Fajcit Zakazane

Kosice is little more than 200kms from the Polish border, after which the line continues to Krakow; six or seven hours by train, allowing for the border crossing and a swap of locomotives. I assume this and make the classic mistake of neglecting to research the facts. There is a train, yes, but just the one - it leaves just before midnight and there is a change in the early hours of the morning. I cannot afford the sleeping car supplement, and I dare not risk falling asleep in an open carriage while the train stops at some out-of-the-way place in the dead of night. I spend 7 hours on a day train to Bratislava instead; its an enormous detour, but the connections to Krakow are better from the capital. It leaves Kosice behind one of the goggle-eyed diesels that I saw in Plzen; when the two countries became independent each took a share of the rolling stock, and the only difference is the logo on the sides of the coaches and locomotives. The scenery is quite spectacular as we climb through the hills to the West of Kosice, the engine struggling to drag the heavy train up the steep climbs, the speed falling to walking pace. The tiny villages we pass have a few cottages with chicken coops and vegetable patches, a couple of goats tethered to the back gate, a stack of firewood under the lean-to ready for winter. Life in rural Slovakia seems little changed from the rustic scenes depicted on the postcards for sale in Kosice. The illusion is shattered as we approach the outskirts of Zvolem and the inevitable tower blocks and factories loom on the horizon. I email Erika at the City Hostel and she reserves a room for me, but for the wrong night.
"But Paul, we expect you yesterday" she says when I arrive, "we wait until nine o'clock". I apologise and show her the email I sent. "Shit! I did not read carefully!" Her English is improving.
When I get into bed it is rattling and bouncing over railway tracks; I even hear the chime whistle as the bed leaves another station. I turn the light on and drink the Kozel beer I bought from Erika then get back into bed and instantly fall asleep.
I spend the morning shopping for supplies and working at the internet cafe near the Vietnamese market. It is a pleasantly warm afternoon as I walk down to the Duna and cross the New Bridge. It has a striking, circular observation deck at the Southern end - like the bridge of Starship Enterprise - propped on thick, forward leaning concrete pillars held up with sinews of steel cable; it is unique and unmistakable, a landmark as iconic as Brussels' Atomium.
I catch a tram to the Hlavna Stanice to buy a ticket for Krakow. A group of about 15 Italians are having a furious row with two ticket inspectors at the terminus. They didn't validate their tickets and are refusing to pay the 1400skk penalty; the police are called and detain them in the empty tram: their trip to the station will end up costing them the best part of 400 Pounds.
The Informacia desk will give me the train times, but will not tell me the cost or sell me a ticket; for this I have to queue at one of the ticket windows, which closes just before I reach it. I join the queue at the next window and finally buy my ticket from a woman who is surly to the point of insult. I later discover both the ticket and the timetable are for the wrong train. I walk back into town past the Radio Building and the National Bank's skyscraper and decide to eat at the Vellah Bar I spotted on my earlier walk.
I sense something isn't right as soon as I sit down. The place is scruffy and unclean - dirty plates left on the plain wooden tables, the tiled floor unswept, an enveloping atmosphere of stale beer and strong tobacco so strong it is almost physical - but I'm not bothered by this; what does bother me is the hostile looks and conspiratorial comments of the other customers. I sit on a bench at a table round a corner at the back of the bar and avoid any eye-contact. After a lot of persuasion the waitress brings an English menu, and cross-references my order with a Slovakian copy; she sits on the edge of my bench and puts her arm around me, head bent close to mine. She is middle-aged, with a faded purple shell suit and peroxide hair; she is also drunk, and her breath reeks of cheap alcohol. The food is appalling. The Partizan Cutlot which sounded so appetizing is a charred, greasy lump of reheated flesh covered in burnt onions - fried for so long they are as brittle as dead leaves. I eat some of the grey, watery mashed potatoes the menu optimistically described as Gnocci, and ignore the cold rice the inebriated waitress translated my order for salat into. The waitress returns and points accusingly at me and the barely touched food, saying something like "not good enough for you, eh?". She writes 126skk on a scrap of paper and keeps the change from 150. I finish my drink and gather my things to leave, but before I can move she is back. She shoves a printed till receipt for 140skk at me.
"I have paid you already", I remind her -"I gave you 150".
She rattles off something in Slovakian, then: "moment".
She returns with two big sweating men who lean over me and breathe vodka fumes in my face. "You pay now" the one wearing an old grey suit says, his face flushed, fists bunched at the end of his too-short jacket sleeves. The other stares down at me, a sneer of contempt curling his thick lips. The waitress is smiling in victory. I am hidden from the street outside and trapped.
"No problem. Es Ist problem Nicht" I assure them and drop exactly 140 Korun on the table, ignoring the grasping hand of the waitress. I step quickly between the trio and put as much acid as I can summon up into a sarcastic "Goodnight".
Their insults and jibes follow me out into the street, but thankfully they do not. I am leaving Bratislava in the morning, and the moment cannot come too soon after this ugly encounter.

