Sacred Valley Train
“Let me show you to your table, Madam.”
My trousers were caked with a medley of jungle mud and mountain dust from several weeks of exploring the Peruvian Andes. My trusty, oversized hoody had seemed perfect for a train journey, and my hair was enjoying the freedom of travel as much as I was. Nobody had given me a second glance at the big tourist sites, blending in amongst the families and backpackers.
The problem was I’d been too lucky.
What should have been the cheapest train ticket back from Machu Picchu had mysteriously transformed into something very grand. I’d been given a free upgrade to travel on The Sacred Valley Train for my return leg. With no idea what that meant, I agreed enthusiastically, simply happy to be on an adventure. The outbound train was exciting enough, with a cup of tea and a biscuit to enjoy, and windows stretching up to the ceiling to show off the mountainous views. But this was something else.
The waiter, in a neatly pressed shirt and bowtie, led me to my own private table. A delicate vase of flowers stood on the highly polished wood, and cutlery lay waiting. I muttered an embarrassed “gracias” as he brought coca tea and delivered a menu that soft 1920s lighting made difficult to read. I was suddenly conscious of my grubby clothes.
“A glass of wine? Oh, no, thank-you. Well, if it’s complimentary…”
As plates of food began appearing in front of me, I regretted stuffing myself with cheap market food before boarding. Pumpkin soup with home-made breads, vegetarian gnocchi decorated with tiny roses carved from a pinkish root vegetable, and a pineapple dessert with an unidentifiable jelly draped in caramel sauce. By the time the after-dinner biscuit appeared, on its own dainty plate, I understood how the Vicar of Dibley felt when she had to eat all of those Christmas dinners on the same day.
I straightened my hoody, trying to blend in with the other, properly attired, passengers on this special trip. I diverted my attention through the window, but it was dark outside, and the only view was the reflection of my fellow diners in the yellow lamplight. A group of four friends were laughing and chatting happily about their holiday over a bottle of red. A lone businesswoman sat at the far end of the carriage, tapping on a tablet, apparently unaware of her surroundings. The couple closest to me spoke in loud Texas drawls. The lady’s hair was magnificently sculptured, swept up to show off her sparkling earrings and a full-length gown. Her partner shot me a scathing glance, as he loudly recounted their other railway journeys. Apparently, this was one of the least impressive, and not a patch on The Orient Express. They’ve clearly never travelled with Arriva Trains Wales. I straightened up, feeling defensive of our elegant dining car.
As we neared our destination, I was getting used to the high life. It wasn’t so bad, reclining in an armchair whilst sipping wine to the rhythmic kuh-lack, kuh-lack, kuh-lack of wheels on tracks. The hard-working train slowed as it approached the station at Ollantaytambo. I watched it depart, heading for the taxis and hotels of Cuzco, before slipping through the dark streets to my hostel bed.