleva, was superb, allowing us ample time to digest all we saw with an accompanying explanation and plenty of anecdotes. Make sure you see the majestic statue of Alyosha, towering above the city and harbour, together with the former Hotel Arktika, soaring up from pl Pyat Uglov (Five Corners Square), Murmansk’s main hub. Also not to be missed are the beautiful Church of the Saviour on the Waters, with its pure white stonework and golden domes, the nearby Lighthouse Monument and the Memorial to the Kursk submarine disaster, which is actually made from part of the salvaged vessel. The Anatoly Bredov Monument and Regional Palace of Culture are both worth a look plus, of course, the impressive and hugely important harbour leading out into the Barents Sea, from which in the summer months you can cruise to the North Pole on Russian icebreakers.

Murmansk is also a great base for exploring the breathtaking Kola Peninsula, and whether you fancy a snow-mobile tour or a spot of skidooing, trips can be arranged which will take you into the heart of the frozen north. At the very least, you should consider a drive out to Lovozero (the tour office will hire you a driver and a car, also charged by the hour), a remote Sami settlement, which gives you a real flavour of the harsh life endured in an Arctic climate.

At the end of your week, another overnight train will deliver you safely back to St Petersburg, where you can either chill for a while longer or make your onward journey home. Either way, the Murmansk experience is one which is a little out of the ordinary; one which leaves you feeling you’ve been somewhere a bit special.

Irkutsk to Ulaanbaatar, leaving Siberia: high in the Mongolian mountains

All my imaginings of Siberia, from being a small child right through to adulthood, were of a bleak, frozen wasteland. It also seemed to be the impression most of my peers and contemporaries had too – a fact which became all too obvious as they foisted their opinions  on me and passed their remarks at my choice of trip. ‘Oh well,’ many would shrug, “they did Chernobyl last year, so what do you expect?”

I think for me, the biggest shock on the stretch between Yekaterinburg and Irkutsk is just how populated it is. I really didn’t expect all the little settlements along the route, which was intersected by roads and tracks, lined with quaintly pained wooden houses and people – just working in the fields or simply standing watching the trains go by. In this vast space the most mundane sight can seem remarkably odd, simply by its incongruity; a row of Ladas, populated by the odd Mitsubishi or Renault, waiting at a level crossing in the middle of nowhere for the Trans-Siberian train to go past, a small child playing with his faithful dog, or riding a shiny bicycle, as he kicks up the dust in his remote back yard. A real delight are the station stops, where locals line the track peddling their wares, from bottles of mineral water to bread, ice-creams to pot noodles. There’s plenty of chance to disembark at these junctures, even if just to stretch your legs and get a breath of fresh air.

As we neared Irkutsk, the weather took a turn for the worse. Gone were the clear blue skies and thirty degree heat of Yekaterinburg, giving way to a thick belt of rain cloud and temperatures plummeting by a good twenty degrees. This low pressure lasted for a good sixteen hour stretch of the journey and spanned hundreds of kilometres, so by the time we got to Irkutsk station, we realised our only actual stop in Siberia, some twenty-four hours by Lake Baikal in Listvyanka, was going to be a wet one. This was a bit of a disappointment, particularly as Alex, our transfer guide, was quick to point out he had been sunbathing only a couple of days earlier. Everyone at home had thought us mad when we embarked upon this adventure, advising us take plenty of warm clothing for the fifty-below Siberian temperatures, but we were the smart ones, explaining we’d done our research and that Siberian summers could be as warm as the winters were cold. And now this: Listvyanka at a grey six degrees, and Lake Baikal enshrouded in misty rain clouds. Clearly, we could not text of phone anyone at home until things improved.

Absolutely dog tired, as soon as we hit the homestay we collapsed into bed. The 48 hour train journey and early start had worn us out physically and emotionally, and then the hour and a half it took to transfer us by minibus in pouring rain to the lake resort had just about finished us off. A warm welcome at our wooden shack of a homestay did lift our spirits a little, as did the delicious breakfast of home cooked blinis served with cheese and jam, even if it did disturb our slumber temporarily. After breakfast, it was back to bed for a couple more hours to recharge our bodies and minds enough to make the best of the day.

