Now a freelancer after twenty-one years on the Times travel desk, Tom Chesshyre has written many books, mainly about train journeys, and explored far and wide – from Slough to the Siberian tundra via the jungles of Sri Lanka, the Australian desert, Peru, Iran, India and North Korea. For this, his twelfth book, he decided to travel to Turkey by train. The route of Slow Trains to Istanbul is reminiscent of the Orient Express, but his adventures using a half-price Interrail pass are in stark contrast.
From 1883 until the Second World War, the Orient Express was a byword for luxury and glamour. The train hosted royalty, including Tsar Ferdinand of Bulgaria, who asked to drive the train through Bulgaria himself; Edward VII, who tried, unsuccessfully, to hire the train’s chef; and the Maharajah of Cooch Behar, who ordered divans draped with golden blankets for his compartment. A galaxy of stars and writers travelled on the train, and a number of them (Agatha Christie, Graham Greene and Ian Fleming) fictionalized the experience. With the rise of air travel after the Second World War, the service deteriorated and lost its cachet, providing a rather lacklustre and gruelling experience.
Chesshyre and his friend Danny are “two middle-aged blokes” who decide their Interrailing itinerary over beers on Soho Square. They are after good value, a respite from responsibility and the opportunity to “just be in the moment” as they explore the far corners of Europe. They know they’re older than the typical Interrailer, but hold fast to the belief that, even in middle age, “a little bit of finding oneself remain[s] possible”. Their meandering journey to Istanbul is beset by strikes and line closures, but on the whole it’s a cheap and cheerful adventure. The lows are not much more than the vagaries of budget accommodation in red-light districts, and the highs are great company, rough red wine and impressive station architecture.
The author is a huge fan of stations, and is far more passionate about them than he is about cathedrals, art or food. The most exotic culinary experience on the trip is a meal of Romanian kavarma (a meat stew; supper is more often a pizza or a sandwich from the nearest supermarket). Danny flies back to London and leaves the author to return from Istanbul alone. Travelling solo is a different experience, and not one that inclines Chesshyre to philosophical reflection or social observation. His view of the world is often parochial, and his writing prosaic, but his enthusiasm for train travel is infectious and inspiring.
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