2026, A Train Odyssey: Toulouse - Barcelona - Córdoba

There's something about giving someone access to a clipboard or a microphone that immediately instils in them a feeling of superiority – and an urge to exercise it at every possible moment on everyone else.

Thus the train manager's strident voice this morning, emanating from the oblong metal plaque like a dulled mirror in the wall next to the door, for her 6am broadcast. Not to reassure us that due to a delay, we had another twenty minutes' sleep, but to impress upon us repeatedly that in Coach Seven, one could find a selection of hot and cold drinks as well as snacks, including brioche, cookies, and crisps.

And that we were running twenty minutes late.

Despite our collective best efforts to silence the harsh, metallic, authoritative voice of the train manager, we couldn't. The speaker's volume could be lowered, but it could never be turned off completely. Only high-ranking SNCF officials can turn them off, and even then presumably only for short periods. Some announcements are more equal than others.

Nonetheless, by about sometime-past-seven we were all spilling out of the sleepy train, disoriented, and onto the platform of Toulouse Matabiau that had been ordained for our arrival. There was no bunting or joyous announcement – perhaps mercifully – but early-morning SNCF people in red and blue hats ushering the waking dead towards the correct hole in the ground that would take us into the station proper.

This night train experience was not as bad as the last one and I did manage to catch a few hours during the night. The bed was comfortable, and on my upper bunk I had plenty of room to stretch out and move about, but I couldn't help thinking that each couchette would benefit tremendously from the addition of a curtain – to afford privacy but also to allow occupants to continue to read or use their phone without distracting others – and somewhere to sit and eat that's not one's bed. I will try it again in the opposite direction one day.

I'd left two whole hours between trains, to accommodate delays but also to give me time for a shower and a coffee in the Salon Intercités de Nuit, where the same lovely woman as last time first thrust a selection of gloriously fluffy towels at me, and then caffeinated me enthusiastically, after a glorious shower in a bathroom fit for a king. I almost felt human again, but still lethargic, despite the best efforts of the caffeine.

It was still slightly foggy in Toulouse when the 08:42 Intercités service from Bordeaux to Marseille pulled in at platform five on time, and there was little to report, save that this was probably the longest train I had ever seen. I felt I had to walk farther than was healthy in my early-morning state to reach coach two, which was at the rear of the train. Perhaps there had been a change of consist, as my individual seat was not numbered as on my ticket, but my coach was not entirely full and I was able to relocate throughout the journey and attempt to take in the views from the decidedly grubby windows. As we approached Narbonne, I couldn't help feeling a little excited.

That excitement was misplaced. Narbonne is not an exciting place to be at 10am on a Sunday morning. There is a buffet in the station – always nice to see – but other than that, my time was spent pottering around and waiting for the 10:36 Ave International to whisk me to Barcelona.

And it did whisk very efficiently, through some absolutely stunning scenery, to the accompanying comments of a woman whose voice was that of an angel – if that angel had consumed twenty honey-soaked Gitane Maïs for breakfast – whose sentences all ended with the intonation of a slowed-down version of the most irritating part of the Woody Woodpecker Song, as if she were simultaneously questioning and defending an argument. Her companion nodded occasional compliance and, when allowed, offered his own comments for instant dismissal.

I was on the right-hand side of the train in the direction of travel, and most of the two hours on board was spent looking at snow-capped mountains in the distance from the comfort of my chunky burgundy leather seat, which was comfortable but firm – perhaps just what I needed after eight hours on a night train. In Barcelona I was met by friends, who forced culture upon me in the form of a whistle-stop visit to the gaudy Gaudí Spongebob Church.

The Sagrada Família seems to look better in photographs than it does in real life. I'm assured that there is a lot of method to the madness that is a church that has been under continuous construction since March 1882, but I couldn't help being underwhelmed in its presence. It's fun to see that one end has started to weather while the other is practically brand-new grey concrete, but ultimately it's just a big pointy church with holes in. Perhaps, when I visit Barcelona again in the future with more than three hours to spare, I shall learn to appreciate it more.

After my enforced tourism-cum-culture, and the inevitable photo opportunity, I was taken for an incredibly tasty burger in a vegetarian/vegan burger place nearby, where many noms ensued. I washed it down with beer, then started to become anxious about time and demanded to be escorted back to Barcelona-Sants in time to catch the 15:16 Ave to Córdoba. I had failed better.

The journey was fraught. I had forgotten that the further you travel south, the less likely you are to be able to find an off switch for the locals. Two seats behind me, an older lady with a formidable bust embarked on a marathon of telephone calls on speaker to a succession of people who found it increasingly difficult to hear her. In front of me to my left, a young girl with an iPhone attached surgically to her right hand watched the first three or four seconds of an ever-increasingly tedious selection of giggly Mukbang videos or apparently-soothing ASMR clips. Without headphones. For about three hours. At the front of the coach, a family with children they had forgotten to muzzle played a variety of games conceived solely to produce noise.

I deployed the train slippers.

When making my seat reservations, I had considered paying the extra ten or fifteen euros to upgrade to Elige Prémium, but thought that the difference would only really be the presence of free meals to keep me sated until my destination. I suspect it was the absence of incessant chatter that was worth the upgrade. Occasionally, as if to test my life choices, a member of staff would come hurtling down the aisle with a clattery trolley asking if we wanted anything from it.

We were delayed somewhere near Ciudad Real for a reason that was not imparted to us. I took a stroll to the buffet car and paid ten euros for a sandwich and a beer, which I scoffed at my seat in an attempt to remain conscious. I made a mental note to upgrade next time, should I ever make this journey again. As I walked past the woman on the phone, she paused briefly to stare at my slippers with amazement. Obviously, such luxuries were alien to her.

We arrived about thirty-five minutes late into Córdoba. I instantly set about finding my hotel in the old town, used my bestest Spanish when checking in – "lo siento, pero... Renfe" – then slipped into my tightly-made bed and slept.

A lot.