Once we’d showered and thrown ourselves out onto the soggy shores of the lake, things didn’t seem nearly so bad. As my partner Jamie pointed out, this was no wet weekend in Whitby (something we had also experienced); this was Siberia and this was Lake Baikal, the largest fresh water lake in the world. Known as the pearl of Siberia, it is, at its deepest, 1,637 metres deep and contains more water than America’s five Great Lakes combined. It didn’t matter a jot what the clemency of the weather was, we were here, standing on its shores, and it was wonderful.

Train 3: The TransMongolian Railway

When I was a kid at school, I remember other kids joking about Outer Mongolia, none of us, of course, having a clue even where this far flung country lay. The reality was something I could never have prepared for; arriving at downtown Ulaanbaatar, or UB as the trendy locals call it, proved to be the gateway to a world I could previously only have dreamt of. A thriving city, UB is home to some 800,000 citizens, almost 30% of the country’s entire population. Its suburbs are unlike those of most western cities, nomadic families from the countryside occupying not hi-rise urban tenements, but pockets of ger camps when Mongolia’s harsh climate decimates their livestock, rendering their centuries old wandering lifestyle unsustainable. At least these days they have somewhere to resettle.

Our guide for the duration of our stay was to be Khulan, a 24 year old resident of the capital with over five years’ experience in looking after tourists from all over the world. Proficient in Russian and English as well as her native Mongolian tongue, she was a girl who could make herself understood in pretty much any situation. Hard working and humblingly dedicated, Khulan was passionate in her endeavours to not only make sure we had a good time, but to equip us with some grass roots knowledge of her country and her people; she was, in fact, the perfect guide.

Our 80 kilometre trek up to the Terelj National Park, courtesy of driver Michael, was as informative as it was stunning. As we passed two huge blue constructions on the main road out of the city, Khulan explained this was the black market. “It’s not how you would see the black market normally,” she reassured us, “but you can buy anything here, from a car to a ger. It’s very popular and interesting to look around.”

We also witnessed a funeral procession a few miles down the road, which to Mongolians is a sign of luck. “The person who has died leaves all the good things about his life to those of us still here,” explained Khulan. Weddings, on the other hand, are a different story: “The newly married couple are taking all the good things for themselves, so it’s not so good for everyone else!”

As the road meandered its way out of the hustle and bustle of the city, giving way to green fields and gently rising hills, the true drama of the landscape only became apparent as we entered the Terelj Park. Huge, rocky mountains and rolling green plains conspired to create a spectacular vista that no picture or prose could ever hope to recreate in the mind of one who has not witnessed it for himself. Taking the best of the western highlands of Scotland and the Middle Earth of New Zealand, this breathtaking countryside stretches over an incomprehensible land mass, reaching far into the distance, way beyond where the human eye could ever hope to see.

Once we’d settled into the camp, we were shown to our ger, which would be our home for the next couple of nights. My trusty black and red Antler suitcase looked ridiculously incongruous in this magnificently unspoilt world; it felt as if my belongings should be wrapped in a swathe of natural linen and tied securely to my horse.

Ger living proved entirely agreeable, not least because we were fed and watered regularly in the camp’s superb restaurant. We spent our hazy, lazy days in the pleasant 25 degree sunshine riding horses, practicing archery and, embarrassingly, trying to put up our own ger, which leaned precariously to the left, threatening to last not even one night.

A highlight was a hike to the picturesque Buddhist Meditation Temple of Aryapala, nestling high on the hillside above the appropriately named Turtle Rock; from here, the view of the park is sensational.

