Me, my boy – and seven train rides to Naples

Jolyon Attwooll was determined to take his two-year-old son to Italy by rail. Here’s his account of a journey neither will ever forget

After three years of marriage, a mortgage and first child duly acquired, I knew I could count on my wife for a gentle word of advice. “He’s still potty training and you want to go overland from London to Naples? You’re nuts.”

Foolish perhaps, but I persisted. Friends were getting married in the city’s Castel Nuovo. I had time off, my other half didn’t; and Arthur, our two-year-old, had a Thomas the Tank Engine-fuelled train obsession running at full steam. What better chance for father/son bonding?

“You’re a little off our usual demographic,” the man from Railbookers told me politely as he convinced me that a sleeper train was folly, and that the best, most picturesque route was via an overnight stay in Zurich.

We boarded the 07.46 from Lewisham, the first of seven separate train journeys that would get us from south-east London to southern Italy. On the second, the Tube from Victoria, travelling with a toddler proved an icebreaker: a woman who had shuffled along to accommodate our buggy and backpack lowered her novel and started to chat to us. “Good luck,” she called as we disembarked at King’s Cross.

Leg three began in a blink, the morning sunshine bathing the London skyline as the Eurostar glided out of St Pancras station. Life seemed alive with possibilities, a feeling that goes hand-in-glove with long-distance rail travel – with or without a toddler. We scythed through the Kent countryside, my son contentedly playing with sticker books. No sign of a misbehaving bladder so far.

Nearing the Tunnel, we wandered down the corridor, saying hello to the spare driver stationed at the back of the train. (A real live train driver! Could it get any better?) Emerging on the other side of the Channel, I checked our connection in Paris. There might even be time to meet an old Parisian friend for lunch before we left for Switzerland. Text messages were exchanged, a meeting point agreed. This was more than just a train journey now: this was a voyage back to pre-parenting spontaneity.

The fourth leg, the Paris Metro journey from Gare du Nord, was woefully child-unfriendly. Exit barriers pincered my backpack as I tried to bundle toddler, buggy and luggage through.

We met our friend at the Gare de Lyon and headed for a quick baguette. “I’ll pay,” I insisted, reaching for the rucksack compartment containing my wallet. But it wasn’t there. I cursed the Metro even more, blaming the barriers or a dexterous pickpocket. Lunch would have tasted worse had our friend not generously slipped me a few euros to see us through to Naples.

Thankfully the most picturesque part of leg five – from Paris to Zurich – was not at the start, which I spent cancelling credit cards. Then it was time for those views Monte Bre towers above Lake Lugano, top, on the route from Zurich to Milan; Jolyon’s son Arthur in Naples, above; speeding through Italy, below; our intrepid travellers with the Eurostar driver, below right and some parental relief: a quick blast of The Octonauts on the iPad, and I settled back as the TGV sped through rural France, the summer sun high and fierce even through tinted glass. The hours drifted by easily: for variation we idly wandered corridors, assessed the dining car and stuck more stickers into books. Now the first premonitions of the Alps were forming. Imperceptibly almost, France had become Switzerland.

“Rhino!” cried my boy, as we slowed before Basel station. “Of course it is, son,” I thought, looking up. But there were indeed two thick grey hides just below: the tracks go right past the city’s zoo.

At Zürich Hauptbahnhof we were greeted by a man in the distinctive red uniform of the Hotel Schweizerhof, a real treat of a railway hotel. They made us feel welcome, handing a toy car to my boy and glass of champagne to me.

But shorn of a credit card, we had limited evening meal options in Europe’s most expensive city. Finding falafel and chips in a side street, we settled on to a postage stamp of parkland for our magnificent spread. As my son smeared mayonnaise over his lips, I lay back on my rucksack and felt a familiar shape in one of its many compartments… my wallet. I cursed my own stupidity and, with my wife’s misgivings echoing around my mind, I took a very tired little boy to bed.

Leg six, the 09.32 from Zurich to Milan, was the most scenic, offering majestic alpine views, pretty mountain villages and steeples, then Lake Lugano. It was simply a beautiful train ride, marred only by grimy Trenitalia windows.

Thus far, apart from wallet-gate, all was going smoothly and to schedule. It couldn’t last. “This train runs on time because it leaves in Switzerland, but in Italy it is not always the same,” warned our neighbour, a young Swiss undergraduate.

His words came back to me midway through leg seven, as a golden sunset caressed Rome’s main station and a mild hysteria gripped our carriage. Mysterious technical hitches had delayed the train from Bologna onwards. This meant we saw rolling Tuscan hills and poplarskirted villas in a soft evening light. But it also meant we were running very late, and in Rome no one seemed to know whether to stay on board or change trains – least of all me, with my limited Italian. All I could make out was that the conductor was taking a verbal battering. A motherly woman across the aisle told us that Toddlers and trains: five tips

Travel at offpeak times

Keep wandering the aisles

Take the scenic route

Bring headphones (not everyone wants to listen to The Octonauts)

Fly back