A Room With A view

I catch one of the ancient trams to Miskolc Hlavna Stanica in the morning, and drink a coffee at the booth in the subway beneath the platforms. It is half lit and reeks of urine in the subway, but nothing else is open at this hour. Three untidy looking men are drinking beer from bottles at the next stand up table, then one of them goes to the counter and returns with shots of vodka and a small bottle of liqueur for each of them. They knock these back in quick succession, finish up their beer and head for a local train and presumably a job somewhere. It is nearly 7.30 on an ordinary Tuesday morning in Hungary.
The EuroCity "Cracovia" is half empty and I have a compartment to myself; further along the carriage a group of men are having an early morning party, and I avoid eye contact as they pass by on their way to the toilet. They are thickset, hard-looking, scarred and red-eyed from booze, their gruff shouts reverberating around the coach. We pause at Hidasnemeti for border formalities and a locomotive change. The Slovakian security check my passport three times and the platform and off-side of the train is patrolled by armed guards. I admire their diligence, but cannot think of a less welcoming country in which to seek asylum.
At Kosice I find a map outside the station which shows the Tourista Informacia office - an easy 10 minute walk in the centre of the old town. It seems that all the historic buildings in Kosice have been gathered up and placed in a line along the pedestrianised main street; they are literally shoulder to shoulder, so close that its impossible to get any individual perspective. There is an old tram's driving car converted into a bar near the town hall, but it is the only thing on the rusted tracks that snake through the cobbled street. There is a problem finding a room. The Tourista office call all the options I can afford but everywhere is full; one of them suggests the Hotel Akademia, who have a room at a reduced rate. It is a 10 minute walk they tell me. Its off the map they give me so they extend this in biro, with notations in Slovakian that mean absolutely nothing to me.
After 20 minutes I turn back. I am walking along a crumbling road as wide as a motorway, the massive blocks of a housing complex widely spaced about the wasteland either side of me. I pass by the vacant plinth of some Soviet hero's statue, the hammer and sickle still visible around it's base. Behind this there is a smaller block with a sign: "Hotel Akademia".
I check in reluctantly and find my room - or rather, rooms - on the sixth floor. They are a converted apartment, a bare kitchen alcove, an empty box room, a bedroom, a small bathroom - the basic tower block blueprint. The corridors and stairwells outside my door are painted in pale green, the woodwork an oppressive dark brown; scraps of carpet, odd sticks of old furniture, one or two dying potted plants complete the picture. Then theres the view form my bedroom window. The housing complex is immense. The grim blocks march up the low hills to the West, as far as the eye can see, a view that could not be paralleled in Moscow. It is a monument to social decay on an epic scale; 100,000 people stacked up in a couple of square miles, fighting tooth-and-nail against the grinding poverty that moved in when the Communists moved out. For the first time since I left, I think of packing my bag and catching the next train out of town. I look for a long time then take my camera and a handful of Korun and set off. What is to be gained by walking around the restored monuments of the old town and finding a nice little bar or Etterem when reality is right outside my front door?
I cross over the wide road and the tramlines and walk into the estate. Is it risky? Yes, probably. But its a liberating feeling to leave trepidation behind at the Hotel Akademia and take a walk that is not in the Tourista Informacia's guide to Kosice. The complex was built to house workers at the huge steel plant on the edge of town built by the Soviets - ironically now owned by US Steel - who turned Kosice into an industrial centre surrounded by ore-rich hills. Nobody bothers me as I walk, though people look - sometimes stare openly - and comment to each other. Nobody threatens me or questions me; nothing happens. The ground floor of one block houses a flower shop, a small supermarket, and a bar. I turn around and go inside for a drink. I have to point at the beer tap and hold a finger up so the barmaid can understand me; a local drinker gets up and says something to her, slaps me on the shoulder then goes back to his table. The barmaid smiles in understanding and pours my drink. I nod my thanks to the local and take a table. The people are curious, but I think entertained, too: this stranger with his foreign habits and funny accent walking into our bar in our estate - that doesn't happen every day, does it?
I eat at the hotel this evening, and discover the Akademia is a training hotel run by the Slovensko Ministry of Tourism, or something like that. The students are supervised by four or five middle-aged women who could have been guards at a Gulag in previous times. It is like an episode of Fawlty Towers. The students try hard but food is still delivered to the wrong tables, only to be snatched away by one of the camp guards and swapped with someone else's meal. There are clatters and bangs from the kitchen, and harsh reprimands in the middle of the restaurant. I order a drink from the waitress and after 10 minutes she comes back to tell me they have run out of ice cream and would I like something else instead? I do eventually end up with a drink and most of the meal I order, but I am certain I haven't asked for a side order of toast with it.
I leave a tip for the waitress and climb the wide staircase to the sixth floor, fumbling for the banister in the semi-darkness between floors. The lights of the estate are like a constellation against the dark hills, the shooting star of a police car's flashing light disappears into the night as I turn out the lights and lie down on my hard, narrow bed.

