Text 1: The long way north, by Mariam Price

An original contemporary travel article.

At 11.08 p.m., the night train slips out of the station so gently that my cup of tea does not tremble. This is disappointing. I had expected whistles, waving handkerchiefs and perhaps a small orchestra. Instead, the platform glides backwards and the city quietly loosens its grip.

My compartment contains a bed, a basin and a ladder, all fitted into a space that would challenge a garden shed. I can touch both walls without straightening my arms. The railway calls it a cabin. I call it an expertly organised cupboard.

Yet there is pleasure in arranging my miniature world. Shoes beneath the basin. Book beside the pillow. Ticket in the little net above my head. For once, I am travelling without having to steer, queue or stare at a departures screen. The decision has been made: for the next nine hours, I am going north.

Sleep, unfortunately, is less certain. The train rattles over points, pauses outside unknown towns and occasionally leans around a bend with enough enthusiasm to roll me towards the wall. At two in the morning, I look through the blind. Empty platforms appear briefly in the orange light and vanish again. Somewhere behind one lit window, a cleaner raises a hand. I wave back, although she probably cannot see me.

At dawn, a knock on the door announces tea. Beyond the glass, fields silvered with frost give way to a wide estuary. The train follows the water for several miles while the sun lifts itself over the opposite bank. Nobody asks me to hurry. Nobody tells me to put away my cup. I sit beneath the blanket and watch the country reveal itself at the speed of a turning page.

Flying would have been quicker and, on this occasion, cheaper. My back aches, my tea is weak and I have slept for perhaps forty minutes. These are not small objections. But air travel removes the distance between places: one building, a sealed cabin, then another building. The train has shown me the miles in between.

We arrive just after eight. Commuters stream past as I step onto the platform, creased and blinking. I would not call the journey restful, exactly. But it has given me something that speed usually steals: the feeling of having travelled.

Text 2: My first journey by steam, by Nathaniel Cole

An original diary entry written in a nineteenth-century voice; a period simulation, not an archival document.

In this entry, written in 1842, the writer describes travelling by railway for the first time.

I have this day ridden forty-two miles upon the new railway, and my hand still shakes as I record it. Whether this is due to excitement or terror, I cannot decide.

Before our departure, the engine stood breathing smoke over the platform. Valves hissed, metal rods jerked and a furnace glowed within it. I knew it to be a machine, yet it watched us like an impatient beast. An old lady in my carriage calmly unwrapped a parcel of sandwiches. Her composure shamed me, so I took my seat and attempted to look as if travelling at such a speed were my daily habit.

A shriek came from the engine, the carriages struck against one another and we were pulled forward. Houses fled past. Trees joined into green walls. Sheep appeared fixed to the fields while the earth itself seemed to race beneath us. For the first few miles I held the edge of the seat so tightly that the pattern of the cloth was pressed into my fingers.

Then fear gave way to wonder. We crossed a valley on a bridge so high that the river looked like a silver thread. A road turned beside us for a time, and a coachman urged his horses forward, though he must have known the contest was hopeless. His passengers looked up at us. I confess that I waved like a conquering general.

The journey was not comfortable. Smoke entered whenever the window was opened, while closing it made the carriage hot and close. Conversation required shouting. Nevertheless, we covered the forty-two miles in an hour and a half. My father once spent the greater part of a day upon the same road.

At our destination, I felt the foolish urge to applaud. Instead, I thanked the old lady, though for what I do not know. This railway will alter more than the length of a journey. Towns that seemed distant this morning now feel like neighbours. I rejoice at the thought, but I am unsettled too. Our age has begun to hurry, and I wonder whether our wisdom can keep pace with it.