Some epic journeys begin on a lark. Others embody a philosophy.
Then there's this one, which does both.
In this four-part series, writer Joel Down takes us along for an 8,900-kilometer (5,500-mile), 42-day journey by train — well, mostly train — from London to Incheon, the gateway to Korea. Along the way, we will experience some of the many sites, sounds, aromas and flavors Joel discovered during his travels and meet some of the colorful personalities he met on the rails and roads of Eurasia.
Strap in — it's a long ride ahead.
- Ed.
The night before I set out for Seoul — an 8,900-kilometer (5,500-mile) trek as the crow flies — I was sharing a beer with friends on a rooftop in London. As the fire pit crackled between us, one of them relayed his girlfriend’s reaction to my plans.
"What’s wrong with the bloke – can’t he just take a plane?"
"Really? So she thinks I'm mad."
"We all do, but it's the right kind of madness," he assured me.
I wanted to believe him. In the days leading up to the journey, I had become restless, unable to sleep as I fixated on everything that could go wrong — from earthquakes in Turkey to risky border crossings in some of the world’s geopolitical hotspots.
At least I was well-prepared.
Armed with a 70-liter (18.5-gallon) slash-proof backpack, a spare phone, a spreadsheet of expenses, a laptop and a long list of bookings, I had done the legwork. Many of the finer points had been fleshed out with AI — which could even find the email addresses of niche transport companies when I needed them. The legitimacy of this research was called into question, however, when I asked Copilot to create a map of my very linear route. It drew a giant circle from “Londan” to “Incheen,” even suggesting I take a ship through mainland Russia.
London to Milan
For now, all I had to do was catch the 9:33 a.m. Eurostar to Paris. I found my way to the elegant red-brick facade of London St. Pancras Station, hugged my mum tightly and assured us both that everything would be okay.
There is hardly a better train to demonstrate the possibilities of rail travel than one that goes under the sea, and connects two European capitals in less time than you can read Baudelaire’s “Les Fleurs de Mal.” The Eurostar is perhaps the continent’s smoothest operator, with air conditioning, upholstered furnishings and an iconic lick of paint.
People who have never taken the Eurostar tend to confuse it with a theme park ride or an aquarium. And who can blame them? A train that travels under a body of water is pretty special.
I took my seat next to a family who were quizzing each other on Premier League footballers.
“Odegaard or Saka?” The father asked his son.
“Saka, obviously!” Came the reply. They supported Arsenal, my football team, which felt like a good omen.
Changing trains in at Modane in the French Alps {JOEL DOWN}
Setting out from low-lying Paris, my next train would tilt the journey skywards, eventually hitting 1,050 meters (3,445 feet) at the border town of Modane in the French Alps before burrowing through the mountains and striding past Bardonecchia, an Italian town nestled at the foot of a vast ridge. This part of the ride is particularly inspiring, with the tracks veering towards cloud-capped peaks and overlooking deep valleys awash with urban lights.
I leaned into the window as dusk stole through the valley and the train began its slow descent towards Milan, the industrial and fashion capital of Italy.
Milan to Zagreb
Milan comes at you all tangled tramlines, concrete sculptures and speeding sedans. However, behind the bravado, I found it to be a friendly, sentimental, even peaceful city. I bought a
piadina
— an Italian flatbread — the next day, and spent a few hours taking in unusual sights like Bosco Verticale, a “living” skyscraper draped in trees.
Statuary at Milan Central Train Station [JOEL DOWN]
I then returned to Milano Centrale and boarded my train to the coast. Another high-speeder, it glided past emerald vineyards, sloping hills and industrial tracts before shooting above a forest canopy and inching toward the northeastern Italian port city of Trieste. Views from the dining car were dazzling in this last stretch; the broad surface of the Adriatic Sea looked like a sheet of blue silk, ruffled by the wind.
I spent the morning in Trieste, drinking coffee and discovering some local sites, including a home built with vinegar instead of water in the mortar — above the door is a sculpture of three eagles tearing apart a snake, symbolizing the defeat of the French emperor Napoleon by Russia, Prussia and Austria.
Italian countryside after Verona, as seen from the dining car [JOEL DOWN]
However, the hostel stay brought me down to earth with a bump. It was unsettling to be staying in such places again after so many years without having to deal with loud snoring or moldy rooms. Sure enough, there was a sadness about the hostel in Trieste, where lonely men sat in the bar watching late-night basketball, and the staff swore at people for leaving the door open.
It was not like I had a choice in the matter. My estimated cost for this adventure was approximately $3,300, and in Europe's more expensive cities — including my next stop, Zagreb — hostels were my best shot at staying on budget.