Slow Train To Putnok

I take The IC "Takta" to Miskolc. The name gives the train a kind of importance - as if to suggest every other train will be diverted and held back to speed it's progress. This isn't the case, of course: it is only three coaches long, and waits for every freight and commuter train along the way. A few seconds before departure, a thickset, darkskinned younger man barges into the compartment I've found. He is dressed in awful, garish, cheaply made designer clothes, and has a large holdall full of similar garments that he has bought in Budapest. He unpacks these as we speed through the city's suburbs and holds each one up to himself, unselfconcsiously admiring himself in the compartment's mirror. I do not exist, it seems. Then he has a long, loud conversation on an old Nokia mobile phone. After that, he spends the next two hours drumming his feet, stretching, yawning noisily, flapping his arms and legs, getting up, sitting down, sighing, scratching, tapping on his armrests. I cannot read nor write, and the tapping drowns out my MP3 player. By the time the train reaches Miskolc, I have invented several scenarios in which I murder him.
I walk into town form the station, a good half-a- mile or so. I do not want to take a tram, as I'm looking for a room and might miss something on the way. There is nothing but the inevitable blocks of flats, hole in the wall bars, and cheap booze shops until I get to the pedestrianised main street. It is warm and humid. I find the Hotel Pannonia but it is too costly; they kindly tell me of a pension a short walk away, behind the restored theatre. It is above a pizzeria, the owners Italian, and neither of us has the slightest idea what the other is saying. This makes no difference: they speak only Italian, and understand no Hungarian or German; I speak a few words of German, nothing else; I have a room, they have some Forints, everybody is happy.
Miskolc is a small city close to the Slovakian border. There are a few architectural attractions dotted around, but it has no pretensions of being anything other than a provincial crossroads surrounded by farmland. It is certainly less wealthy than the towns and cities West of Budapest, and still bears the scars of the devastation wrought during the war. Where, in other cities, the damaged buildings have been restored or replaced with newer developments, Miskolc has large gaps or crumbling shells, just the odd 1960s shopping centre slotted between the old townhouses. The trams are older than any I have seen, and must date from the years just after hostilities ceased. There are few tourists, and I encounter no British visitors at all. I find the improbably named Ettrem Calypso in the narrow streets behind the theatre and have a meal and a drink for less than the price of a sandwich in England. Pork flavoured with paprika, garlic, and onions served with lechto - mashed potatoes with herbs and butter - garnished with seeded slices of fresh paprika. It is spicy and filling, typical Hungarian cuisine.
In the morning I take a train into the countryside, to Putnok on the Slovakian border. It has an M41 diesel at the front, built in 1981, and still in original condition. A number of these locomotives have been rebuilt with new diesel engines and air-conditioned cabs, new silencers, and a new coat of paint. This one is loud, dirty, the paint faded and peeling: it will shortly be rebuilt, or perhaps scrapped. The line is single track, and there are stops every few miles. The train is in no hurry, nor the handful of passengers. There is a chemical plant at Berente that stretches for 5kms, chimneys belching yellow smoke, thick pipes snaking alongside the line, carrying God knows what lethal cargo. After that, sawmills, power stations, and a vast derelict steelworks. The industrial decay is breathtaking: it is like the aftermath of an atomic bomb.
Then, incredibly, open fields, wooded hills, a small village with a horse and cart loaded with brushwood waiting at the crossing. It takes more than an hour to cover the 40kms to Putnok. I drink a beer in the Bufe at the station, and wait for the M41 to run around the train for the trip back. This takes an hour. The driver shuts the engine down and drinks an espresso in the Bufe, then takes a leisurely stroll back to his cab. Half an hour later I hear the M41 roar into life. Three and a half hours after setting off I arrive back at Miskolc, hoping that the M41 is never scrapped or rebuilt, and nobody thinks of speeding up the timetable.

Travelling In Style

I arrive at breakfast to find the Italians checking out. This is accompanied by a huge amount of noise, to-ing and fro-ing from the hotel's only lift, which they have taken over, and "Ciao" repeated over and over. The African women are all wearing traditional dress and taking full advantage of the food the Italians are too preoccupied to bother with. I fight a stern looking Mother Superior with an eloborate headress for one of the last of two slices of cheese; while I'm distracted, a pair of innocent looking Sisters carry off the final portion of omlette to their communal table. I pick my way through mountains of suitcases stacked in the lobby by the departing Italians, and head downtown to Nyugati for my train to Eszergom.
I have an espresso at the booth beneath the station's elegantly curved roof and meet an elderly couple from London. He is in Budapest for dental treatment - much less expensive than in the UK - she a retired actress with Hungarian ancestry. They are warm, charming, well travelled people. We chat and laugh, discuss the beauty and absurdity of Budapest, where we have been and where we are going. They are slightly overwhelmed by the city - they are both in their 80's - but have been brave enough to book a ticket to the Great Hungarian Plain, and I offer them advice and tips about the platform for their train, the facilities onboard. Will I, or anyone I know, be that adventurous at that age? I wish them luck with a sincerity I rarely employ, and go to find my train.

