Peck, for those of you who aren’t obsessed with Italian food, is a little like a Milanese version of Harrod’s Food Hall, minus the vulgarity – a temple of gastronomy and lovingly-wrapped packages, with a myriad prosciuttos behind the counter, enough teas to shame a Chinese Carrefour and some disturbingly lurid mortadellas. And cheese, obv.

“Don’t worry,” I say, tugging my T-shirt classily down over my expanding muffin top. I’m experiencing another bout of mysterious weight gain, and I can’t for the life of me understand why. It’s not like Italians are fat, Chrissakes! And I’m certainly not going to stop eating, or drinking Negronis, or start taking exercise just for the sake of exercise. “It’ll be fine!”

“OK,” he says, resignedly, with the burgeoning self-consciousness of someone who’s heading into his teens. And in we trundle, trailing the stupid little wheelie suitcases we so ridiculously changed down to because we thought we’d feel better with carryon suitcases than packs in Western Europe.

And… Peck is wonderful. They turn a blind eye to our suitcases. The white-clad chaps don’t mind us pondering. They answer my questions, in abysmal Latinian, painstakingly simply – in fact, one guy speaks good English – and we buy four types of prosciutto, for tasting back home, just to see if anything can compare to the 40-month aged San Daniele that we ate at I Rusteghi in Venice, and some wild strawberries for a snack on the train.

It seems to be running late. But the board doesn’t work. And there’s no one at the enquiries desk. So I’m not sure we’re even in the right place at all. This, I think, would NEVER happen in China.

Said train, the Thello, departs from an implausibly suburban, poky little station in the middle of goddamn nowhere. And it seems to be running late. But the board doesn’t work. And there’s no one at the enquiries desk. So I’m not sure we’re even in the right place at all.

This, I think, would NEVER happen in China.

A babble of tourists meander around, asking each other questions, until we find someone who sounds convincing, and up we head to the platform and wait.

The train arrives, and, after a short pause while police interrogate some dude on the platform, we’re away.

We’re in a mixed, 6-berth cabin, packed with all the diversity of new Europe, which means I can take my schoolgirl French out for an airing it last had when we had dinner with a Roman couple in Rome and found majority French with bits of English and Italian was the best way to converse.

Zac and I are opposite each other. “Perhaps you could swap so that you are close together,” suggests one guy in African-accented French.

“That’s a good idea!” I say.

“You’d need to ask l’Arabe,” he says.

Oooh! It’s the guy the police were talking to, looking not exactly shifty but… well, about as uncomfortable as most people would be if they’d been unable to board a train without an interrogation from Italian police.

I ask him. “Sure,” he says, and swaps bunks with Zac.

“They’ve put me in a carriage full of guys!” she says. “Would YOU sleep in a carriage full of strange men?” “Yes,” I say.

There’s an English speaker in the bar, in a state of high dudgeon. “This train is terrible,” she says. “Outrageous.”

This seems a little harsh. Our second class berths are roughly equivalent to the second class berths on a Chinese train, albeit at approximately ten times the price, and considerably more than the cost of a bucket-shop flight, but at least we’ve taken a few tonnes off our humongous carbon footprints, eh?

“What’s the matter?” I ask.

“They’ve put me in a carriage full of guys!” she says. “Would YOU sleep in a carriage full of strange men?”

“Yes,” I say. Of course, unlike Chinese trains, this European train has doors on the second-class compartments. But I think one’s chances of experiencing violation in a six-berth compartment on a European sleeper train are close to zero – and I’ve never even registered the gender balance of the compartments we’ve slept in on Chinese, Mongolian, Vietnamese or Thai trains.

We stare at each other, in mutual incomprehension. This is, I realise, why Thello’s website allows you to book spots in a woman-only carriage.

Perhaps she’s expecting to change into a nightie, or something? I’ve always assumed that on a train one sleeps in one’s clothes. Unless one’s a child. Or has a private compartment, or summat.

A second round of interrogation at the French border – again, all for the benefit of L’Arabe – and we roll into Paris very far from well rested. As I get off the train, my flip-flops bite the dust.

Back to our carriage. I usually sleep well on trains. Not this one.

Sometime in the wee hours, French-speaking police enter the compartment, shine lights in our faces and, apparently satisfied, move on. I assume, befuddled, that we are entering France, but with hindsight it’s probably Switzerland.

Then the lights shine again. A rumble of voices. “What was your original name?”

L’Arabe replies. “Why did you change your name?”

