Couldn’t sleep the night before. Nothing dramatic—just that mild sort of buzzing when something important’s coming. I laid out my socks. Sue said I looked like I was getting ready for a driving test, which is rich, considering the last time I drove anything was a flatbed trolley at Crewe.
“This isn’t just any train,” I told her, while she sipped tea and glared at me over the top of the mug. “This is the AVE. Spain’s high-speed system. Their InterCity 125, if the 125 had gone to finishing school.”
She didn’t look impressed. I pressed on anyway.
Smooth as a Whisper and Just as Quick
Barcelona Sants was all polished concrete and purpose. Efficient in that quiet way you only get from a country that genuinely cares about its railways. Not a crisp packet in sight. No one shouting down a phone. Just people moving about as if they knew where they were going.
Then it pulled in.
The AVE doesn’t arrive so much as appear. Low-slung, long-nosed, silver and serious. It looked less like a train and more like something that once featured on Tomorrow’s World.
We got on. I sat down, then immediately stood back up again. Not nerves. Just wanted to take it in properly. Soft lighting. Seats with actual legroom. A digital display showing the speed—and yes, before you ask, I checked it every ninety seconds.
“301 kilometres an hour,” I said to Sue. “That’s nearly 190 in old money.”
“Wonderful,” she said, deadpan. “Shall we see if it makes the tea any faster?”
Somewhere Between Lleida and a Different Way of Thinking
There’s something about watching the countryside stream past at that pace—it makes your brain wander. The land flattens out past Lleida. Yellow, sun-scuffed hills. Trees bent like elbows. The odd farmhouse plonked in the middle of nowhere, stubborn and square.
And for reasons I still don’t fully understand, I started thinking about owning one.
Not a farmhouse, necessarily. Just… a place. A small country house. Somewhere out there among the dry fields and crooked olive trees. Space for a proper shed. Maybe a bit of track in the garden. Not for the big layouts, but enough to tinker without Sue tutting about solder smoke in the kitchen.
I’m not daft—I know what it means to buy abroad. But when the landscape starts speaking your language, you listen.
If the idea’s ever crossed your mind too, have a look:
👉 Check these out – Spanish country houses, all sorts, not just for dreamers.
Zaragoza and the Silence of a Train Done Right
We pulled into Zaragoza Delicias on time. Bang on. No fuss. The station’s massive—glass, steel, and absolutely empty. Sue liked it. Said it reminded her of Oslo. I said it reminded me of Watford Junction, if someone had cleaned it and given it a proper budget.
I lingered on the platform for a bit. Not being poetic. Just didn’t fancy rushing. There’s a stillness when you step off a train that’s done everything right. No clunks, no stress, no bloke three rows down shouting into a sandwich.
The trip back was quieter. I didn’t feel the need to narrate the speed anymore. I just looked out. Same fields. Same dry land. Only this time, I wondered what it might be like to stay.
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