Grazing home from Christmas: Leominster - Toulouse

I am not the type of person who makes New Year's Resolutions, but some students and I came up with the idea that my motto for 2026 should be "fail better". And so, in the spirit of failing better, I decided it would be edifying to once again attempt the Córdoba journey that was so abruptly derailed back in November.

This is a return trip that's been somewhat cobbled together on the hoof, as it were, as I only really remembered that I needed to use up the remaining days of my four-day pass about a week ago. Once everything was booked, there were then fears that storm Goretti would intervene to scupper my plans, as all my attempts at going anywhere near Barcelona over the last decade or so have somehow been thwarted at the last minute. But when Parent and I left the house this morning to go to the station, everything was back to mostly-normal, and after a quick dash to the Coop to buy a newspaper and a jar of Marmite, once again I was waiting for a train under a veil of thin fog.

The 10:13 Transport for Wales service arrived a minute late. With all the cancellations of the previous 48 hours, I was slightly concerned that I might find myself logistically forced onto a little diesel bone-shaker, but thankfully the disruptions weren't too bad and the service was running as advertised; before long I was ensconced in my big comfy leather window-side armchair, with a cup of coffee and a breakfast sandwich on order. Outside the window, things rapidly got whiter as we travelled north and by Ludlow I was fondly reminiscing about my ten-hour train marathon to Bodø back in 2023.

My not-a-sausage sandwich arrived, with hash browns and a bowl of sauces, and so started my day-long grazing adventure. In the seat across the aisle, an older gentleman was polishing off his full Welsh breakfast in relative quiet. Behind him, a man who had apparently forgotten he was not at home was watching the football on his phone, but I passively-aggressed him into compliance with my long-time favourite, "do you have headphones for that?"

By Craven Arms we were already running about twenty minutes late due to "slow running" as there had been reports of branches overhanging the tracks, and sure enough they soon made their presence known as they brushed past the windows like a sadistic teacher deliberately using a bad piece of chalk on a blackboard. At one point, the slightly ominous "Attention train guard: please contact driver" was heard throughout the train after a couple of bongs and an unscheduled stop in the middle of nowhere. It was so white outside, I did briefly wonder whether a small stout Belgian man would suddenly appear to start asking questions.

After a few minutes a jovial man in a TfW fleece wafted through the carriage and announced that the driver had stopped to have a chat with signalling.

When we arrived in Crewe, I was glad that I'd decided to leave plenty of buffer time between trains, as ordinarily I'd have missed the 11:55 service to Euston. I'd scheduled plenty of time to pillage the lounge, and there was momentary concern that this might not be possible, but twenty minutes between trains afforded me a quick power-pillage for tomorrow's breakfast before the 12:23 train to Euston pulled up on platform five. Once in my reserved window seat, a nice man on his way to a rave in a hi-vis jacket with a whistle gave me the weekend menu and asked if I'd like any drinks.

Well. Duh.

Very quickly, my first Bloody Mary was served – along with backup ingredients for another just in case I "lost" the first one – and with this came also a few packets of crisps. From the lunch menu I chose the Indian salad – apparently a delicately spiced mix of onion bhaji and pav bhaji with chickpea, carrot, and cabbage pickle, served on a bed of spinach with coriander mayonnaise. Whoever considered it to be delicately spiced probably only has two remaining taste buds as it was robustly spicy and incredibly yummy. I declared my first free-stuff graze of the day a success.

Very little happened along the journey to London, so much so that I'm almost annoyed that I can't complain about it. There was only one other person in coach J, and apart from occasional rustling of crisp packets, she was thoughtfully quiet and as a result, the journey was blissful. Occasional announcements were made regarding the availability of snacks in the on-board shop. The man with the vest and the whistle came back occasionally to apologise there was no catering staff and to throw more free things at us. In Milton Keynes, somebody escaped by joining the train. Confident that my onward journey was not at risk of cancellation, I booked the necessary trains to Córdoba.