I miss l’Arabe’s reply again. I drift in and out of a fitful sleep, Zac still snoozing in l’Arabe’s original bed, while the poor guy undergoes another 30-minute interrogation.

Odd, I think, drowsily. I’ve no reason to believe the guy is militant – in fact, given the absence of facial hair and his willingness to give up his bed to a boy travelling with his obviously unmarried mother, I suspect he isn’t – but I’m sure this sort of farrago is precisely the type of unpleasantness that turns folk into radicals.

A second round of interrogation at the French border – again, all directed at L’Arabe – and we roll into Paris very far from well rested. As I get off the train, my flip-flop breaks. I change into my heels, which are, frankly, taxi shoes and progress, wincing, stinking and filthy-of-nail, dragging my stupid bloody wheelie suitcase behind me, to a restaurant where we can eat pastries and find somewhere to stay.

The cheeses, I am disappointed to note, are served fridge-cold. Bloody health & safety, I think. The French must be at least as cross about this as we were about our bananas.

For Zac, who has done La Louvre, the Arc de Triomphoe and the Eiffel Tower with his father, and EuroDisney with me as a tot, le gay Paree is all about the food. We scoff some patisserie, find a cheap Montmartre hotel on LateRooms, and establish ourselves in our garret.

First up! Shoe-shopping. Well, flip-flop shopping.

Shopping for mundane stuff – normal, non-tourist things – is a great way to get a feel for any area, anywhere, and we very much enjoy, insteps notwithstanding, our wander past antique shops, into the odd vintage clothes shop (well, I enjoyed this bit, anyway) and past fabulous cheeseries as ripely aromatic as the cheese in Three Men in a Boat into a place packed full of bargain bins of spangly flip-flops.

Satisfied – I with my purchase, and Zac with the fact that I’m no longer whinging – we head down to an absolutely classic French bistro, Restaurant Chartier, for 6 euro foie, 10 euro steaks and buggerall euro house wine. The cheeses, I am disappointed to note, are served fridge-cold.

Bloody health & safety, I think. The French must be at least as cross about this incursion as we were about our bananas.

The boy, for the record, does not like French cheese. I tried him on the stinky stuff when he was far too young, and, pushing a decade later, he’s still averse to that gloriously rotten aroma.

“Shall we go and look at Sacré-Coeur?” I suggest, tentatively. “It’s a very famous church, and it’s walking distance from here.”

“Churches?” says the boy. “Meh.”

And so, we amble through Montmartre and back to base. Cake, steak, and a pleasant stroll. Sorted.

Due to the checkin process now required on entry to Fortress Britain, it’s more like an airport experience than a train experience, except without the smoking pit that enables one to grab a quick gasper ahead of enforced abstinence.

And thence to London, on EuroStar, which is genuinely exciting since it’s a train that goes under the sea and the boy hasn’t been on it before, but also frustrating because, due to the checkin process now required on entry to Fortress Britain, it’s more like an airport experience than a train experience, except without the smoking lounge that enables one to grab a quick gasper ahead of enforced abstinence.

And… there we are. In St. Pancras, to Kings Cross, which still has the builders in around the tube area – in fact, I can’t remember a time when Kings Cross wasn’t having something done to it — and up to Norfolk to the bosom of our family.

The prosciutto, we conclude, is good, though the wild boar is perhaps a little dry. But none of it quite lives up to the flawless ham sandwich we ate at I Rusteghi…

Further, the weather is atypically lovely. In fact, I’m seriously considering spending a month or so in Blighty before we head to Egypt.

Image: Montmartre s’Éveille by Alexandre Duret-Lutz– Flickr Creative Commons.

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But still, as it so happens, after rising three weeks in Blighty, all we’ve really got is “Europe”.

So, sitting in the sun outside my parents’ quite ridiculously scenic house in Norfolk, we try to refine Europe down further. Not to mention work out what we’re doing with the rest of the year.

The boy wants to “eat Italian food in Italy” and “go to Dahab. Lots of time in Dahab.”

I feel there should be some, ya know, edutational purpose to our activities, and a bit more of a structure.

Embarrassingly, despite over three years of longterm travel, my basic geography is still about as good as my ability to tell left from right and parallel park a vehicle, all of which is to say that I’d do about as well as these Yanks at filling in a map of Europe.

So we turn to ye trusted favourite, the Times Atlas of the World, and try and refine “Europe” down to something more manageable, and “Dahab” into something other than just sit on our arses, play with kittens and do a little light diving. This is a process I like to think of as travel planning, and about as close as we come to it nowadays.

