Travelling somewhere ought to be just as much fun as the destination, as Hannah Crown discovers when she climbs aboard the Orient Express


Greek poet Constantine Cavafy hit the nail on the head in his 1911 poem about a journey to the island of Ithaca: “It is better to let it last for many years; and to anchor at the island when you are old, rich with all you have gained on the way, not expecting that Ithaca will offer you riches. Ithaca has given you the beautiful voyage.” Or as my mother would say, in a more succinct fashion: “You have to go through the process.”

Though there are obvious exceptions; DIY, surgery, peace agreements etc, holidays are a case in point. A delightful journey will pluck you out of every-day-is-the-sameness and present you with an array of unexpected sights and encounters. The feeling of unexpected discovery it brings can warm even the frostiest of hearts no end.

Trouble is the times, and money. Modern travel is more and more about expediency and less about pleasure. Picture the average modern train interior: disguise-all polyester seat covers, garish fixtures and wipe-clean floors. But cast yourself back a few decades, and line your pockets with some imaginary dosh, and we'd be dealing in a different currency.

Everywhere beautiful shades of wood, so shiny it gleams. Brass seat numbers, luggage racks and handrails. Mosaics on the bathroom floor and wooden inlay in the main carriages. Luscious food, with waiters to spread a napkin in your lap and pour ambrosial liquids into your glass, porters to carry your luggage and stow your things neatly away, and if you’re really lucky the tinkling of a grand piano as you enter the dining car of an evening. Heaven. And that is the Orient Express.

Now not many people know that, from March to November on an almost weekly basis, a wood-panelled waiting room near platform two at Victoria Railway Station opens its doors. About three quarters of an hour later, a stream of vintage carriages pulls up, headed by a diesel engine or occasionally, a steam. The British Pullman has arrived!

Each of its carriages, which were designed between 1925 and the early 1930s, is named and has a unique and touching history. Phoenix, with flower marquetry inlaid on cherry wood, was the Queen Mother’s favourite, Perseus housed Winston Churchill’s coffin as part of his funeral train in 1965. Then after the original luxury Orient Express service wound down in the Sixties, one was displayed on Wall Street, several found their way to the Birmingham Railway museum and one became a restaurant in Chingford.

The carriages were all lovingly restored and reunited by the Venice-Simplon Orient Express company in the Eighties, making their inaugural (re)-run from London to Venice via Milan in 1982. That is a hundred years after the original Orient Express train was launched in 1883, a modern, non-luxury descendant of which still runs under the name Orient Express on the original route between Strasbourg and Vienna.

Stepping aboard the Venice-Simplon Orient Express, you want to hold your breath and check that you still have a pulse. Your senses start cavorting about in an orgy of over-stimulation. It's quite a lot like being in a glossy film, the sort that gets ‘stunning photography’ accolades in reviews.

Settling down blissfully, napkins in lap, champagne in glass, we found we were gently chugging along Battersea Bridge, amid industrial scenery that seemed somewhat incongruous. Men in peculiar luminous yellow jackets and bright plastic hats were trampling about.

“Don’t you know this is the 1930s!” we yelled at them out of the window. “This never happened in Poirot!”

Everything after that was rather hazy. A marvellous three course meal turned up at some point, the highlight of which was, for me, a trifle-cum-cheesecake. Later, we looked up to find ourselves in the once-thriving sea port of Folkestone, where we wandered around The Grand Hotel, a favourite haunt of author Agatha Christie. It is reported she wrote Murder on the Orient Express there, getting her inspiration from watching ferries bestowing their human cargos on to the Folkestone Harbour branch line.

The branch was closed earlier this year but the Remembrance Line Association is now campaigning to raise money to buy and preserve both the line and Folkestone Harbour station.

On the way back we recovered a bit and discovered steward Michael Legg, 51, of Southgate, Enfield, who has served everyone from the Queen Mother to Robert Mitchum and Keith Richards and even chucked a few people off for bad behaviour in his day.

He started as a “primary boy” on the flying Scotsman from Kings Cross station 35 years ago and was then seconded to the Orient Express where he runs two carriages.

“They pick the best stewards,” he said with a grin. To justify this, he says: “Everyone is treated the same whether they are a celebrity or whether they have just made it a once in a lifetime experience.” Some people even choose to make it an afterlife experience, such as the man whose dying wish was that his ashes were added to the boiler (which they were).

Sadly, journeys like these will probably always be the preserve of the rich, (staff say the recession has made no impact whatsoever on the number of bookings, which is ten per cent up on last year). But for those who can afford it, or want to save up for a day trip like the one we took, the experience will remain with you for ever.

As Mr Legg, who knows it probably better than anyone else, said: “It is sort of magical isn’t it.”