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Venice Simplon Orient Express Review

Welcome back to part two of my personal guide to the ultimate rail trip: The Orient Express, from London to Paris.  We pick up where we left off, stepping off from our London Pullman all set to cross the English Channel…

What no chunnel?

Folkestone Station Mariachi band

No sooner have you polished off your coffee and designer truffle than the announcement comes to prepare for disembarking in Folkestone West.  The surrealism of the trip gets cranked up a notch here as you are serenaded by your own personal Mariachi band in jolly yellow garbs on Folkestone station.

The second phase of the journey gets odder yet though.  This being an authentic 1920s train, it’s unsuitable for the Channel Tunnel, so you traverse the Franco English Pond (as those crazy Eurocrats would have it, according to the Daily Mail at least) via a luxury coach which itself gets transferred aboard a cargo train.  Of course the coach first has to queue with all the rest of the chunnel traffic and go past the border controls, so bear in mind that this can take around one and a half to two hours.  No matter though, it’s a perfectly pleasant air-conditioned coach, on which you are bribed with savoury snack bowls, orange juice and fancy water. Being on the cargo train is a profoundly strange experience.  Unless you are sitting in the window seat you can see virtually nothing of the tunnel outside and even the motion of the train is barely perceptible for most of the way. Among the trpiadvisor reviews there’s a few surprisingly primadonnaish rants regarding this part of the journey, but the only thing which made this leg of the journey grate a tad for me was the ‘conversation’ of a group of west country horse trainers in the seats opposite us.  For several hours we were regaled with a unflinchingly meticulous history of the various jockeys, trainers and racehorse owners working in Britain over the last five decades and their respective merits.

Eventually this came to a merciful end and we decanted from the coach at Calais Ville. Here you get some time to fill your lungs with air (or in my case nicotine) while they transfer luggage for the French leg of the journey. It’s a perfect time also to take some snaps and the staff are more than happy to line up and pose in their natty uniforms.  At Calais you board another train (a French Wagon Lits) even more resplendent than the last.  Every marble and lacquered surface has been polished within an inch of its life, so that it almost feels churlish to actually set foot in it.  Your brass buttoned captain then makes himself known to you, demonstrates the myriad features of your cabin and advises that he can be at your beck and call at the press of a button, but really only a confirmed finnick could possibly need to take him up on this, such is the service offered throughout.

Wagon Lits cabin par nuit

Although it’s not obligatory, you might want to reserve a private cabin (the journey is actually priced to include your private cabin, but you can request to downgrade for a discount of around £50 if you wish) for the French leg, giving you the best opportunity to get changed into your evening get-up.  It also adds to the experience of course as you can take some time to stretch out on your slumpy-soft banquette in anticipation of the awaiting feast.  There’s plenty of space to get dressed if you take it in turns and you can have a dainty splash at your vanity unit-cum-sink, although note that these trains were made before the days of ubiquitous showers.  If you’re stopping in Paris, then expect to get about an hour to prettify yourself before dinner as you’ll certainly be served at the first sitting.  (Believe it or not you will easily manage eating again despite the meals being spaced just six hours apart.)

Dressed to Express

Success, the haberdashery matches the nylons!

The dress code is straight forward enough and well explained on the OE site and advance bumpf.  It’s smart day wear for the English leg (my woolen trews, black work shirt and patent leather shoes seemed to pass muster) and black tie evening wear for the dinner sitting on French soil.  Virtually all gents did the obligatory penguin suit, with a few smart blazer combos here and there, while most ladies opted for colour coordinated cocktail dresses and accessories, though a smattering went all out for the vintage glam look, with fans, boas and some serious statement jewelery in evidence.  Dressing up for the occasion is of course a big part of the fun, but it’s not something to agonise over too much beforehand – not that it stopped us of course!  Don’t be too blase about their guidelines though.  Paying customer or no, if you roll up in jeans and trainers they’re within their rights to refuse you entrance to the dining car!

Dinner in the diner

You have  a choice of three different dining cars to choose from, all equally lavish.  The Michelin-standard fayre is reliably delicious and the staff remarkably unstuffy about serving it.  So much so in fact that when we were seated opposite our equine friends once again (oh yes) the lead prattler jokily requested a second main course from the chef.  He got exactly that without so much as a Gallic shrug.

Delaying the big moment

The lady varnishes

While pretty Normandy farm buildings rolled past us and the sun began to set, I was busy gearing up for my big moment. I knew that which my partner did not.  It was time for a certain question to be popped.  Imagine my sheepish chagrin then when a gentleman at the table directly behind us stole my quietly percolating thunder amid a ripple of applause from the rest of the carriage.  My dear one’s instant response: ‘Oh no, that poor girl must be mortified.’  A Plan B clearly in order, I steeled myself (after a brief mental wobble weighing alternative settings such as the privacy of our hotel room or under a moonlit Seine walkway) and steered us into the cocktail bar after dinner.  The pre-dinner rush didn’t take long to dissipate meaning that we had the bar and it’s intimate tables and low level sofas- replete with baby grand piano and Play it Again Sam Pianist – almost to ourselves by 9pm, so out came the craftily stowed ring and well, I think you can probably guess the rest…

The end of the line

Deco details

The last few hours passed all too quickly of course, intoxicated as we were by a heady cocktail of our impending nuptials, Amaretto, Prosecco and Calvados, even though a track-related issue further down the line meant that we were delayed by over an hour.  (My giddy freshly-minted fiance even confessed to guilty wishes that the delay be extended further, but stopped short of it involving the sacrifice of a human life).

We met many lovely people on the way, most of them a few decades our senior, celebrating special birthdays, anniversaries or simply ‘now-or-never’ impulses.  There was nothing remotely snooty about our fellow travellers and the excitement felt by everyone on the trip was gleefully palpable. It was hugs and hearty handshakes all round in the vestibule.

At around half eleven our royal blue gilded chariot finally ground to a stop in a surprisingly sedate Gare de L’Est station and we bade it our tearful farewells as we skipped arm-in-arm to the taxi rank and three great nights in the city of lights.

Got any burning questions or your own journey of a lifetime to share?  You know what to do!

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