Reszel Castle, Poland

An atmospheric wood-paneled apothecary stood near the main square. A tiny bell chimed as I opened the door. High on a shelf rested black iron scales. The language barrier was a problem so I just pointed at my head and said “Boom!”, the universal expression of headache.

Armed with a couple of tablets I walked back through the old town to the castle under a deep blue November sky.

Then, the mist rolled in. That deep blue sky from a paragraph ago quickly blanked and smudged. From a clear view of smoky chimneys, you suddenly couldn’t see the hand on the end of your arm. The mist lay thick and low and as the streetlights flickered on, dim yellows swirled into the mix.

Bordered by the Russian exclave of Kaliningrad to the east and buffeted on the north by the Baltic Sea, this remote Polish region of lakes and giant brick churches is quiet in the winter months. The castle dates back to the 14th century but battered by wars and requisitioned by Prussians and communists, what’s left is a medieval keep surrounded by crumbling stone walls. The remaining rooms have been converted into a lovely hotel.

Our room was an atmospheric circular guard tower. Wooden stairs twined around the inner wall and each floor had its own microclimate. Old arrow slits looked across the town’s twisting river and a squadron of mosquitoes hiked over to feast on us at night. The castle’s furniture had been carved by the Polish sculptor Boleslaw Marschall and fitted snugly against the curved tower walls. A television and downstairs toilet muted the medieval atmosphere and we bathed our six month old baby in the Jacuzzi.

In the evening, branches flitted against the skylights and threw shadows around the walls. We walked to the church. Inside a lone figure rocked back and forth in the pew, eyes closed, hands clasped. We tiptoed out, passing a woman in rags poking into litter bins with her walking stick.

The last woman hanged in Europe for witchcraft supposedly haunted the castle, but we never saw her. Instead we bolted the door and watched a scarily bad Jean-Claude Van Damme film, dubbed into Polish. We drank Hungarian Tokai and cheap Latvian sparkling wine. In the morning I was back at the apothecary, pointing once more at my head and saying “Boom!”

Pixel im Hof, Linz, Austria

“It is an unusual room,” says my contact at the Pixel-Hotel in Linz.

I’m a little flustered having missed a bus connection from the airport and then losing my way in the evening drizzle.

I collapse onto an uncomfortable wire chair as she demonstrates keys and lights. “Don’t forget the cloakroom is in the industrial elevator,” she says. “Bye!”

Linz, in Northern Austria, is 2009’s European Capital of Culture. PixelHotel is a project running in tandem with the city’s moment in the spotlight, converting a cluster of urban spaces into unusual accommodations. There are more conventional hotels in Linz, but given the choice why not stay in a garage, or an art gallery or even a tugboat?

The Pixel im Hof is a former workshop & garage set around a courtyard dating back to the 18th century. A square low double bed is pressed against one wall and a green mosaic bathroom lies tucked around the corner. To complete the scene, parked at the bottom of the bed, is a 1960s caravan.

The caravan retains the musty smell of an old-fashioned holiday. I feel as if I am stepping back into my childhood with its concealed cupboards and squeaky-hinged bedding. The only nod to the caravan’s post-modern life is an espresso machine and minibar. I bounce on the seat and decades of dust dance around me.

A wall of lights runs behind the caravan; three rows of 12 white bulbs set behind a screen. Each bulb has its own switch for guests to suit their mood. There is a television in the corner, but why watch TV when you can create light sculptures or drink beer in a caravan?

It doesn’t stop raining for a single second during my time in Linz, but hunger eventually drives me out and I find a vegetarian restaurant; a totally unexpected discovery. I check with the waitress that the bratwurst is really vegetarian. “Yes,” she says, after a pause, “this is a vegetarian restaurant”. I blush and eat.

I walk home past the Mozarthaus where a bust of the composer guards a buttonpress which erupts with the opening adagio of the Linzer Symphony. I cross back to the main square, circle the plague column and cross the Danube. The rain defeats me and I scurry back to the Pixel-Hotel; a bottle of Grüner Veltliner tucked under my arm.

For breakfast there is a folder containing three things; a voucher, a local café list and a map. There’s no room service, of course, because there’s no room; just a former workshop with a caravan parked at the bottom of the bed.

Wrexham & Shropshire Railway – Journeys in Manners

Sometimes traveling is about the destination and at other times it is about the journey. Ryanair is pure destination travel; scrumming for seats, fending off scratchcards, unjustifiable card fees etc. But it’s direct. Direct & unpleasant.

Wrexham & Shropshire Railway isn’t direct, but if you’re not in a hurry, it is very pleasant.

The southern terminus is Marylebone, rare in London in that it looks like a real railway station rather than a shopping mall with trains. The 6.45am to Wrexham service was hidden away on Platform 5 as if the big franchises can’t even bear to look at it. I took my reserved seat but there were plenty of spares. The staff apologised for the buffet car being the wrong way round and then we were off; out through Metroland and into pretty Midsomer country, all wrapped in morning mist.

We skirted the Cotswolds, rarely stopping and then only to pick up the odd passenger. There are restrictions on which stations the company can use and where they can pick up and put down. It became more apparent that W&S is a small player when we hit Birmingham. We creeped around the rusty outskirts and sat outside Villa Park for a while. “Scum of the earth” muttered a Brummie voice in the seat behind, referring, I think, to the Villa rather than inertia.

The delays are due to a pecking order established by the franchises. Our service is bullied down the signal queue by the other train operators. In fairness, these delays are factored into the timetable and both legs of my journey were on time.

Once clear of Birmingham we cruised through middle England. Lapworth, Dorridge, & Widney Manor flew past and I’d heard of none of these places. My destination was Shrewsbury, a tudor town currently drawing visitors through a Darwin anniversary theme. As we neared the Shropshire border, announcements were added in Welsh.

On the journey back the Marketing Director came through the carriage asking passengers if the journey met expectations. It’s a good question, what expectations do we have for our railways now? By traveling on a service like this that you realize what’s wrong with them, they've become dehumanized with their complex fares that are often undercut by the brash budget airlines.

Press articles on the W&S service regularly namecheck the Titfield Thunderbolt as if good manners and personalized service is something that can only be found in an Ealing studio.

W&S receives no government subsidy and has a simple fare structure. The sachets of mayonnaise were free and they stocked peppermint tea. The steward from the wrong-way-round buffet car bought my [freshly made] sandwich to my seat. In Standard Class! It’s tiny things like this that make a journey.