Being in a small mechanical blowfly over such majestic, eternal terrain is the highlight of my trip.

years old. The drawings we see are essentially local shopping lists of what’s on offer in the area. This is an easy trip for most ages — just hold your nose as you pass the trees laden with cute but stinky bats.

Back at the train, the catering reminds you this is a luxury affair. The all-inclusive food and drinks are of a high standard and meals impress with eclectic ingredients — from crocodile, duck and fillet steak to a wattleseed icecream dessert.

Chatwin’s novel first inspired me in Alice Springs. In 1991, I was your typical, unwashed backpacker “doing” Australia, with the slight difference that I was an Australian. I eventually found myself in Alice, managing a backpackers’ hostel. They were my glory days of tour guiding, mates — and probably too much alcohol. Transporting so many guests from the station had me determined to one day ride that northern rail.

Now, with Alice finally minutes away, the revisit has to wait — but there’s a spectacular reason: I’m about to fly over Uluru.

The insignificance of being in a small mechanical blowfly over such majestic, eternal terrain is the highlight of my trip. Once the Cessna 210 reaches Ayers Rock Airport, we’re whisked away for lunch and a whistle-stop tour of Uluru and surrounds. The mythical desert spirit of the Northern Territory radiates from this place.

Next stop is Alice, where I spent three years. My wife has been enjoying a tour of Todd Mall and a local nature park and we meet back at the train. We spruce up for a dinner under the stars at the Telegraph Station. The grounds have been transformed into an open-air restaurant com- plete with a bush band. We cut dinner short to grab a taxi to my old work. But Alice looks so tired. The cabbie says the streets aren’t safe at night. We pull into the old hotel I have romanticised for so long. The poker machines and abundant security make me uncomfortable. We find a spot next to the carcass of an air conditioner on the deck. I strike up a conversation with a couple of locals who talk about the plight of the town’s youth, how their only real option is to leave. The magic I once felt here has disappeared and we high-tail it back to the train.

You don’t expect to find fantastic baklava under tonnes of rock down a hole. Today’s Greek lunch in a Coober Pedy opal mine follows a look at the town’s approach to its extreme environment. A visit to the grassless golf course as well as churches and homes dug into the rock makes me admire the locals’ mettle.

The afternoon takes us along the dingo-proof fence and the desolate ridges of The Breakaways. Ghan staff have champagne flowing and a campfire roaring when we arrive late afternoon at the Manguri railway siding. Next stop Adelaide.

This trip is a staple for middle-aged passengers. It’s one of the few truly Australian transport adventures and has little to find fault with. But I would have liked a staff member available who could bring more of the Dreamtime stories alive as we made our way south.

Chatwin died with the railway line unfinished. The Ghan’s full itinerary barely let me reread The Songlines to the fourth chapter, but I feel the train has now repaid me after years of teasing. To feel Chatwin’s impact, read the book before you go. — AAP