
I can usually tell how long I am going to be in a station within about ten seconds of walking into it. Not by the[…]

I did not move to Spain intending to become a railway comparative analyst. I moved here because Sue liked the light, the oranges tasted like[…]

I only wanted to book a straightforward trip. Two people. One destination. No heroics. Within five minutes I had three tabs open, Sue looking over[…]

I hadn’t been near a freight yard in years. The passenger stations get all the glamour these days. Polished floors, ticket machines that speak five[…]

Sue said we should treat it like a date, so I wore the decent shirt and left the railway cap at home. Barcelona to Lleida[…]

In Crewe we never put “lamp cleaner” in the job description, but half the time that’s what you were. Driver comes in muttering that his[…]

Some men dream of vineyards. Others build goat pens in rural Spain and call it “freedom.” Me? I restore locomotives. This time it’s a Hornby[…]

I wasn’t even planning to write about it, to be honest. But the thing about railway stations — proper ones — is they tend to[…]

Not Just Places You Catch Trains You can learn a lot about a country by standing in its train stations. Not the ticket counters or[…]

Where the Tracks Trail Off into Silence They don’t really vanish, you know. These old Spanish railway lines. They don’t scream or collapse or announce[…]