The M61 is standing at the head of some coaches of 1950's vintage, with a full complement of doorhandles. I find an excellent spot in the brake coach where I can sit at the conductor's desk in a big old leather seat, the window open, my notebook in front of me, an espresso from the bufe balanced in the inkwell. The train tiptoes over the Danube on a rusty girder bridge that groans under it's weight, then the M61 opens up and we are soon in open countryside, hills and birch stands alongside the line, an old Wartburg stopped at some crossing gates.
At Piliscsaba I give the train conductor some Forints and he leads me to the M61's cab. I take the Secondman's seat on the left of the cab, and travel the rest of the way to Esztergom in the way I wish I could make all my journeys. The cab is hot and loud. The engine screams like a wounded animal when the driver opens the throttle, the airhorns are angled down between the twin windscrens and deafening, everything vibrates and rattles, and always, the thick smell of diesel fumes. I sit in the red velour seat and watch the driver adjust the bakelite power handle and make small, precise movements with the brake lever atop it's nest of airpipes. The wooden window frames are finished with chrome sills, there is a big, domestic-looking hotwater radiator beneath the windows, and the interior is painted in the familiar institutional green. Sometimes the driver takes his hands from the controls and folds his arms, gazing out of his side window as we coast along, like somebody who is bored by the television and waiting for the next programme. I ride the M61 back to Budapest, too. I have no invitation to do so, but just climb into my usual seat on the left of the cab, spotting signals for the driver, leaning back so he can see in the rearview mirror at station stops. I shake hands with the driver at Budapest and catch a tram to my hotel.
I have an early meal and go to bed. I am slightly deaf but content with my day, and must be at Keleti for the morning train to Miskolc. It will be pulled by one of the seemingly inummerable electrics, and my seat will be in a coach behind it.

The Accidental Vandal

There is a goup of Christian African women in the hotel, and a delegation of volunteers from Italy attending some convention or other in the nearby sports arena. At breakfast, the African women are eating in solemn silence at one table, and the Italians have taken over the rest of the restaurant; they are shrill and overdressed, and one of their party is on permanent duty to harass the waiter, complaining about the coffee being too strong or not hot enough. They consume everything in sight, commandeering the platters of meat and cheese as soon as they appear from the kitchen, leaving the remaining scraps on the buffet table for the Christian women and me to pick over.
I catch the tram to Baross Ter and walk to the internet cafe. Four English men weave drunkenly through the slow moving traffic, swearing and gesturing to the drivers; without breaking his stride, one is sick down his shirt. They barge their way into a bar further along the street: it is not yet 11 o'clock.

I take a vintage railbus to the Vasuttorteneti Park. It is the biggest historic railway collection in Europe; I am the only passenger, and the park is deserted. The excursion seems rather sad for this, more so in the cultural and social setting of Budapest. Still, among the enormous steam engines, the minature railway, and the ice cream stands, I find the last operational M61 diesel. The Hungarians somehow managed to order a handful of these machines from Western Europe in the 1960s; any further attempts to buy more were met with "Nyet" from the Soviets, and the instruction to place orders for the Russian M62. All very well, but the Russians had never built a diesel locomotive before. When the first one emerged from the Oktober Revolution Locomotive Works in what is now The Ukraine, this was apparent. The Hungarians had persauded the Russian designers to at least seperate the drivers cab from the engine compartment, but all other suggestions had been ignored. Unacceptably loud, uneconomical, and shoddily built with poor quality components, it was a disaster. The Hungarians were forced to rebuild each one before they could use them.
Some steps have been rolled up to the cab door, and after a furtive glance around, I climb up to look inside a unique machine that survived behind the Iron Curtain. The door is stiff. I push as hard as I can and it moves a few inches. I pull it firmly back to try again, and the doorhandle breaks off in my hand. There is nobody around as I stand at the top of the steps, clutching a piece of history. I try pushing it back into place, but it falls off and clangs onto the metal steps. I am mortified. Should I own up - go and find someone to apologise to? Instead, I balance the broken handle at the top off the steps and slope off behind a line of vintage carriages, feeling thoroughly ashamed. I get on the railbus back to the station; as I look out of the window, a man in overalls is standing near the vintage carriages, scratching his head and looking around the park: he is holding something in his hand.
I find an Ettrem near Deak Ter and order an espresso. The entire Italian delegation from the hotel walks in. Within 15 minutes they have rearranged the furniture, run the waitress ragged with requests for every type of coffee from Iced to Latte, argued over the bill, annoyed everbody, and left: it is like the aftermath of a hurricane.
I take the underground from Vorosmarty Ter into the suburbs. The line dates from 1896 - the oldest underground in Europe - and has been elegantly restored. It isn't a true subway, simply a cut-and-cover: a trench with a roof, with a few steps down form street level. I change to a tram at Mexikoi Ut, and become completely lost. I have left my map at the hotel and there are none at the stops, just linear diagrams with unpronouncable names. I change trams 3 times in the next hour, and finally arrive back at Deli Palyaudvar, the city's Southern station. It reminds me of London Euston - a plain, ugly, 1960s piece of functionality ill at ease with the granduer of Keleti and Nyugati.
I stop at a small local bar on the way to my hotel. I order a bottle of beer. The barman takes it from an ancient fridge and takes my money wordlessly. I drink it standing at a table. This is the worst place I have ever seen. It is filthy, dingy, and the few customers have the desperate, broken look of terminal alcoholics. They are drinking something that the Bus Pub might serve, but the barman dilutes each glass with tap-water, and it costs almost nothing. I am the only person able to afford the bottled beer, and two more bottles is all that remains in the cooler. A grey, beaten Vietnamese man in rags wobbles out into the night; I sit on a bench at the table he has left, and feel dampness soaking through my clothes: too drunk to bother, too past caring, he has simply urinated where he sat.
I scrub myself under a blistering shower and wrap my clothes in layer after layer of plastic bags; I will give them to the maid to wash in the morning. I put them in the furthest corner of the room and go to bed, wondering if the M61 will be repaired by tomorrow; it is due to be hauling a special train to Esztergom, and I have a ticket.