When the time came to leave Terelj it was heartbreaking. This trip has been a series of goodbyes from the start, but always there has been the promise of the next new adventure. But here we were saying farewell not only to a place which felt inherently right, but also to great friendships which were not tethered by the bounds of language. Here were a people whose only desire was to please: they wanted to make us happy, welcome and safe. For that brief time, there was real love for one’s fellow human here, and leaving it behind was a massive wrench which left a lump in my throat.

Khulan and her 25 year old male colleague Gana continued to look after us as we spent another twenty-four hours in UB itself, visiting Sukhbaatar Square with its proud statue of Chinggis Khaan, the Mongolian Natural History Museum and the Gandan Monastery, before taking in a concert showing off the talents of the Mongolian State Dancers and Singers, collectively known as Moonstone. We then rested our heads in the Bayangol Hotel, one of UB’s finest and most western; it didn’t disappoint.

The next morning, as our 8.05 train rolled out of Ulaanbaatar station towards the Gobi, I felt a mixture of real sadness at leaving behind this beautiful country and its wonderful people, and a huge, giddy excitement at the prospect of discovering Beijing. This was tempered only by a little understandable apprehension about the border crossing.

Ekaterinburg to Irkutsk, across the Sleeping Land: into the heart of Siberia

I’m not quite sure what I expected when we reached the city of Yekaterinburg, a somewhat functional city originally founded in 1723 as part of Peter the Great’s drive to exploit the rich minerals of the Urals. The station didn’t promise much. but then that can often be the case. However, the short ride to our superb hotel, Zolotoi Lev (Golden Lion) started to form our opinion, which was indeed favourable. We’d happened upon this hotel at the very last minute, as our original choice (or that of Regent on our behalf) had been the Hotel Suite, but we’d been chucked out due to our booking being cancelled; the whole hotel – and most other buildings in the city with anything approaching a room to let – had been commandeered by delegates of two international conferences. Basically, they’d had a better offer. It’s only thanks to the venerable Christina Gibbons, and the fact that our shiny, new privately owned hotel hadn’t been open long enough to earn conference credence yet, that we managed to get our heads down anywhere at all. If we hadn’t, it would have suddenly left a rather untimely gap in what, by necessity, have to be very tightly laid plans. But the Suite’s loss was most certainly our gain, the Golden Lion being of a superior standard and ideally located. As I’ve said so many times before on my travels, it’s a very ill wind…

Following a quick check-in and a welcome shower we set off to explore, walking towards the bright lights via the City Pond. Yekaterinburg offers a stunning night skyline on all sides, particularly on an evening like this, still as bright as day at 11pm. We’d moved ahead of Moscow by two hours here, making us now five ahead of London. This gradual shortening of days can be quite disconcerting, particularly when the final jolt back would be with quite a bump once we landed back home from Beijing.

Yekaterinburg has quite a bloody history, although the safe, peaceful ambience it exudes now would never suggest so. It was, of course, the place where Tsar Nicholas II, his wife Alexandra, four daughters Olga, Tatyana, Maria, Anastasia and young haemophiliac son Alexey, were brutally murdered by the Bolsheviks in July 1918.

On that once simple site now stands the magnificent Cathedral of the Blood in Honour of All the Saints Radiating in the Land of Russia, to give it its full, official title. Completed in the early part of this century, the opulent, white exterior with gleaming golden domes sits proudly yet quietly overlooking the city.

Six years after the executions, Yekaterinburg was renamed Sverdlovsk, after Yakov Sverdlov, a leading Bolshevik and right hand man to Vladimir Ilych Lenin, until his death in the ’flu epidemic of 1919. Although the city itself reverted to its original name in 1991 following the collapse of the Soviet Union, administration logistics dictate that the oblast still carries its Soviet name. To add to its violent past, Yekaterinburg also played host to the high-profile Mafia killings of the 1990s.

The question which is constantly on your lips on this journey is a simple one: are we in Siberia yet? Yekaterinburg is the first Asian city in Russia, but not officially in Siberia, which actually begins 2012km from Moscow. The oil rich settlement of Tyumen, just 36km east of Yekaterinburg, is the oldest Russian city in Siberia, but the train pauses here for a meagre fifteen minutes in the early hours of the morning.