“Paris is boring,” Zac states. “Everything looks the same.” “Yeah,” I say. “I’m not particularly interested in France.” “France,” my father adds. “Is seriously over-rated.”

“Paris is boring,” Zac states. “Everything looks the same.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I’m not particularly interested in France.”

“France,” my father adds. “Is seriously over-rated.”

Obviously, everyone should visit France at least once, and probably several times, but the fact of the matter is Zac’s already been three times, and I – god, I’m not sure how often I’ve been to France in my lifetime, but it’s rising double figures if not there already.

Further, France is lovely, and everything, but it’ll always be there, and I find it impossible to envisage a future in which either of us never sees Paris again.

“OK,” I say. “We’re making progress. France is out. Although… You do need to eat steak-frites in Paris.”

Last time Zac went to Paris was with his father, who, while kindly nailing the Eiffel Tower and the Louvre so I don’t have to do either of them, grossly neglected ye olde steak-frites.

We stare at the map some more. And some more.

“Amsterdam in August?” my mother asks dubiously. She has a point. Europe in August is, famously, best avoided, but of course, we happen to be there for August, so we’ll suck it up.

“I think we should definitely go to Amsterdam,” I say. “Yvette has invited us to see her astrophysics lab and there’s the Van Gogh Museum and all.”

“Amsterdam in August?” my mother asks dubiously. She has a point. Europe in August is, famously, best avoided, but of course, we happen to be there for August, so we’ll suck it up.

“Amsterdam is very expensive,” chimes my father, with a note of parental concern for our perennially ropy finances.

“Look,” I say. “Neither of us have been to Amsterdam. AND…. there’s an astrophysics lab!!! With telescopes!!!! And Van Gogh.”

“Not bothered about Van Gogh,” says the boy, who will turn thirteen later in the year and is already showing ominous signs of meh-dom.

“You LOVED Van Gogh in the Doctor Who episode,” I say. “AND you really liked the pictures in the National Gallery. Let’s just do a short stop in Amsterdam. Meet Yvette. Do the Van Gogh Museum. And the Rijksmuseum. And the Anne Frank house.”

“They’ve just reopened the Rijksmuseum,” says my mother, who, due to keeping obsessionally current on all sorts of travel stuff, is arguably better suited to work as a travel writer than I.

“Great!” I say. “Amsterdam, check!”

“It’s very expensive,” says my Dad again.

“I’m thinking 3-4 days,” I say. “Just a taster. Then if we like it, we can head back.”

“I do think you should visit Barcelona,” I say to Zac. “It’s a fantastic city.” “What’s Barcelona GOT?” asks the boy. “Apart from Gaudi, obviously.”

“I do think you should visit Barcelona,” I say to Zac. “It’s a fantastic city.”

“What’s Barcelona GOT?” asks the boy. “Apart from Gaudi, obviously.”

“Picasso!” I say. “And Dali – well, that’s outside Barcelona, but an easy train ride. And my friends Nick and James say we can stay with them, and their flat’s right in the centre overlooking some Roman ruins. Also food.”

“What sort of food?” the boy asks.

“Jamón Iberico de bellota,” I begin, and then unpack the notion of this queen of hams, made from the lovingly cured flesh of pigs that have dined only on finest Iberian acorns. “And tapas! Pimiento de padrones, chorizo…”

“OK,” says the boy. “I’m down with that.”

“So, Barcelona and a bit of Catalunya?” I say. “Apartments are really cheap in Barcelona….”

“What about the Alhambra? And Cordoba?” says my mother. “Moorish Spain has some fantastic architecture….”

“I know,” I say. “But I think Zac’s a bit over fabulous Islamic architecture. And Roman stuff, for that matter.”

“NO MORE RUINS!” says the boy. He hit his ruins threshold at some point in Jordan, and remains quite firmly ruined-out.

“Which cities?” asks my mother. “Well, Venice, obviously,” I say. “Venice in August?” she says. “Are you sure?” “Yes,” I say. “It’s VENICE!”

We discuss Italy a bit. “I think we should stay north,” I say. “Focus on a few cities and see a reasonable amount of them. Plus, Emilia-Romagna, for the food.”

The problem with Italy is, what with it arising from a series of independent city states with their own food, art, history and culture that only unified very recently, and, ya know, the Romans and the Popes and all, it boasts quite the embarrassment of riches.