In The City

I leave Keszethly on the 11 o'clock to Budapest. It is pulled by a big, blue electric, nicknamed "Gigant" - giant - by the railwaymen who drive them; their position in the railway front line as the most powerful engine in Hungary has now been taken by "Taurus", an ultra-modern, fast, powerful design that roams all over Europe, identical in every country, and less interesting for that. I am completing my circuit of the lake and moving on, with some regret: it is a pleasant corner of a pleasant country, and the temptation is to linger. The pace of life in Central Europe is less frenetic than in the West, and seems at it's most relaxed around the Hungaria Sea. I will miss walking back from the restaurant near the park, past the cheerful, pale blue Trabant parked under the streetlight at the corner, and watching the moon rise over the lake from my balcony. There is so much more to see, though, so many more places to be discovered; I am eager to be moving again after my rest at Lake Balaton, and feel a familiar sense of anticipation as the train turns out onto the South shore line.
There is a long delay at Balatonszentgyorgy while we wait for an Italian train to clear the single line ahead, and then as we back onto the three coaches it leaves behind. As we depart, a young Italian man runs through the train: he was in the restaurant car we have picked up, and had left his belongings in his compartment. He tries to explain, in English, that his wallet, bag, and tickets have gone; the conductor shakes his head and walks away. There is nothing I can do for him. The south shore of the lake is less attractive, the towns less pretty, uncared for. The stations are barren and covered in grafitti, an unwelcoming arrival, a grateful departure. Even the train, although modern, is less comfortable than the railbuses on the North shore; there is little conversation, and a nasty looking pair of policemen constantly patrol it's length, eyeing the same passengers suspiciously, over and over again.
I arrive at Keleti Palyaudvar 20 minutes late, the train crawling from one passing loop to the next on the single track line to allow endless passenger and freight trains to cross our path. The station is a stunning piece of architecture, every bit as grand as Gustav Eiffel's Nyugati Palyaudvar; the huge, arched, timber trainshed and granite facade have been restored to perfection, and the sense of history is palpable. I find the TourInform booth and book a room without problem. They almost insist I take their free shuttle service: "The room will be held for one hour only", they threaten. I have a cold drink at the Bufe, then take a tram to the hotel. The tram is identical to those in Plzen, Bratislava, St Petersburg, and Magdeburg; it has an alien familiarity I trust far more than the TourInform shuttle offer: nothing is free in Budapest, everything is a sales opportunity.
I leave my bag at the hotel and take the Metro to Nyugati. It is staggeringly hot in the train, the seven stops a test of endurance. Here, too, the echoes of a Socialist past: the underground trains are the same as those under the Streets of Moscow. I walk through the labyrinth of underground shops and foodstalls to the station, marvelling at the sheer bedlam, the chaos that surrounds. It is only a year since I was last here, but there have been changes. The booth at the end of the suburban platforms is still there, but the tables with their parasols have gone. The locals have gone, too: now it is just a place for a quick Coca-Cola before catching the train home, not the social focus point that it was. The platforms have been tidied, cleansed of years of history, and the character of the crumbling signal box replaced by a new, brick and glass block. Where signalmen pulled levers and waved flags out of the box's window, perhaps smoking a cigarette as they wiped grease from their hands, young men now click a mouse, eyes fixed to a screen, the station outside pixelated, graphically represented, and held on a server miles away.
I take the Metro back to Deak Ter and have a drink and an inexpensive meal, slightly sad that progress can lead to such disassociation.
My room is hot, and it is difficult to sleep; I cannot open the window because of mosquitoes. I listen to the sounds of Budapest at night. The lapping water and birdcalls of Keszethly have been replaced by sirens, drunken shouts, and the roar of the ringroad. Welcome to the city.

