At Calais I am bundled, like an unwanted and unwieldy parcel, into the arms of another, equally disapproving lady, who escorts me on a train to Paris. I have no time to absorb any of the sights or sounds that batter me from every side on this part of the journey and, intrepid as I hope I am, the presence of a guide isn’t completely unwelcome. I have, after all, barely left the county before this, let alone the country. The noise and the lights and the swirl of people who all seem to know exactly where they are going is unnerving. But I feel excitement too. I am equal to this, I think.

When we step off the train at the Gare du Nord in Paris it has begun to rain and in the sea of unfurled black umbrellas I feel strangely anonymous. No one here knows who I am, and the thought is thrilling.

I am to continue to Italy on my own. The second disapproving woman escorts me to the train, her relief at completing her part of this task apparent. I climb carefully up the ladder-like steps, followed by a porter who carries the capacious carpetbag that I uncovered in one of the attics at home and points me to my seat. I am still on my feet as the train pulls away and I sway slightly as the gears grind and groan beneath me.

The whistle blows like a fanfare, and I find myself suddenly, gloriously, unbelievably alone. It is an almost frightening feeling, as though my normal life has been torn away from me – like a magician whipping away a tablecloth from beneath a full dinner service. I stow my bag in the compartment that I have all to myself, then I stretch out in my seat and laugh out loud, the sound ringing in the empty carriage.

I sit with my book unopened in my lap as I watch the blurry, rain-soaked shapes of the scenery tear past the window, as day turns to night and back again. I doze briefly, but mostly I am too excited to sleep. When I navigate the single change at Milan alone, I feel something uncurling inside me, singing through my veins, and I greet it with a sense of giddy recognition – freedom. For a wild moment I think I could just disappear: get on a train to Spain or Switzerland or deepest Russia and never be heard from again. Of course, I don’t, but the mere fact that I could is enough to leave me breathless.

There is a sense of unreality about the whole journey. I could be anywhere. The tantalizing glimpses of the landscape that rush alongside the train are gone almost before I can make sense of them. The train compartment feels small and cramped after so many hours, and I am stiff and impatient – impatient to arrive, impatient to look properly, impatient to take it all in.