Grazing home: Córdoba - Donostia

Today is, tragically, the last day I'm able to travel on my four-day Interrail pass, and so it was with a heavy heart, congested sinuses, and an itchy throat that I submitted to being woken up this morning by the tinny clatter of tiny bells, took a shower, and dragged myself to the station for the first of my trains towards home.

Córdoba Central – built in 1994 – is not exactly inspiring, but nor is it an unpleasant place to wait for a train. There are plenty of places to sit and sip coffee, and when the inevitable bag check security theatre takes place, it's as painless as it is pointless.

I was in coach two, where my window seat at a table of four remained my sole dominion until Madrid, where the train filled up and I had to move my legs. There weren't many people on the service, but enough to look on in envy as a Renfe person slid up to my seat and asked if I'd like to see the breakfast menu.

The Prémium surcharge provides complimentary refreshments served at your seat, rather than a special seating area or some such. This clarifies a point of confusion I had on my first journey on a Spanish train when I went to Morocco at the beginning of last year: sin restauración means no at-seat service, not no food at all. I don't think I've been on a Spanish train that doesn't have some way of providing sustenance for the journey.

I was out of luck for the full breakfast option and was instead offered an emergency snack box which contained a sandwich, some cake, and some chocolate. This was served with coffee and juice, and the 15€ extra I paid on my ticket was worth it just for the glare from the woman behind the seat opposite, who seemed perplexed that someone should be getting preferential treatment over her.

It's the small things in life that keep me amused.

The journey was comfortable and mostly uneventful. Lurgy season has afflicted most of the Iberian Peninsula and it felt like I was on some kind of hospital train. Outside the window, the weather was pleasantly sunny for a good hour or two but then got murkier the further north we progressed. I missed a trick north of Madrid, where the train changed direction and there was a crew change.

I could've snagged a second free meal. The nice lady came and asked if I'd had my snack box, and like an idiot, I admitted I had. What I should have done was said no, and that I was ravenous, since none of the passengers around me when she asked had been on the train when I'd had my first "a flavour" sandwich and tea-or-coffee.

She did return a little later with a consolation glass of cava, which I thought most sophisticated but which did little to mitigate my chagrin as the woman behind me – the one who'd helpfully translated my admission that I'd already had my snack box – had just received a hot meal tray.

Still. It was probably worth the extra fee.

Zaragoza station is utterly massive, incredibly cold, and not designed to encourage loitering. I'd planned two hours of power-tourism, but with rain lashing down outside, I opted instead for two hours of power sitting-down. I'd hoped to try the lounge.

There is some conflicting information about whether Renfe Prémium tickets allow you into the lounge at your arrival station, but this was a question quickly put to rest by the reality that the lounge was closed, and, just to make sure we know that Renfe hates us, inaccessible from arrivals and hidden behind a big metallic fence.

Instead, I had to settle for the station facilities available to the great unwashed: three restaurants, one at each end and one in the middle near the bus station. I chose the bus station bar-cum-eatery as my place to consume a sandwich and a beer, as it was the cheapest and least busy of the three.

If I'd eaten my sandwich any more slowly, mould would have started to form, but I had opted for this, so only had myself to blame. I nursed the beer for as long as possible, before setting off to explore again – this time trying the two waiting rooms, both of which smelt of fart. They were, however, heated, and eventually I settled down in the less eggy of the two to watch the Alvia from Barcelona to Donostia work its way up the arrivals board, until it was finally ready to board on platform 4.

It was a dinky four-coach train, of which one was the dining car. The windows were very dirty and the light was failing so there was very little to see outside, and before long I was in that disorienting limbo in which you have no way of knowing whether the train is moving or not.

There were only two or three other people in first, one who seemed not to grasp that his voice was carried perfectly well by his phone without the need for shouting – but who faithfully departed after only a few stops, metaphorically speaking. The other – a stylish woman of advancing years – was absolutely rocking a bronze rinse, black leather trousers, and cream calf-length boots, though creaked like an old sofa whenever she moved. She had a most majestic leopard-skin travel blanket.

Every now and then, a man came with the trolley. I relented at about half-past seven and had a packet of crisps and a beer. People eyed my train slippers with wonderment.

We slowly made our way through the night – perhaps – unless we were magically transported without our knowing, until San Sebastián/Donostia railway station appeared outside the window. It was announced that we had arrived at our destination, on time, at 21:01.

It was raining.

I'm in Colo Colo again because it's my favourite of the Donostia hostels, and I got an exceptional deal for the weekend – even last minute. I was able to stay up and chat for a bit before reality caught up with me and soon found myself in my dinky little casita, trying to drift away to sleep.