The art of getting there

I know of no better form of public transport than these sleek, snaking, strings of carriages that take us from one place to the next.

Whether it is the five baht train that I took from Bangkok City out to the airport that day to pick up my sister, where I sat on a wooden bench seat amongst bags of grain, monks and cheerful people going about their daily routine; to my present journey where the window is a stream of green pastures as I speed my way to York for the day.

Even when you are surrounded by rather unglamorous folk, sitting at a plastic table on slightly stained seats, there is still a vaguely romantic air to this way of travel. If I close my eyes I can be somewhere in Central Asia, skating through flat ancient lands, with the scent of strange food at the back of my nose, and sand in my teeth.

That is of course until the National Express refreshments lady bangs my elbow with her trolley and I'm straight back to the reality of my Caffe Nero coffee and a damp, grey day ahead.