Grazing home for Christmas: Bordeaux - Leominster

Bordeaux was dead, to begin with. There is no doubt whatsoever about that.

Everything felt particularly non-festive when I started my journey north with a trip south, yesterday, to Bordeaux, where I'd hoped that I should have a festive stroll round the Christmas market in Quinconces, consuming occasional warming glasses of presumably-very-nice vin chaud. But, as is often the case, by the time I'd arrived and checked-in at the inn – and had some left-over soup I'd failed to eat at lunchtime – it was too late, and there was little point in making the 20-minute tram journey to arrive only as things were closing.

Instead of the many soothing vins chauds and smiling urchins brandishing roast chestnuts, I compromised – because I am a fool – on a walk to Victoire for a pint of stout distinctly lacking in twinkling guirlandes and the scent of pain d’épices. A miserly walk back to Saint-Jean along a defiantly non-Christmassy stretch of Saint Catherine took me down some equally sombre windy little streets, which looked as if they too had been left traumatised by the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, who'd gone somewhere that didn't close at nine. I briefly contemplated a falalalala-lalalalafel.

Thus started my not-very-exciting seasonal train journey back to the UK.

A Dickensian fog shrouded Bordeaux this morning when I left my hostel to catch the 8:46 TGV to Paris. I'd forgotten to order breakfast with my pod, so took an espresso and a chocolatine in a little bar just across from the station. Half the price of a coffee in a cardboard cup and a disappointing approximation of Viennoiserie in a paper bag at the station, this was just what I needed to start a journey I spent what some would call an excessive amount of time planning around opportunities for languid grazing of free stuff all the way.

It was a double-decker TGV and although I had complied with the decree that all passengers should be registered in their reserved seats, it came to pass that there was no place isolée for me as I'd started the booking process at slightly shorter notice than was perhaps befitting a wise man. I managed to snag a window seat not in the direction of travel, and found I was sitting next to a woman who seemed most put out that I should dare to suggest she put down her phone and separate herself from her bags, which were errantly enjoying my window seat.

It was one of the new TGV seats, with a nice split foldy table and buttons, but I get the impression that the shiny new wooden seat backs take up much more room; I couldn't recline the seat the whole way without jamming my knees against the back of the seat in front. Still. There were buttons and a reading light, which I played with briefly before falling in and out of snoozy time to Paris Montparnasse, where we arrived 15 minutes late and where the travelator to the métro remained haunted and inoperative.

I'd left two hours between trains – sufficient to make the hop between stations, I thought – and arrived at the Gare du Nord in plenty of time. Nobody was sick on the métro, and I was sort-of-but-not surprised that it didn't seem particularly busy, probably because Wednesday was a good choice of travel day; between weekends and importantly before the mad getaway rush. Smuggling the Stollen a student gave me through security was literally a piece of cake, and it came to pass that in no time at all I was sitting nearly alone in the waiting area right at the back of departures, up the spiral staircase, waiting for the information display to tell us we were boarding, slurping at a slightly overpriced Americano from the café below.

And lo, about half an hour later, caffeinated and having tended my sleep, I looked up and saw a Eurostar, shining on the screen, in the distance. Boarding was quick, for all of the Eurostar Gare du Nord elves were helping and pointing the way so that once we were all on board, the 13:02 left quite promptly.

I was in a solo seat (45) in coach 12, towards the rear of the train, a coach I shared with other joyfully peaceful passengers and no noise-makers.

It was blissful.

This is where I enjoyed the day's first helping of free stuff: butternut with thyme served with organic pearl barley, mushroom, pickled quince and blue cheese salad, and accompanying free-range egg and chive salad.

Nobody brought me some figgy pudding, conspicuous as last time by its absence, but we were offered a small chew-and-you'll-miss-it almond and pistachio nougat with our tea-or-coffee. Suggesting that I might now be on some kind of list following my last Eurostar Breakfast Bloody Mary Experience, extra bottles of wine were forced upon me by Eurostar elves who perhaps thought I needed to be a bit more merry.

I snoozed again, and then the Eurostar drew nigh to the north­west, arriving a few minutes late into London Saint Pancras International to take its rest. More people than I remember seeing in Paris spewed forth onto the platform, and soon I was power-marching to Euston, where I'd planned ample time for inter-train refreshments in the Avanti Lounge.

I hadn't expected a feast, if I'm honest, but I really couldn't make my mind up between cake or cheese and explained my predicament of being unable to make a simple decision despite being a grown man to the ladies behind the counter. They suggested I have both, and then brought unto me gifts of cheese, carrot cake, and wine – which they placed upon a table before me. Perhaps they'd been warned I was coming; I should normally have been charged for the wine, but the lounge manager waved it through, and peace on earth briefly reigned.

We'd been slightly delayed coming into London so there was only time for one helping of free stuff in the lounge, and I really thought I shouldn't abuse the festive joy I'd found lying in a manager. I snacked on my little mini-feast until the 15:33 Avanti West Coast service to Manchester Piccadilly was announced, whereupon I yummed down my remaining wine and waddled purposefully to platform 12, where seat K12 had been reserved for me by the lovely Aminata over the phone back at the end of November.

It was a solo seat, in the direction of travel, and it soon held the ingredients of a Definitely-Not-A-Virgin Mary, and a menu, lest I feel the need to eat more.

I've said it before and it is worth repeating: Avanti West Coast does a really good first class experience for Interrail pass-holders. The SNCF could learn something from trains in Britain; it's not all about speed and barcodes. There is something particularly nice about having someone come to your seat with a menu, deposit alcohol and nibbles, and then come back later to find out if you want something to eat.

I was feeling quite full after my lounge experience and regretting the cake, if I'm honest, but as this was a festive train ride planned around food, it seemed churlish not to agree to eat more as you never know when your last meal will come. I had the All The Trimmings Festive Curry: cauliflower, shredded sprouts, parsnips and carrots, and roasted onion in a creamy katsu curry sauce, served with Basmati rice. My only criticism was that it needed salt, but it was nonetheless lovely and so substantial that I felt it wise not to undertake dessert.

Mary washed it down for me.

Again, post-prandial snoozings kept me floating in and out of bliss until Manchester, where there was no room at the Avanti First Class lounge – probably a good thing, for I might actually have exploded in a most unfestive manner had I ingested any more free stuff. In any case, I was looking forward to one final meal before being winched onto the platform at my destination and rolled along the platform into a waiting car.

Specifically, I timed everything so that I would have room left to sit in first class on the Transport for Wales service south, with time enough for a three-course meal. TfW's Train Catering Elves had me on their naughty list, though, and there was no chef on the 18:30 service to Cardiff Central. This was disappointing because the Christmas menu looked glorious: onion soup as a starter, Mushroom and Chestnut Wellington with roasted potatoes, carrots, sprouts, roasted parsnips and gravy as a main. Christmas Crumble for pudding.

That said, I was offered tea and biscuits as consolation which felt quite civilised – and in fact I think I was relieved, for I had gorged my way through the previous ten hours it would probably have been verging on gluttonous had I actually settled down to a multi-course meal. Of course if I'd known, I could stuffed even more food into my face and shortened the journey by a couple of hours by changing onto the TfW service in Crewe, assuming I'd been able to make it up the stairs to change platform.

Nonetheless, I had had a wonderful day of festive nibbles, and when we rolled into Leominster full of festive cheer and wine, felt particularly satisfied by a journey well-grazed and a successfully concluded festive pilgrimage.

The best way to spread Christmas cheer is, in fact, to eat and drink it.