The contestants on the series of Race Across the World just finishing (UK, BBC1), have traversed China, Nepal and India. Truly epic. I wrote a few weeks ago about being an armchair adventurer, but I wasn’t always so cautious. In 1984, my sister and I Interrailed across Europe, improvising the route as we went. The pass covered us on trains and ferries for up to a month.

I was 23 and having fun writing for magazines. Carol, 20, was on her summer break from university.

As always, I took notes! Enjoy these snippets from my European diary.

Made an impromptu decision to stay on the train overnight from Calais straight through to Venice, instead of heading to the South of France. I found the nice young guard with the horn-rimmed specs and spent the first of my French francs on the couchette upgrade.

Shared our couchette last night with a quiet, lovey-dovey French couple. We communicated solely by smiling. Awoken by the guard returning Carol’s and my passports.

Pulled back the blind to see sunlit mountains and alpine chalets. I hadn’t even realised we’d travel through the heart of Switzerland.

By the time we reached Venice in broad sunlight, we were hungry, thirsty and had headaches. Ate sarnies on the station steps, overlooking the Grand Canal. Carol bought a Let’s Go Italy guide book and I phoned one of the likely pensiones from the station pay phone. We are go!

Venice is amazing. Faded, but very lovely, and because there’s no road traffic it doesn’t have the panic and bustle of a normal city.

Climbed the Campanile (bell tower), so gaining a view of the city. I don’t understand how it floats!

I am conscious of being a tourist. Not that anyone’s made us unwelcome. Just wish I knew some Italian!

The Peggy Guggenheim art collection, housed in her own home (she died several years ago), has true style and character and faces onto the Grand Canal. It also had a wonderful sun-worshipping statue of a man on a horse, arms outflung, penis outflung. There he is, overlooking the water, lifting his head joyfully skyward. Rejoicing. A happy statue. Made me laugh.

Venice in the evening was too much after a tiring day. We tried a large restaurant off the Grand Canal. Because we were young tourists, the waiter treated us abysmally.

We’d have lobster in mayonnaise, we said. 6000 lire per 100g, he said. (Argh. We’d misunderstood the prices on the board and thought it was 6000 for the entire lobster, not per 100g!)

Mussels, then? Take 25 minutes, he said.

Clams and spaghetti? Only if we were having a main course, too.

He delivered the news with a sneer. Blasé bastard. I hate him. Don’t want your poxy food, I thought, as we shuffled away, eyes downcast. I choked back tears.

Dejected, we sat and ate street food by the canal instead.

This is more like it. 4000 lire each per night (that’s under £2!), in a little room with four comfy beds. I feel at home.

The guide book suggests real Rome is old Rome, but I enjoyed wandering up to the park, Villa Borghese. We went into the Museum of Modern Art. Old building, courtyard and gardens where you can sit with a drink and bask. Fountains where you can paddle your blistered feet.

Tonight we walked to the Coliseum, which is surrounded by a main road like Brands Hatch. “Now!” we’d cry, trying to cross, before leaping back to the kerb as a car screeched within millimetres of us. I’d heard the Italians drove fast and recklessly, but it’s a test of nerves, after the water and gondolas of Venice.

The Coliseum was shut, but we got the drift from the outside. The sunset over the Tiber and ancient Rome was magnificent.

Carol says I’ve been walking too fast for her. We should slow down. Not try quite so hard.

Went to the station to find out times of trains to the port of Brindisi, where ferries leave for Greece, and book seats for tomorrow. Carol left the queue, looking ill. As I got to the front, I heard loud sobs. It was Carol. I went and put my arm round her. People rushed to her side. Apparently, a woman asking her if she was okay had set her off. What’s wrong? everyone asked. She was exhausted! Once she’d drunk some water and recovered, we queued again. We leave at 12.20pm tomorrow.

Trying to enter the Vatican, the two women at the door said I’d have to cover my arms. I find it humiliating. They’re employed to eye up your body. Judge a low neckline from a high one, a short skirt from a long one. Emphasis on the flesh, purely because the flesh isn’t to be emphasised. Strange. We sat on the steps. A man shooed us off. We sat on the steps further down.

