So in the afternoon, I got drunk on the train from Belgrade to Istanbul, whilst reading an entire book on the Arab-Israeli conflict. It’s amazing how two litres of special-brew standard Serbian beer makes the time go by, accompanied by the necessary repeated stops to the grubby little toiley on this grubby little train. Staffed, of course by it’s own grubby attendant.

A little man of about 55, he delivered the great benefit of both having a great sense of humour and the ability to humour constant misunderstanding between us. The biro I had brought to fill in my Interrail pass seemed to be broken. Shaking the pen and my head with a mournful expression, indicating that he might lend me his own pen, naturally he read it as an Englishman’s inability to write the date, seizing the ticket it and doing it himself.

Unshaven, with greying combed-back hair and the unmistakable- and it has to be said- predictable aroma of Body odour and cigarette smoke, his own cabin seemed to be wallpapered with old newspapers, ash and dirty socks.

To experience such masochistic grubbiness as an escape from the sterile, safe and mundane circumstances of ones own existence, is, of course, the only good reason for someone to undertake as impractical a trip at this out of choice. In the circumstances, the only logical course of action seemed to be to stop worrying about how I was going to get to Syria, and to just get pissed.

As the water surged down the toilet bowl into the daylight on one of my frequent trips to the amenities, I couldn’t help chuckling.

What the hell was I doing on this train, surrounded by people who I couldn’t communicate with, rolling through God knows where, in a part of the world most people, by choice avoided? Back in England, it had looked like such a good idea- and had made a good story to catch the attention of friends and casual acquaintances alike- the UCAS form too.

But to actually now be on this train, to have gone through with it? Bloody hell, Ben West, what are you playing at?

With Serbian beer flowing through my veins, it was a mixture of disbelief, excitement and trepidation, culiminating in a brief, self-satisfied chuckle. My condition made me even more convinced of the need to clutch the money belt containing passport, tickets and cards. All being well, I would soon be in Asia, having not missed an inch of land or railway track in between here and the UK.

***

I came to my senses, hearing what sounded like the cabin next door being kicked in repeatedly, accompanied by shouts of ‘PAZZPOR KANTROWL’.

Dear God. I had woken up into a war film. They had boarded the train at the border, and, at the last minute, thwarted our escape into neutral territory. Should I jump out the window, or hide under the sink? They would soon discover my true identity, and I would be returned to the POW camp, thrown into jail -or, if my identity papers were not in order, shot as an enemy spy.

Glancing at the clock on my mobile, it was 2am. Had we reached the Turkish border early? I knew at that stage we would be woken up and have to get off the train, and had set my alarm. I quickly got out of bed, put on my shoes, and sat up straight, holding my passport and ticket.

My turn came, and I was ready for him, opening the door of my cabin to save him the trouble, and tentatively handing him my passport, trying to work out the flag embroidered on his shoulder. No Red or crescent, I wasn’t sure of the Bulgarian flag, although, if it wasn’t Turkey, it had to be Bulgaria, didn’t it?

Final destination? Turkey, I blurted, hoping to avoid complication. Shit. He’d seen the Syrian visa glued into a page of the passport- the game was up. Pause. EU? He murmered, half to himself. Yes, I eagerly replied. No comment. He handed the passport back, moving on and giving what sounded like hell to the Serbian fellow a few doors down. God bless European integration.

A few minutes later, the sleeping car attendant wandered by; from what I understood, we’d be at the Turkish border proper in about 10 minutes. “Visa…buy, vend?” I asked, sheepishly. He nodded, and made a joke- as far as I could tell- that the train would not leave without me when I went onto the platform to buy my the 10 GBP stamp in my visa necessary to enter Turkey. I was in this fine man’s hands.

Within an hour, I was back asleep. Just a few hours afrter that, the sun rose through the gaps in the red velvet curtains that barely covered the window. I could the unmistakable concrete skeletons of high-rise holiday apartments under construction. Who’d've thought it? I had actually made it to Turkey.