At The Seaside

I walk up the hill from the yacht club to the village and find a small cafe while I wait for my train. Breakfast at the hotel was an uncomfortable, solitary affair; an inconvenience for the staff, all that effort for the hotel's only guest. I ask for an omelette, something substantial.
"How many eggs?" the waiter asks:"three, four? It is up to you."
"Twelve, please," I try to joke. He is appalled. It takes a long time to explain that three would be sufficient.
The ticket office is in a dark corner of the station, a single window with a wooden counter. I am sold an old-fashioned cardboard ticket by a woman who seems surprised to have a customer, and annoyed at the intrusion. It is the kind of ticket you would find at a steam railway in England, and seems more like a souvenir than an authorisation to travel.
The train takes me along the North shore of Lake Balaton, to Keszethly. It is a journey to savour. I have a carriage with open windows I can look out of, a few locals as travel companions, and the noise of the M41 diesel's exhaust; no mobile phones ring, there is no trolley service, and no passenger information display. It could not be further removed from the cramped, airconditioned, sealed environment of a train in Britain. I have space, fresh air, natural light, and spectacular views: railways, as they should be enjoyed The lake is the largest in Central Europe, and is known as the Hungaria Sea; the Hungarians are proud of their lake, and drawn to it, along with Austrian and German holidaymakers.
I arrive at Keszethly and have no problem in finding a small apartment. It has a fridge, a balcony, and there is a small swimming pool in the garden; it is a fraction of the price I paid last night, and there is a restaurant at the bottom of the street that I can afford to eat in.
The town is pleasant, if a little like Skegness with subtitles and mosquitoes. The old buildings of the centre stand on a hill overlooking the strand, a ribbon of candyfloss stalls and amusement arcades stretching along the beach. I take the train up to Tapolca and walk around the town in the slow afternoon heat; it is much the same as any other Hungarian town, familiar architecture, the market with baskets of paprika, cafes, shady sidestreets. I walk back to the station. My is not for an hour, so I set off to explore the depot: I simply walk off the end of the low platform, across the tracks, past men working on the line and engine drivers finishing their shifts. Nobody stops me, or questions me: "Where are you going? You are trespassing". I would be ejected, or possibly arrested if I did this in Britain. I would be suspected of some criminal intent: a thief, a vandal, a terrorist. I wander around the depot at will, nodding to the mildly curious workers I pass, taking photographs, and looking in locomotive cabs. Then I walk back over the mainline to the station and get my train. The Hungarians are very relaxed about their railways. At Keszethly, rather than walk down the road from the station entrance, I walk back down the line to Tapolca, a shortcut to the park by the strand. I greet the signalman as I walk past his cabin, and step onto the grass at the side of the track as an M41 towing a dozen wagons rumbles by.
I sit at a table in the Hali Sorozo Ettrem. The railway runs through the park right in front of my table. A blast of a horn, and another M41 passes, shaking the open air cafe to it's foundations, panicking pigeons from their roosts in the sun-dappled trees as it streaks past the park benches and plastic racehorse rides. Its heading for Tapolca, fuel, and a siding for the night; I could hear its approach long before, a deepening throb, the sound of the AirCav approaching the Vietnamese ville.
I have no intention of eating here, but there is something intriguing in the menu: Fogasfile Fokhagymamartassal; or Zander Filet mit Knoblanchsosse, if you prefer German; Pike-Perch in Garlic, with an addendum - "Our Preises Not Include The Garnis". Chips are extra, then. But is it Pike, or is it Perch? Is there a difference? Or is it an aquatic monster they breed in a bucket in the kitchen, to be fried in garlic for the fickle tourists, garnis extra? I decide I would rather not find out, and eat a delicious meal of beef and paprika at the restaurant near my apartment, a single species feast.