Found our seats on the train, chatted to the two American boys next to us. Late setting off and we are further behind schedule at each station. People assure us the ferry will wait. Foreigners taking reassurance from each other.

We were stranded here last night, along with 15 or so people like us (though no other Brits) when our “Rapide” train – for which we’d paid a surcharge – cleverly arrived so late that we missed the ferry to Greece!

Everyone scattered at the station. Wearing our shorts and carrying our bags, we were called at every few seconds by taxi drivers and men on the street. It wasn’t very nice. We checked at the Eurail office that the ferry HAD gone. I put on my dress over my shorts. Where would we stay? Who knows.

On the way back up the hill, we ran into the other ferry-catchers coming down. What a relief to see Paul and Boyd, the two Americans, again.

We congregated in the town square, everyone hugging backpacks and laughing and talking. Mixed nationalities, but we understood one another.

Someone suggested we all put our bags in the middle of the square and form a circle round them in our sleeping bags.

Brindisi locals looked on in amusement. I don’t like this town.

Paul and Boyd chatted to a policeman.

“They have a waiting room where we can stay safely.”

Shall we? Shan’t we?

“Hey! If you guys want to be bothered, stay here,” said the policeman. “If you don’t, come with us.”

We went.

The night on the police station balcony has been very comfortable. Woke as the sun rose.

I like my companions. Students, mostly. Amazing how humour comes across, no matter what language you speak. The delay could have been awful, but it’s great. We’ve made friends.

Today, we’ll find a nearby beach while we wait for tonight’s ferry. Don’t want to stay in Brindisi. Awful place.

Hot hot hot. I wish that when we were stranded in Brindisi for the day we’d not spent quite so long on the beach. I’m burned. Factor 4 isn’t enough.

On the ferry crossing there were no seats left, so we slept on deck, surrounded by raucous, laughing Americans mainly. One talked about his “survival kit”: beer, drugs and Durex. Hmph!

In the middle of the night, the ship gave an almighty roar. The foghorn. It was cold, wet and our sleeping bags were damp. I put on a jumper.

I dozed off and woke to see the dawn over Corfu, the moon hanging full and creamy over the island.

In Corfu, while Carol changed some currency, the loo cleaner approached us. “You want room? Good clean room tomorrow, can sleep tonight on floor.”

Her name was Helena, and after some deliberation we took her up on the offer.

Her flat is on the third floor of a shady house in a back street. She lives with a constant stream of visitors. It’s overcrowded – just one shower and loo, but Helena is good-natured. Her grandson Kristos is staying. He’s 11 and very bright and funny. Good English. He showed us card tricks the moment we sat at the table.

Noticed in Corfu town: shrouded Greek ladies all in black, sitting on steps. Fur shops, which seem totally incongruous in this heat. Smells: slightly rancid and fetid. Male attention, though not as blatant and off-putting as in Italy.

Took a crowded bus to Paleokastritsa on the other side of the island. Lovely green, mountainous scenery. Precipitous. Dangerous.

I swam in T-shirt and shorts, to save my skin. It looked more suggestive than going topless! All clingy and wet (and droopy!).

I’ve had moments of panic in the sea. Trying to reassure myself that there aren’t sharks. Suddenly scared of seaweed. Fear of swimming into fish or jellyfish! On the third swim I saw several fish leap out. I turned back.

As there are only six of us here now, Carol and I have the best room to ourselves. So many noises here. Woke to shouts, screams, birds, music – Cyndi Lauper and Frankie Goes to Hollywood – TVs. Bagpipes last night.

My knees burned on the boat. My suntan/burn is like patchwork.

When we got off the ferry, I ran to the bank. A man peered out at me. Closed, he said with his arms and face. I made a pleading sign, He sent me to the travel agent. Also closed. Eventually, I got some drachmas for some of my French money at the Ionian Lines office.

What a strange, scorching place this is. Here from the café opposite the port I can see Ithaca, where we’ll be going in half an hour. Rocky, mountainous and dry. Barren. Kefalonia is slightly greener.