For me, one of the most important aspects of Yekaterinburg is its position, marking the border between Europe and Asia. On a trip to the east-west obelisk, our guide, Olga, presented us with a certificate stating that we had ‘bravely’ made the trip – it’s one of those things which you can proudly tick off your list, like taking the longest trolley bus ride in the world from Yalta to Simferopol in the Crimea; it’s an achievement.

Train 2: The Transsiberian Railway

At around midnight Moscow time, we finally boarded the real Trans-Siberian Railway. Train 4, staffed mainly by a Chinese crew, chugged out of Yekaterinburg station in the quiet hours, taking us officially across Siberia to our next stop, Irkutsk, from where we would make the short trip to Listvyanka and Lake Baikal.

At first impression, this much older train (with much older plumbing to match) seemed dark and austere. It was hot, we were bothered and just needed sleep. The following morning we enlisted the help of our guard to activate our ailing fan (there was no air-conditioning) and kick our power socket into life and we started to appreciate the finer points of this old, traditionally authentic rolling stock. How many times had these ancient carriages made their way across continents on these epic journeys from Moscow to Peking or Vladivostok, depending on your chosen route? The wood veneer finish on our first class deluxe cabin started to look very appealing. The restaurant car in which we enjoyed a delicious four-course lunch of borsch, Russian salads, steamed chicken and fruit was a delight to experience. This was it. Finally, the big one; all that remained, yet again, was to sit back and watch the vast openness of summertime Siberia drift by.

Applying for a Russian visa is now much more straight forward, although the cost is higher. UK visa applications are no longer handled by the Russian Embassy, but are now outsourced to a third party. There is a processing fee, but the service can now provide a next day or seven day return, depending on your requirements.

For more information, or to apply for a Russian visa, visit:

http://ru.vfsglobal.co.uk/

Moscow to Ekaterinburg, across the Ural Mountains: an adventure begins

Our Trans-Siberian adventure, predictably, started in Moscow. We were no strangers to Russia, and the Russian ways, having spent time in St Petersburg and Moscow previously; we’d also travelled fairly extensively throughout some of the former USSR territories, namely Ukraine and Lithuania.

My memories of the Russian capital were not all that good. Having braved the overnight train from St Petersburg to Moscow without the benefit of hindsight, we’d had an adventurous journey cooped up with two Russian strangers which could have been avoided by simply booking ‘es veh’ – or first class – which means you get a twin berth to yourselves. Things didn’t improve as our train rolled into the station at Moscow at 8am the following day: it took until half past ten to find a Muscovite who was polite or erudite enough to sell us return tickets to Leningrad, as some still insist on calling it.

Add some freezing rain and plummeting temperatures into the mix, a little more Soviet severity, and your experience takes on a character all its own. The day did improve a little, with a sunny interlude as magnanimous as it was brief, allowing us to appreciate Red Square, the Kremlin and St Basil’s, without a drenching.

But that was one cold March day in 2007 – this time around, the city basked in mid-twenties heat and June sunshine, giving it a western European air which, at first glance, didn’t entirely suit it.

Our hotel was the Vega, which you could be mistaken for thinking was pitched in a shanty town. Flanked by market stalls and twenty-four hour shops on all sides, you had to take your morals and your wine into your own hands to eschew the wily ways of the area’s working girls, who seemed to congregate around their pimp in the hotel’s internet bar washed and ready to besport themselves with willing if unwary guests. With hands firmly clasped upon our credentials, wallets and bottle of cabernet merlot, we beat a quick retreat to the seating by the Vega’s entrance, where we had the peace and space to enjoy the remainder of our bottle whilst listening to Midnight in Moscow on the iPod. What?