A Line To Nowhere

I leave my bag in a locker at the station. Obliged to leave the hotel by 10 o'clock, it is too heavy to carry around until my train leaves in the afternoon. I descend a flight of steps into the basement to use the toilet; it is a dingy and unattractive place: bare bulbs and cracked and stained tiling. The toilet attendant smiles broadly as I hand him the 60 Forint fee. I stand at a urinal, and suddenly he is next to me. "Tourist?", he asks, his eyes dropping to my open flies. He smiles again; "Sexy", he hisses in my ear, "you are sexy. I like you". I leave quickly, and almost run out of the station and across the platz into town.
My map has shown me a single track line which starts on the Danube bank, winding through the suburbs, then ending abruptly near a roadbridge, a seemingly arbitrary point. I set out to see what is left, if anything; the line is unconnected to any other, and very likely predates the mainlines: a long forgotten piece of history. The terminal on the river is buried under a building site, the rising concrete structure hiding any clues as to what was carried to or from the boats or barges that must once have moored there. The only trace I can find are the parallel rails set into the road, neatly cut off at the kerbs; they point the way to an overgrown green passage between the gardens of houses and bungalows across a piece of wasteland. I walk it's course for perhaps 1/4 of a mile, picking my way through the undergrowth where need be, walking sleeper to splintered sleeper where I can, hedgerows and trees rising either side of me. As I round a bend, I'm amazed to discover a boxcar in front of me; rusted solidly to the rails, it's faded and weathered body as light and pale as balsa. It has obviously been here for years. It sits between two suburban gardens, hidden by years of growth from it's neighbors, halfway down a line to nowhere, as if carelessly left behind by the last ever train. I feel like an explorer who has stumbled upon an ancient temple hidden in an unexplored jungle: absurd, I know. The line ends in a new industrial estate on the edge of town, between a builder's yard and a cash and carry; it is disappointing to find it's secrets will not be discovered here, either.
As a form of solitary entertainment, I have converted the Hungarian currency - the Forint - into actors, celebrities, and public figures. It started after noticing that the historic figure on the 1000ft note bears a striking resemblance to Alan Rickman in his role in Robin Hood. The 5000 note is quite clearly Johnny Depp as Jack Sparrow, while the 500 note is unmistakably Pat Butcher of Eastenders. The best I could come up with for the 10000 note was John Prescott - but I'm still not completely satisfied with this, and considering a further conversion to Elvis in his Vegas years.
I have a coffee at a street cafe in the square. I ask for the bill, and pay with a 2000ft note. The waitress smiles, thanks me, and disappears. I wait for several minutes for my change, but she seems to be avoiding me. The menu tells me the price is 400ft, expensive for an espresso. I eventually lose my patience and intercept her as she takes an order at another table.
"My change?" I demand.
"No change", she says airily," there is service charge". I am outraged.
"But that was a Yasser Arafat!" I protest.
The waitress and the couple she is serving stare at me in silence. People at other tables are turning round to stare, too. I cannot recover from this, any claim to credibility lost. I make my second hasty exit of the day.

The train to Veszprem is made up of two railbuses, with a coach tucked between. I have the centre coach entirely to myself; I have a toilet, a choice of 40 seats, and open every window. There are no connecting doors between the trailers, so once moving I smoke a forbidden cigarette, knowing the conductor is trapped in the leading car. It is a long, slow climb into the hills to Porva Csesznek before the descent into the hot, dry bowl that Veszprem lies in. I work out that it's average speed is barely 40kmh. The town can be seen a long way off across the plains of stubby, yellow grass, and looks deeply unattractive. The station is a long way from town, and a scorching wind blows dust along the platform. I decide to leave the moment I arrive, and pass an hour at the Bufe, drinking cold Dreher beer and beating the fine, red dust from my shirt. A local sits next to me on the Bufe's bench: he is drinking something that looks like my unknown Bus Pub beverage, and it is not his first. He is irritating me: he insists on making conversation, but speaks no English whatsoever. He babbles in Hungarian, bits of German, and something that might be Russian; he constantly taps my shoulder or forearm to gain my attention, even though I am ignoring him completely. I slam my empty bottle on the bench and say " Tsuss" to my unwanted companion.
I arrive at Szeckesfehervar and carry my bag in circles around town; the heat is crippling, and I can find no sign of a hotel. There is no TourInform office: there are no tourists. It is an ugly town that nobody would visit anyway. It is late in the day when I arrive back at the station, lathered in sweat, empty handed.
I find a railway map on the wall of the booking hall, and try to work out the best direction to head in. I hear the familiar "English?", and before I can turn around, a plump woman has wrapped her arms around my waist, her fingers fumbling at my zip. I try to wriggle out of her grasp, but she pulls me closer.
"Sex, sex, sex, sex" she promises."Big sex, grosse sex". I push her away, but she lunges for me again. I distract her by pointing at a completely innocent man who has just emerged from the bufe. "Him", I say,"he want big sex". While they look uncertainly at each other, I escape.
I take a train for Tapolca, and hopefully, a bed for the night.
The train is slow, and it is getting dark. It will take another two hours to get to Tapolca, and then the search for lodgings. I decide to take my chances, and get off the train at Balatonkenese; there is a Panzio across the road from the station, and a sign pointing to a hotel. The owner tells me the Panzio is closed for the season, and shrugs when I ask if there are any others nearby. I follow the sign to the hotel. It is a 4 star yachting club with it's own marina on the shore of Lake Balaton; it is the only option I have.
It is horrifically expensive, two days of my budget disappear in an instant. The bar is closed, but will open again next April, I'm told. I am the hotel's only guest. They open the restaurant briefly so that I can buy a drink, the only thing in the menu I can afford with the last of my Forints. There will be no dinner tonight. I drink my precious Pilsner on my private terrace overlooking the lake. The moon reflects from it's surface, and there is only the sound of insects, the odd startled bird, and the water lapping at the shore. The view and tranquility are almost worth the cost.