Zidani Most, Slovenia
With two days to explore Zagreb, I found my way to the Museum of Lost Tales. Enriched with digital artworks, this small space relates an untold history of the Slavic diaspora, where stories of headless Gods and sinister spirits proliferate. One deity is said to have eaten the sun, which would have won applause in Zagreb, given the heat and humidity that had settled into the city.
I thought about the slow-speed train I had taken to get here. Huge limestone cliffs loomed above a river, while a strong breeze cooled the inside of the old-fashioned coach car as it juddered over the tracks. The foliage was so dense it seemed to act like natural air conditioning, a luxury that I’d miss on the next leg. Indeed, Slovenia alone houses 1 percent of global biodiversity, despite covering just 0.004 percent of the Earth’s surface.
Zagreb to Montenegro
Because the rail network between the Balkan nations remains, well, Balkanized, I had to catch a coach out of Zagreb. The sour-looking driver shrugged when I showed him my ticket, permitting me to take my seat next to a boiling-hot engine.
Minutes oozed by as temperatures rose to 34 degrees Celsius (93.2 degrees Fahrenheit), then 35, then 36. Small fires broke out along the agricultural plains. When we hit the Serbian border, I glanced downwards to find my leg covered in a red liquid. Was my skin on fire?
Not quite. The dye from my grocery bag had melted onto my calf. By the time we’d reached Belgrade, I was feeling like the scorched sunflowers I’d seen along the way. Faces turned earthwards, leaves curling at the edges.
View from the fortress in Belgrade, Serbia [JOEL DOWN]
With my battery running low and no data access in Serbia, I had to rely on the kindness of strangers to find my accommodation. A local student helped me onto the right tram to the city center, where I paced the same street up and down until Broky, a 23-year-old Chinese waiter, poured me a glass of water, found a table and said I could stay as long as I needed.
This was a pattern across the Balkans. For every stern bus driver, there were two or three friendly faces who made me feel welcome. When my seat was “stolen” on an eight-hour train to Montenegro, the culprit poured me a cup of Turkish coffee in apology.
Noticing that I’d set my tripod on the table, he added:
Onboard the Eurostar [JOEL DOWN]
“The views are better on your side anyway.”
They were breathtaking. Towers of grey karst rock skimmed the sky, just as the snaking Sava River slithered ever deeper into the ground.
I got into a conversation with the two German women sitting opposite me, who said they would have rather taken the sleeper service had it not been sold out. It has gained popularity for its famous mountain sunrise.
“So where are you going?” I was asked.
“Now? I’m going to Mojkovac, in the north [of Montenegro]. But after that, I’ll be traveling all the way to Seoul.”
They raised their eyebrows.
“On trains?”
“Trains, coaches, a ferry. Anything goes, really.”
“Why Seoul? That’s pretty far.”
“My girlfriend just moved back there, and she kept telling me what an amazing country it is — so I’ve decided to follow her.”
“How come you’re not flying?”
I explained that I had always avoided planes because of their impact on the planet. When I was 13, I signed a pledge not to fly at all after I watched a harrowing documentary about climate change.
While I didn’t expect to come home the same way, this journey felt like taking my commitment to its natural end. A flight from London to Seoul emits 1.8 tons of carbon dioxide equivalent per passenger, whereas my primarily train journey would release about 744 kilograms — reason enough to take the slow route.
“I’m catching one plane, though,” I confessed. “For safety reasons.”
The train screeched to a halt outside an empty station. There was a chill in the air, and I could smell pinewood from the lumberyard. I had arrived in Mojkovac.
My triangular cabin — just 25 euros a night — sat on a floodplain of Montenegro’s Tara River, home of Europe’s deepest canyon. Despite the tap-tap-tap of woodworms gnawing at the beams above my head, and the screeching of crickets in the fields around me, I wouldn’t have traded it for anything.
When I awoke the following morning, I was mobbed by a pair of dogs. One of them, a stray, would follow me around for the next three days — panting in the heat as I crossed the highway to get groceries.
Dragan, my Montenegrin host, agreed to drive me to the nearby Biogradska Gora National Reserve. He had wrinkles as deep as a plowed field and fingernails that had grown so thick from his work, they looked like they were made of resin. We communicated mainly with gestures and translation apps, as I strained to convey how beautiful the surroundings were.
Lake Biogradsko in Montenegro [JOEL DOWN]
Inside the park, I was greeted by an audacious level of greenery. Biogradska Gora holds one of Europe’s last native rainforests, with a crystalline lake at its core.
While Korea has 600-year-old zelkova trees, and the United States has its ancient redwoods, Montenegro is all about the beech tree. Gnarled and lichen-coated, many are as thick as truck tires, taller than office buildings and stretch back half a millennium. Looking up at their branches, I planned an ascent to the park's peak. It took me ten hours to get back down — ensuring that I’d never forget this place.
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