MAKE no mistake about it, we are entering a second golden railway age. That was confirmed when a man of the stature of Richard Branson, no less, promised to bring to York trains of such astonishing speed that you would arrive before you left, thus rendering the buffet car redundant. A golden age indeed.

Writers like Dickens and artists like Stanhope Forbes captured the excitement of the first golden railway age. Alas, there is no modern equivalent. When will Alan Ayckbourn pen Blithe Northern Spirit? Why doesn't Damien Hirst slice a passenger in half and pickle him, calling it "Commuter and mobile phone divided"?

To try to set the cultural wheel turning, as it were, I have been compiling a journal of my recent experiences of train travel. This is a modest work but one, I hope, that captures the thrill of travelling in style and comfort along Britain's Millennium railway.

Here is an extract.

"Friday, October 22, 1999, 5pm. I am writing this in the splendour of York Station, awaiting the Virgin service to Glasgow. It is slightly delayed: no matter. I take the time to admire the architectural wonder that surrounds me.

"Every day harassed commuters rush hither and yon without the chance to gaze at the glory above them, that awesome vaulted roof that veers towards adventures unseen...

"5.30pm. No sign as yet of my train. How grateful I am to Mr Branson for providing this unscheduled moment of stillness with which to observe my fellow man. I smile as I witness passengers of all ages arrive and depart, jauntily embarking on a weekend of high excitement. Except for those of us awaiting the Glasgow train of course...

"6pm. Still no train, yet this extra time allows me another opportunity to admire the Corinthian-capped columns that stretch majestically - oh, who am I kidding - Where's That **??!@! Train???

"6.10pm. Finally aboard the Virgin Express. My Glasgow-based friend has kindly upgraded my tickets to First Class. This allows me to enjoy the First Class litter strewn about the carriage, certainly a cut above standard class litter. I also delight in the First Class service which is discreet to the point of anonymity. The staff are clearly trained not to disturb the passengers, or even put in an appearance...

"10.50pm. Arrive in Glasgow, only six hours after I arrived at York Station. This means those kind folk at Virgin have saved me all that money I would have otherwise wasted on the city's nightlife. Instead I enter the streets at chucking out time, the perfect moment to admire the vigour and wit of this fine city's natives."

"Friday, November 12, 9pm. Now I feel I am a true York Station expert. Thanks to a freight train breakdown somewhere in the vicinity of Darlington, my GNER train to Newark is delayed by at least 90 minutes. This affords me the chance to try out the Tiles Bar, amid the grandeur of the Royal York Hotel. Tiles' motto, I soon realise, is 'service with a grunt'.

"11pm. Back at home. After receiving new advice that the train will not pull into Newark until the early hours, I swap plans for a rare night out with my brother for the real treat of a Eurotrash rerun."

"Saturday, July 22, 2000. The GNER service to Doncaster is technically on time, so we departed 15 minutes late. I secured my usual seat, in the corridor between two packed carriages. The sprint across Doncaster station to catch my connection to Cleethorpes did me the power of good.

"As I crouch here in a two-carriage sprinter, enjoying the unique aroma of the toilet opposite every time the door slides open to admit another over-excited, seaside-bound child, I realise why no other form of transport can compete with the railways.

"It's the elegance of train travel that I so adore."