Living On The Line

Today is Saturday. It is exactly two weeks since I left. I sit in a cafe on Batthyany Ter, drinking espresso, and reflecting. I no longer have a home or a job. I have only the most essential possesions, the considered contents of the one bag I can afford to carry across Europe: a few clothes, a notebook; an MP3 player, a camera. I take up residence for a day or two in a small hotel or pension in a town or city I have chosen at random from my map. Then I go to the station to find out where the next train will take me, buy a ticket, and leave. Another station, another town, another country. Every skill and resource from a lifetime serving employers and servicing bills redirected, refined, and realised: to manage an almost overwhelming amount of choice and freedom.
I clear a space on my table and spread out my map. I order another espresso, tracing the lines south, deeper into Hungary; I circle a town with a strange name that I cannot pronounce.
I know exactly where I would have been, and what I would have been doing on this day, had I not left. And where I would be tomorrow, in two weeks, a month.
I pay my bill, and walk to the station.

A Town On The Duna

I find the TourInform office in Gyor and they make a booking for me without fee, or complaint. I ask for a beer in the Bus Pub, but they cannot understand me and pour me a large glass of pale fluid. I have no idea what I am drinking: two equal measures of nameless liquid, mixed to form a slightly oily, universal, alcohol laden drink. It tastes like a very mild cheese, and leaves my mouth parched; I am drunk before the glass is even half empty. The pub is a half-basement, a few steps down from the street, and I sit at eye level with the pavement outside it's open door. On the walls are reproduction enamal Coca Cola signs, a large colour photograph of a naked, open legged woman, and an advertisment for something called Zwack. Could this be what I am drinking? I watch sandals, shoes, and trainers clatter, slap, and shuffle by the open door; these, and an awful Hungarian rap song that plays on the jukebox are drowned out by an M41 diesel leaving the station. I smell it's diesel exhaust a few moments after it passes on the line accross the street.
A fat woman with a dark, deeply lined face leans over my table, snapping her fingers at the cigarette hanging from her lips. "English?" she asks as I light it for her, "Sex?" She has a weepimg sore at the corner of her mouth, her eyes deeply bloodshot.
I walk unsteadily to my hotel. It is modestly priced, and I do not expect much. It is a converted three storey house in a quiet, leafy street behind the station, and is lovely. They give me a spotless, airy, attic room; it is tastefully decorated, and has a dormer window with views over the treetops outside. I look out over the town, like Mr Hulot on his summer holiday, then turn out the light, any thoughts of dinner lost in the haze of my anonymous drink.

It is a warm, sunny, early Autumn morning in Gyor. I change some money at a bank where a sign tells me my details will be checked with Interpol. There is no problem. The cashier thanks me, enquires about my stay, and wishes me a nice day. This is typical of the people I meet in Hungary; an export market in manners to their Northerly neighbours? I spend a fruitless hour searching for an Internet cafe in the cobbled streets and winding alleys of the Baroque old town. It is charming, but, defeated, I have to return to the TourInform office: I am directed back to a narrow street I have passed half a dozen times before.
I go to the station to find a way to Szeckeservhar. Timetables for every line in the country are pasted along the walls of a dim corridor along the station's axis. Table 3 will take me to Cellendolk, table 2 onwards to Veszprem; I find timetable 12 beside the Tabak kiosk, but it advises me to use table 14, or perhaps both 7 and 5 to reach Szeckeservhar from Veszprem. Backwards and forwards, from one side to the other, a frustrating paperchase in the gloomy corridor. I gather the component parts of my journey, and piece them together to form a crooked, ill-jointed line south from Gyor; it is such a tenuous link that it will snap with the slightest delay or diversion. I could take a train to Budapest and make a simple connection there: why would anyone want to do that?
I walk along Vagany 1 and take some photographs, pointing my lens into the evening sun, hoping to capture it's dying warmth amid the long shadows. There is a small apartment block behind a wooden fence at the end of the platform. It has a small shady garden, with washing on the line and a black cat asleep in the cool grass. An old man comes out of the front door and feeds and plays with the cat; he says something to me in Hungarian, smiles, and goes back inside. It is very quiet. The station is empty, and there are no trains. It is a tranquil, pleasing scene, played out a few feet from the mainline, a stonesthrow from the seedy Bus Pub.

I shop for provisions, and eat a simple meal of bread and cheese in my room; for company, I have evensong in the trees outside my window, and the baleful horn of a late evening train leaving town.