“Which cities?” says my mother.

“Well, Venice, obviously,” I say.

“Venice in August?” she says. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” I say. “It’s VENICE!”

“Make sure to come in on the train,” she says. “Do you remember that arrival at Venezia Santa Lucia?”

I do indeed. My parents took me to Venice when I wasn’t much older than Zac, and I’ll always remember it. I hope the city hasn’t had the temerity to change.

Europe, we conclude, is basically about the food and the art.

“What’s Sudan GOT?” asks the boy. “Ummmmmm….” I say. “Apart from warlords, I mean,” he says. “What has Sudan actually GOT?” “The Blue Nile!” I say.

Italy pared down to Venice, Bologna, Em-Rom, Florence and, ya know, some other stuff, we turn to Egypt.

“Are you sure it’s a good idea?” asks my ma.

“Yes,” I say. “Everyone I know in Dahab says it’s fine, plus they’ve already taken the curfew off in Aswan, but nobody bothers to write about that.”

My ma and I are united in the notion that Ethiopia would be an extremely good idea.

“But what’s Ethiopia GOT?” asks the boy.

“Cave churches!” says my mother. The boy’s face falls silently, but evocatively, into his erhmagerd-no-more-ruins expression.

“The hottest place on earth!” I say.

“I’m just thinking Ethiopia means stomach upsets,” says Zac. “I don’t want to be on a drip again.”

“LOOK!” I say, turning to the relevant page on the map. “There! We can go down the Blue Nile from Egypt to Ethiopia, to its source in Lake Tana.”

“What’s Sudan GOT?” asks the boy.

“Ummmmmm….” I say.

“Apart from warlords, I mean,” he says. “What has Sudan actually GOT?”

“The Blue Nile!” I say. “We can go down the Nile to one of its sources!!!!”

“That does,” says the boy solemnly, “Sound kinda cool. Actually, that sounds very cool.”

I’m buggered if I’m paying more than double the price of a decent flight, and close to quadruple the price of a RyanAir shitfest, to get from Amsterdam to Venice by a train that involves five separate changes, most of them in the wee hours.

And so it is decided, or kinda. We’d like to do Europe by train, but, thanks to the absolutely mental and environmentally unsound economics of train travel in Europe, we’re going to have to fly several legs, because I’m buggered if I’m paying more than double the price of a decent flight, and close to quadruple the price of a RyanAir shitfest, to get from Amsterdam to Venice by a train that involves five separate changes, most of them in the wee hours.

We will go to Amsterdam, on the ferry for green points, then Italy, then Barcelona, stop in Paris for steak-frites, head to Blighty for our Outdoor First Aid course and some other stuff, then embark for Dahab for a stretch of R&R before departing down the Blue Nile to Ethiopia.

Unless Egypt’s torn itself cannibalistically apart in the manner of a bunch of starving hyper-religious jackals, of course, which is always a possibility with Egypt, god bless its cotton socks.

Picture credit: World In Hand by Todd Morris.

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2: Tahiti
Tropical flowers, white sand beaches and jewel-like forests set amid circles of flawless reef feels a long way from the Champs-Elysees. As, indeed, they are. But French Polynesia is still a part of France. Meaning that you can snorkel the waters of Tahiti and Bora-Bora while safely within the EU.

3: The Falkland Islands
Wow! We Brits sure pick ‘em when it comes to hanging on to colonies. In fact, we’ve already fought one war over these chilly islets, with several thousand sheep, penguin and seals for every head of population. The Argentinians call them Las Malvinas. But for its inhabitants, this stop off en route to Antarctica is a veritable little Britain.

4: Madeira
Famous for fortified wine and, err, very little else, the archipelago of Madeira sits stranded in the Atlantic, a memorial to the Portuguese sailors who pioneered the European push into Asia and the Americas. Sat atop a huge, undersea volcano, this cruise-ship mecca is richer than any province of Portugal proper.

5: Aruba
There’s not a canal to be seen on this sunny, tropical island in the heart of the Caribbean. But flying into Queen Beatrix Airport, it will become clear that Aruba remains a part of the Kingdom of the Netherlands. While most Arubans speak Creole alongside English, Dutch is still taught in schools.

6: Greenland
The world’s largest island, misleadingly named Greenland, rests off the shores of Arctic Canada, and belongs to the continent of North America. Its nationality? Still Danish. (The Danes refused to sell the island to the USA after World War II.) As of 2009, however, Greenlandic is the official language of a country heading closer to independence.

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