It isn’t surprising that these whole islands quaked and shook 31 years ago. In 1953, they split open and villages and towns were destroyed. I can imagine it. Here, in this heat and dryness, it’s easy to hear a rumble.

The people are friendly. What happened to the population when the earth quaked. How many died?

I like this ruggedness. It’s awesome, has a dangerous feel to it.

The ferry to Ithaca got in late. Carol and I sat in the shade near the exit and discovered we were near the sailor’s kitchen. We were hungry. We smelled the food. We watched the sailors. They appeared to watch us.

Suddenly, one of the sailors, an elderly chap, popped his head round the kitchen door. “You wanna eat? You want some food?”

I glanced at Carol. It smelled so good. “Ok,” I laughed.

We went into their dining room. Basic tables and benches. Several tanned Greek sailors, all eating and smiling at us. They laughed. None of them spoke much English. They served us bread and green beans in tasty tomato sauce. Plates of chips. Slabs of feta cheese. It was SO good. We smiled. Efcharistó (thank you), we said.

When we’d finished, they brought out a plate of plump, juicy peaches.

Ithaca’s main port looked like a toy town. More green than the west of the island had suggested. Prettier. It rose upwards, but the little toy town of Noddy houses rose with it.

In the ticket office, we heard the Swedish girl behind us (Astrid) saying that a man had a room for four people. She was talking to another lone Dutch girl. Four of us, all together. We teamed up.

The house is beautiful. Our beds are in a converted living room. The house has gardens and a cat, Tinto. A modern bathroom. His wife offered us Greek coffee. We sat on the patio and drank and chatted.

Ate our yoghurt and honey breakfast in the shade of a statue overlooking the water, then walked along the south of the bay as far as we could go. There are a couple of beaches along there.

On the road, we met Astrid coming back to pick up her things. She’s gone now to stay in a tent with an American woman. We’d seen her tent earlier on our southern expedition, pitched inside the frame of a hut. We’d laughed at the ‘house within a house’.

Ate at Moma’s which is run by Germans but serves the best Greek food I’ve tasted. Tonight, tried octopus. We were joined by Giles, an Englishman involved in Greek Island sailing holidays. He’s been checking out Ithaca for possible bases, though he has qualms about it, not wanting to spoil the idyllic fishing villages to the north.

We went on to the free music festival. Greek folk music tonight. A complex sound.

Caught the motor boat to Kioni, a small, pretty village in the north, practically unaffected by the 1953 earthquake. Swam at a nearby beach.

In the evening, Carol and I went to Moma’s with Astrid and Maya. Maya asked the German waiter, who’s always hassled, but is utterly charming, if he needed help. He said “No” rather abruptly. She wondered if she’d offended him. After we’d asked several times, he brought our coffees.

“I didn’t mean to insult you. I meant, did you need help – literally. I’m looking for work.”

“Then I go,” he said. Maya didn’t hear.

“What did he say?” she asked when he’d gone.

“If you work here, he’ll have to go!” I said.

Instead of being woken by music and voices, like in Corfu, we’re woken by cocks crowing at 4am. Donkey’s ee-awing (or is it o-heeing?), and the cidadas sound like they’ve just heard the latest news. An insistent fly would buzz in my ear every so often. Carol and I laugh as we each jump and slap our faces. It’s a standing joke now.

Today we walked up the rough track towards the Cave of Nymphs.

It was hot and breezy. We can cope with that now. But the insects! Cicadas sprang at us, buzzing horribly as they landed for an instant before being shaken off. Butterflies and flies, too. If I’d been alone, I’d have been a nervous wreck.

“I’m a donkey,” I laughed, realising that they have to put up with flies without complaint or fear. Just a swish of the tail.

“I’m a goat,” said Carol.

The path wound around. Up the hill – mountain, more like – we saw two potential caves in the distance. Both, in the heat, looked daunting. I wouldn’t have minded if it weren’t for the insects. I still squealed and sweated.

We turned back. Let Odysseus keep his treasure!

“I’m a donkey,” said Carol.

“By the way I’m jumping, I think I’m a cicada!” I laughed.

Found the beach where Odysseus was meant to have landed after his travels. Swam.