The earlier part of the afternoon had been spent wandering around Red Square, pausing for a delicious meal of lyulya and garlic and cheese rye bread at Shesh-Besh before partaking of a welcome if overpriced glass of Peroni (they didn’t have anything local) in Bar Bosco, which seems to manage an evening pitch at the entrance of Gum once the shoppers have fled. It’s a bit like having your ‘As time goes by’ cocktail at Rick’s Bar in Casablanca; it just has to be done.

The next day was Monday, and it was ushered in with a veritable feast of a breakfast in the Vega’s second floor breakfast room. There were meats (hot and cold), cheeses, salads and fruits various, sustenance indeed for a final forage into the city sunshine courtesy of five stops on the metro. Squeezing in the Cathedral of Christ the Saviour and the 95 metre statue of Peter the Great (well, almost – if our road hadn’t ended abruptly with no safe passage across the Moskva to the actual site of the monument) rendered us ten minutes late for our driver, who was perched a little irritable in the hotel’s foyer on our return, ready to whisk us to Kazan station for train 16 to Yekaterinburg, which would take us across the Urals via Vekovka, Arzamas-II, Kazan, Argiz-1, Krasnoufimsk and finally to the old Siberian city destination, where we would eventually pick up the Trans-Siberian train itself. Once at the station, we waited in the bar for well over an hour for our Ural train to pull into platform 2, so I’m not quite sure what all the fuss was about. We settled into our comfortable, twin berth cabin with twenty minutes to spare. Time for a gin.

Train 1: The Ural Train

Life on the ‘Trans-Ural’ train was not quite as expected. For starters, the standard of the coach and its appointments was impressively high; none of your austere Soviet issue fitments and furnishings here. I wouldn’t exactly say opulence abounds, but the front of the menu in the restaurant car suggested it was ‘luxury dining for first class’ and the overall feel of our part of the train bore this out with admirable effort. A brief sojourn ‘below deck’ certainly made us thank our lucky stars. Not so bad the four-berth, slightly less shiny cabins we’d experienced ourselves a couple of years earlier on our inexperienced jaunt from St Petersburg to Moscow, but the crowded dormitories lined up lamentably behind the engine car resembling the makeshift hospital carriages returning from the Somme, or worse, those bound for some forlorn work camp in a rural part of eastern Europe from which there would almost certainly be no return.

We quietly but quickly closed the door on this world, partly from Imperial snobbery, and partly from the discomforting feeling that, had we been forced to undertake it in similar conditions, we probably wouldn’t be doing this trip at all. It’s one of those glimpses which turns the eye inwards, and makes you doubt the authenticity of your endeavour completely; gosh how soft we have become – even our meagre upbringings had conditioned us to be the ‘privileged’ class.

A delicious meal of meat ‘village style’, which was a type of stew made up of beef, potatoes, ‘fresh’ mushrooms, tomatoes, garlic and ‘greens’, was washed down with a disappointing bottle of Staropramen; not that there was anything wrong with the beer itself, I’d have just preferred something more local.

Once sated, we realised there was a bar area at the end of the pectopah, so settled ourselves for a shot or two of vodka whilst dreamily gazing out of the window at the vast landscape drifting by. Our peace was shattered by a little molestation with menaces from the waitresses who, when we refused to buy them a bottle of ‘Russian Champagne’, did their level best to try and earn one by offering a selection of their special services, the buxom blond leader of the pack not shy of giving a little taster with her expansive, wandering hands. We politely declined, supping up and wrenching ourselves free to go to bed. Maybe it was just a way of getting us to down our vodkas in one, like real boys.

After a reasonable night, albeit interrupted at five am by a couple of rowdy rioters who moved as noisily as was humanly possible into the house next door, we awoke at eight, and were treated to tea from the samovar, courtesy of one of the better behaved night creatures from the previous evening. And then there was absolutely nothing that needed doing, save a bit of writing, reading, sleeping or eating, other than watching hour after glorious hour of this wonderful continent rolling by as we flowed inexorably east.