Rory Moulton - Europe by Milk Run: A Solo Travel Experiment from Copenhagen to Barcelona

Rory Moulton

Europe by Milk Run

A Solo Travel Experiment from Copenhagen to Barcelona

First published by EuroExperto 2022

Copyright 2022 by Rory Moulton

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

To protect the innocent and unaware, names, times and some distinguishing characteristics have been altered.

First edition

ISBN: 978-1-954778-07-8

Editing by Barbara Noe Kennedy

This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy
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A solo travel experiment from Copenhagen to Barcelona

When an acquaintance of author Rory Moulton declares that traveling Europe isnt real travel, Rory sets out to prove him wrong.

In this solo travel memoir, the author rides slow trains, explores off-beat neighborhoods and attractions, eats at restaurants so lost in time hes amazed they know when to open and befriends unforgettable characters, some of whom actually like him. Rory embarks with little more than a backpack, Eurail Pass and a vague notion of which direction he should be traveling. Along the way, he:

• repels a cat invasion in Amsterdam,
• loses all his money and documents,
• witnesses a magical sunset in a ruined church,
• meets WWII-doubting Kiwis,
• investigates a haunted prison,
• explores Europes most beautiful, albeit abandoned, train station
• and much more

Europe by Milk Run shows that traveling Europe at ground level reveals the Continents greatest treasures.

T he train trundled into Bayeuxs deserted two-platform country station, stopping fast with a jerk on voie one. The northwest-bound slow route had departed Paris Gare Saint-Lazare (Monets favorite), snaked through the Seine River Valley and reached the Normandy countryside in four hours. Lost in slow-train and farm-field revelry, I unstuck my forehead from the window, roused myself and realized: This was my stop!

Our sudden arrival caught me savoring Normandys pasture-and-apple orchard daydream. I hastily threw my computer and notebook into my green backpack and stuffed my Eurail Pass and creased passport into my blue-canvas document holder. I jumped up, hoisted my pack and leapt off the train just before the doors closed and the TER regional train scampered toward the woodlands of the Cotentin Peninsula. Bayeux stations parking lot sat empty, and I was the lone disembarking passenger.

I was about halfway through my three-week solo train journey from Copenhagen to Barcelona and finding my travel groove. I had finally struck into the countryside after leaving Paris. This marked my visit to Bayeux. A gorgeous Airbnb room in a 17th-century home awaited me. The sun shone directly overhead with nary a cloud. I had no plans or pressing obligations. Best of all, it was lunchtime, and I was hungry.

Greeted with a smile, I settled into a table beside the River Aure at cozy La Garde Manger, near the Bayeux Cathedral, dripping with Gothic steeples and flying buttresses.

The cheerful waitress left with my order: spring salad, French fries, draft beer and croque--chevalNormandys equivalent of the croque madame, a grilled ham and cheese topped with a fried egg. In Normandy, where horses and heifers outnumbered pigs, locals used thinly sliced horse (cheval) meat for ham. But as the French penchant for consuming horse waned, they substituted chopped steak. Thankful for the pliable nature of French palates, I patted my stomach expectantly, unzipped my backpack and reorganized my belongings, a jumbled mess after my frenetic dash off the slow train.

I reached in and dug around. Hmm, I touched my clothes, laptop, notebook, toiletriesEverything was in there. Everything except my precious document holder. I pulled the backpack onto my lap and dunked my head, searching for the blue document holder.

It wasnt there.

My passport, Eurail Pass, credit cards and the vast majority of my cash were now riding a northbound train to Cherbourg, while I sat at a caf in Bayeux with a backpack full of dirty clothes.

I sprang from my seat, stumbled toward the door while zipping my backpack and frantically flagged the server in a manner resembling an aircraft marshaller parking a 747 while simultaneously fending off a severe bee attack.

Im so, so sorry. I must cancel my order. I left my, uh, my everythingpassport, moneyon the train.

No problem, no problem. She appeared concerned, my desperate look said everything. Yes, you go, go.

I sprinted back to the train station, alone in France without a cent or valid document to my name, my passport now inevitably circulating on the black market. I was a failure. My trip was ruined.

Was this the end? Would my wife have to wire me money, so I could slink home? My stomach turned over, my once-growling belly now gurgled with despair. I felt so dumb, so disappointed in myself that I dry-heaved in the parking lot. Which reminded me how hungry I still was.

As I knocked on the station managers office door, consigned to a new life stuck in Bayeux, probably washing dishes or laboring as an orchard hand for my room and board, I wondered how I had even managed to get this far from Copenhagen without any other major mishaps. The simple act of stepping off a train had sent my whole trip into a tailspin.

A few weeks before leaving for Europe, my wife and I attended a dinner party hosted by two new arrivals to our little mountain town. We pulled our Ford pickup into the crescent-shaped driveway. A foot of snow covered the yard and unplowed driveway as steady snowfall filled the spindly branches of lodgepole pines. The headlights bounced off the ivory snow, illuminating two matching black Audi SUVs wed parked behind.

Ugh, moaned my wife as we stared at their house.

Like most recent transplants to our little mountain town, our dinner hosts were well-heeled professionals who cashed out their suburban equity and relocated to the mountains with remote jobs. And like those other recent arrivals, theyd bought a home with insufficient square footage, windows, granite and stainless steel, so a contractors trailer sat next to a half-finished addition under a green tarp, awaiting the spring thaw.

Our hosts had recently completed a one-year, round-the-world trip. We sat around their massive dining-room table as dinner was served and prodded them for advice and stories. We began with Europe, their jumping-off point.

We started in Ireland and then traveled down through the UK, France, Switzerland, Italy and Greece. But, ah, Europe doesnt feel like real traveling to me, the husband said.

Oh? I asked.

Yeah, I dont know. Its just, I guess, so easy. Feels contrived. But after Europe we went to Africa. He grinned. Have you been there? Its uh-mazing