On the railroad to somewhere

Buongiorno and welcome to a proper train presently speeding away from Rome.

Yes, they've got real trains here. 

Such as this one which is just like ours.

Or this one, which I presume is called something like il Doubledeckero.

If it's not, it should be.

Anyway, our train is bound for Florence. Impressed? Don't be. Because then we have to change onto another train, wait for 90 minutes before climbing onto a bus. Final destination? A campsite. Really.

Thankfully we're not in a tent - which was the only reason I agreed to this charade. What happens next is anyone's guess - and Vanessa's liability if it's shite.

But back to our train.

You may be aware of the current debate surrounding trains in England (and Wales).

The present Government thinks that the lion's share of taxpayers' money for transport should go to the south of England where most of them came from and now reside. And they've recently put our money where there homes are by signing up to Crossrail 2 in London. Crossrail 1 will open shortly. 

Meanwhile, up North, in the Midlands and in Wales - we can all go hang. There are limited Tory votes up here, so we are hereby invited to travel slowly to Hell in our dilapidated two-carriage bone rattlers. That's the deal. 

Of course, the current premier train services in the North are the ones that go to London. It means that our ruling elite can escape more quickly back to the capital after their important meetings. Good for them.

Back here in Italy, local rulers seem to understand that everyone is entitled to travel with a bit of dignity - and at limited cost. And the quality of train is much higher than I anticipated. This partially explains why I just ballsed up.

Our train pulled up about half an hour ago and Vanessa said we were on coach 5B.

There were no signs for coach 5B but there was a sign for coach 5A. So we stood by that.

"5A must be on one end, 5B on the other," I announced confidently. Like the twat I was about to be exposed as.

We climbed on. We reached our seats. A foreign type was sitting in one of "our" seats. Vanessa politely pointed this out. He politely indicated that not only were we on the wrong carriage, we were also on the wrong train.

And here is where is gets more complicated - and impressive in equal measure.

There are two trains going to where we're heading. Each one is at least the same length as the Leeds-London train. But they are joined together. And both travel at 225mph. Our train - complete with coach 5B - was the "other" one. 

Now, the good news was that we still had 10 minutes to get off the wrong train and on to the right one. The bad news was that several grumpy American tourists with huge bags stood between me and the door - and I had two bags almost as big as their stomachs dragging behind me.

Two pints of sweat and countless awkward smiles later, I made it off and we hared up the platform to board the by now almost mystical coach 5B. 

As I hoisted our bags up onto the overhead racks, all around us smirked as the sweat dropped off my nose. But we made it.

What lies ahead, on our campsite, could seriously brighten up my day - or kill it dead. Let's see what hand fortune deals us.