‘I’ll take you to Athens!’ he said. Who could resist such a chat-up line?

Yes, there is a certain romance in travelling by train. Your stories were filled with nostalgia – and the odd mishap

In 2011 we arrived in Hanoi for a threeweek backpacking adventure to mark my husband Paul’s 60th birthday. After two nights on idyllic Halong Bay, we took the overnight sleeper from Hanoi to Hue, sharing a four-berth cabin with two male companions, an American and a Swede.

We were lucky: other tourists had to share cabins with entire Vietnamese families – and their livestock. Venturing to the “buffet” was like an obstacle course, clambering over sleeping children in the crowded corridor. The sense of adventure was heightened by the aromas of their rudimentary breakfasts. It was an unforgettable journey – for the young at heart. Laura Markham, Cheshire

ONE FALSE MOVE

In 1992 we bought a two-month Eurail ticket, a fold-out map and Thomas Cook’s timetables for an ad-hoc rail tour. “This is total freedom!” we cried, spreading them out on our hotel bed in Pisa, Italy. “Where to next?”

So intoxicating was it, hopping on and off here and there, we stopped checking the small print. The night train to Budapest stopped at the East German border, where armed guards demanded to see our “papers”. Hungary was not in the Eurail scheme.

Our genial Hungarian cabin steward convinced them that our tickets were valid. The guards left grumpily, deprived of prey. The moral? Always be friendly towards your steward. Stella Moore, Kent

AMERICAN DREAM

The California Zephyr from Los Angeles to Chicago offers far more than magnificent scenery. In the dining car you have two new companions at each meal. Native Americans returning to their roots in upstate New York distribute crystals with supernatural powers; people heading back to Denver send postcards to loved ones in England; pseudo scientists set the world to rights with dodgy logic.

In the observation car late at night, those in coach class congregate to socialise. Who knew 20-year-olds on their way to the Chicago Blues Festival (not to be missed) could be such proficient interpreters of the songs of Buddy Holly and Eddie Cochran?

Dr Andy Ellis, Middlesex

Rocky start: it’s a romantic city, but one reader’s journey to Athens was something of a Greek tragedy

A CHANGE OF PLAN

“You must pack immediately and go by train!” urged our agent. “Your flight has been cancelled.” So ended the prospect of relaxing after our dawn visit to the Taj Mahal in Agra.

Sitting on our cases at the station, we awaited the long journey to Varanasi. Longtailed creatures that can only be described as rats scampered around as our train finally pulled in. A frantic surge of travellers descended on the guard, waving rupee notes, but our man returned ticketless. Finally, he secured two tickets for us on a train to Allahabad and would arrange car transport to complete the journey.

Bundled aboard, we had a top bunk that felt like concrete. Having barely slept, we finally arrived in Allahabad. There was no one waiting to meet us. Janet Jordan, Hertfordshire

SAMOVAR SAVIOUR

We booked a compartment on the Trans-Mongolian Railway. A uniformed lady provodnitsa – attendant – of formidable demeanour was assigned to our carriage, but we most appreciated the gentleman who kept the samovar on the boil. Most meals were created from dried foods, while welcome supplements came from ladies in headscarves selling cheese rolls, hothouse salads and boiled potatoes on the platforms.

We queued for the WC in an orderly, if at times desperate, line. The shower we dismissed in favour of wet wipes.

But what a delight that journey was, beginning with a heart-lifting Orthodox liturgy in Red Square, Moscow, and punctuated by freezing fog over Lake Baikal, wild dogs, the music of throatsingers and the emptiness of the Gobi Desert suddenly relieved by a motorcyclist or a statue of Genghis Khan.

Ros Pickersgill, Tyne and Wear

PORTS OF CALL

My rail journey as a student was to find a yacht so I could crew it for the summer. It was moored on the Italian island of Ischia and my journey from Lowestoft involved various trains and ferries. I ran out of food overnight, except for an orange, which saved me.

Trundling down to Italy, I shared a compartment with farmers and a chicken. In Milan I saw Mussolini’s huge grand central station. A sprint won me just enough time to kneel on the rubber pavement outside Pier Luigi Nervi’s Pirelli tower. Then I carried on to Naples, having accidentally caught a high-speed train, the Alta Velocità, paying the excess (ouch!).

A ferry took me to Ischia harbour and, greatly relieved, I found my white ensign. The skipper greeted me, saying: “Ah, you are good coming by train instead of flying – what a saving!”