In London Euston there was time to wait in the Avanti lounge before my duly appointed arrival time at Saint Pancras of 15:16 for the 16:31 service to Paris. Maximising waiting time here instead of in Saint Pancras, where the Eurostar holding pen is not the most enjoyable place to wait for a train, was a good idea. The people in the lounge were super friendly, and before long I had a cheeseboard, some fizzy pop, cake, and a cup of coffee to entertain me in the hour I'd scheduled between trains before it was time.

The 16:31 Eurostar to Paris left on time. I was in a new (to me) coach with only about a dozen seats and fewer passengers. The couple at the table opposite were mildly annoying – her of the Sloane Ranger accent would occasionally abandon attempts to suck the face off her travelling companion to monologue about alfalfa, while he gasped for air and explored the acoustic potential of a Rubik's cube – but I got the impression it was their first time on a train. I warmed to them later as they practised their French.

A friend of mine told me that when he was flying regularly for business, the cheat code for a decent meal was to order the Halal meal option as more often than not, there was a very strong chance of receiving a good curry. I identify culinarily as "flexitarian, vegan curious" and don't tend towards meat, so out of curiosity decided to order the vegan option while making my seat reservation.

It was very good indeed. The main course was curried aubergine served with grilled peppers on a bed of couscous, with a generous helping of hummus. This was bolstered by a bread roll and a little tub of sunflower spread and, importantly, came with pudding, which has been conspicuous by its absence in my last couple of Eurostar vegetarian meals. This was a made-from-something-tasteless panna cotta, mitigated by the presence of passion fruit. As I'm apparently now on a list, the nice train manager gave me a selection of baby bottles of wine, rather than just the one.

I had successfully managed to get all the food in my mouth, and none on me, when an unfortunate bump occurred just at the moment I was aiming the glass of sparkling water toward my face. Shocked, I aborted the drinking attempt and decided it better that the glass stop moving, but the water therein had other ideas and was now fizzing merrily on me, my seat, and my little man bag – which is waterproof, it transpires, even when it contains water – having successfully staged a bid for freedom. Nothing was damaged – importantly, the bottle of vodka remained unharmed – but I did then have to suffer the ignominy of walking through the train to the service area looking as if I'd just wet myself. Face still intact, Mr Rubik proffered a serviette as I walked past.

The train manager was very understanding and suggested I blame the driver, then demonstrating that the French do occasionally possess a sense of humour, walked me back to my seat holding a packet of nappies which, thankfully, were destined for my seat and not for me.

Paris was quite cold. Replete, I decided I'd go straight to Austerlitz rather than linger at the Gare du Nord. Nord-Austerlitz is my preferred station combination for Eurostar-SNCF connections, as the journey on line 5 only takes twenty minutes and there's minimal walking. In Austerlitz, everything was closed, save for a waiting area where an Algerian youth was heatedly holding forth about a recent African Cup of Nations quarter final game to anyone who'd listen – and those who wouldn't – in a tone that suggested he was not altogether content with the result.

Some people distanced themselves.

And then the 22:13 Intercités de Nuit to Toulouse Matabiau was announced as boarding on platform two. Fed and ready for bed – and clutching at the potential for a Bloody Mary just in case – I found my four-bed couchette, and settled down in my upper bunk. There is no extra room, bed-wise, in the upper bunk, but there is more sensible storage available in the space above the corridor, and therefore it's possible to stash everything within easy reach of your head, or your feet. I deployed my train slippers and went for a walk around to see what was happening elsewhere.

A fellow passenger popped up on Träwelling, so we went to look at the service coach, where a man was selling snacks and drinks, and where the area reserved for bicycles would have benefitted from a table and a couple of deckchairs. It occurred to me that this was a train crying out for some kind of accommodation for people not yet ready to sleep, because apart from the coaches with reclining seats, the only spaces provided on the night trains are destined for people to sleep. Who'd have thought a French night train could be so single-minded?

With my trousers dry again and my dignity restored, I finally failed better to sleep in my little bunk, as the darkness of France at night slid past the window.