Packed. Paid. We have to catch the 7am ferry to Kefalonia tomorrow. I love it here. Not sure I want to leave, but…

We got seats inside last night, which was good as Carol had indigestion. I took my last 100 drachmas to see what it would buy. Two boiled eggs, two rolls and – at a pinch – some butter. Egg butties and half a coffee each.

The ship is the nicest ferry I’ve been on. Full length deck chairs on deck. Very comfortable.

Yesterday, while waiting for the ferry connection at Kefalonia, we walked to Melissani, to a lake-filled cavern, which is lit by the midday sun, the water becoming a perfect azure blue. Little boats ferry visitors around the inside of the cave. It felt like being inside a whale. Pondered the depth of the crystal water, so clear you could see to the bottom.

Once again, noticed how lean and beautiful and tanned many of our fellow travellers are, both men and women.

In Florence, we wandered around looking for a pensione. All full. Or rather, all full once we mentioned “una notta”. We changed it to “due notte”, which will mean no time for Paris, but might not be a bad thing, and got in here. It’s a nice room, three beds, but doesn’t look like there’ll be anyone else here tonight. Showers extra, so we’ll just use the basin and bidet.

Delighted with Florence. Surprises at every turn. Such beauty and style. More stunning men than I’ve ever seen in my life. God knows what they’re like behind the image, but I’m quite happy just to stare! After Britain, stylish men are a novelty. My eyes pop!

Today we went to the Festival del Gelato, which Let’s Go reckoned had the largest selection of ice-cream flavours. Yum.

Everything in Florence is close together, which saves our feet and enthusiasm. We came last night upon the Duomo, the Uffizi Gallery and the Ponte Vecchio, with all the little houses perched precariously right over the water, appearing to be held up only by struts. We walked across and found the inner bridge, smothered in gold shops and jewellers. We agreed that Florence would be a lovely city to be rich in.

The view from the Duomo is of a mass of cream walls, red tile of sloping roofs, surrounded by green trees.

I noticed how many different kinds of people ride mopeds. Elegantly dressed, earringed and made-up women; cream-suited men with sunglasses and well-cut hair. A punk or two, a skinhead or two; casually dressed people. No crash helmets.

We also saw a vast number of people with broken limbs. Surely due to road accidents. One poor girl had her arm cast out to the side, in line with her shoulder. Her boyfriend guided her in and out of the shoppers. How awkward. How did she sleep? How did she eat?

Found the other famous ice-cream shop, Vivoli. We had no money left, so we just allowed our mouths to water.

We’ve shared our carriage with an Italian family. Dad acts as a dad to us all, annoying Carol and I. “Bella! Bella!” he said admiringly, when he first saw us. But he assumed last night we didn’t know how to put the pillowcases on our pillows. It’s OK, it’s OK, we kept saying.

He assumed we wanted our heads near the door, when we like to sleep with our heads near the window. He decided when the couchettes went down last night (later than I’d have liked, as I was falling asleep). He decided when they were packed up (earlier than I’d have liked). I like windows open, he likes them shut.

Still, a nice family. They brought lots of food and flasks of coffee. Carol and I have just crunchy bread left, and a cheese triangle.

We think their journey must have something to do with the son’s cello.

On the Channel ferry, we spotted the difference in British travellers; the proliferation of rain macs and plastic hats, even though it wasn’t raining. A far cry from the sun-bronzed bodies on the Greek ferries!

At Victoria station, our final destination, we saw the Italian family all together with their luggage. Dad had commandeered a trolley. Strange seeing them suddenly dazed and foreign and wandering.

Just a day earlier, that had been us.

? Please do comment if you’re able. I love to hear your thoughts.

Thanks to all who engaged with last week’s piece, Fading to Grey. Your own comments about doppelgangers and mistaken identity were pure gold!

It’s exactly a year today since I published my first piece here (The Mystery of Rolanda Polonsky). When I started, I wasn’t sure what I would write. My tag line is “Arts, books, history, life!” But the emphasis is definitely on “life!”. And what a lovely response there’s been so far. Thanks for reading along.

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Until next time!

© Wendy Varley 2025