A Tale of Two Breakfasts
Today - in theory - people can start travelling again. Thousands of people are jumping on planes, heading to a very short list of destinations.
But I guess that’s a hopeful sign. One day soon, we’ll be able to travel again. And I shall be very, very grateful.
Although, I must say, as someone who didn’t get his first passport till I started Uni back in 1980, every trip I make I am grateful for. I was perusing some of my old photos this afternoon, and realising that I have been immensely privileged.
Surprised also to find that it’s almost ten years since my ‘jolly’ for the radio on the Venice Simplon Orient Express. Amazingly brief in its scope, and yet the stuff of dreams (mainly due I think to the Agatha Christie connection. Atmospheric, and yet no murder and no Belgian detective.).
It was one of those whistlestop trips during which you had to force yourself to stop and say, ‘Am I really doing this?’.
Memorable moments included: Flying to Venice, speeding across the lagoon in a motorboat, staying all too briefly at the prestigious Cipriani Hotel. Dinner in the informal Cip’s Club. Keeping an eye out for Brad Pitt, Angelina Jolie and Steven Spielberg.
A dawn swim and a sumptuous breakfast, looking across at the skyline of Venice.
RJ
Photo © Rob Jones
By motor launch to the Stazione di Venezia Santa Lucia to catch the Orient Express, which raced through northern Italy to Innsbruck in Austria, a brief slightly disorientating stop to stretch your legs, before hurtling on through the darkness of Liechtenstein, Switzerland and then France. Fine dining. Cocktailing in the piano bar, and ten sleeping fitfully. Peeking through the blinds occasionally if we stopped to see if I could guess where were were.
Photo © Rob Jones
Another fine breakfast in my compartment, ready for arrival in Paris. End of the journey in Calais - a bus transfer through the Channel Tunnel before picking up another vintage train to Victoria in London.
An all too swift amazing journey book-ended by two breakfasts - three if you count the sad stale croissant I got in London in a vain attempt to relive the luxury of the last two days.
Yes… very lucky. Can’t deny it.
RJ
