The smell of steam, fumes and the sound of diesel engines, mixing in the cacophony of a busy train station just before Christmas, when few people had cars and flying was for the super-rich. In all that hurly-burly, an almost five-year-old boy torments his mother because the red engine that he had fallen in love with is not the engine that pulls the train they are about to board. Only when she allows the boy to give the engine a good kick with his foot does he agree to board their train to Hamburg.

It was still post-war Germany and the trip to Hamburg was an adventure for the boy, and so he quickly forgot about that red engine. There was no direct train, but dedicated wagons (Kurswagen) that would be shunted on different stops and connected with another train for the next segment of the trip. No change-overs with endless waiting on wind chilled platforms. The rail tracks weren’t continuously welded, and so the lullaby was the click-a-di-clack of the wheels on the gaps.

The train was overcrowded and it had taken quite an effort to secure two seats in second class for the mother of the boy and his aunt. The boy didn’t require a ticket because of his age. So he had to squeeze in between the adults. Seats in the compartment could be pulled down fully to form an almost level sleeping surface for six people. It wasn’t exactly comfortable, but it was better than sitting up all night. The scent of the plastic seats, the odours of half-eaten home-made snacks and the moderately pleasant fragrances of unfamiliar people created a universe of smells.

That boy was me on my first long-distance train trip. Sorry, no selfies then, not even a camera.

It’s a riddle to me how this first train ride turned me into the railway enthusiast that I have been ever since.