Go anyway and have a fantastic time doing exactly what you want. I was deep in planning reverie, weighing up the merits of chasing the sun in southern Europe versus getting hygge in Scandinavia, when my beloved announced that sitting on trains for a fortnight was the opposite of what he considers a holiday.
It was only then that I read the small print and learned there would be no refunds and no name changes. There was only one option: I would go alone. It was a slightly daunting prospect, though I recall once being a very independent person, travelling the world for the Guardian on assignments that included a memorably disastrous undercover trip to Myanmar. I remembered my first foray into Interrailing as an idiotic year-old in I ended the month no longer on speaking terms with my travel companion, a boy from my A-level German class.
I could see the benefits of going solo, with no one to argue with about whether to pay the supplement for the fast train to Milan, or the wisdom of sleeping on the platform for an early departure. It is probably worth pointing out at this point that Interrailing is no longer a particularly cheap holiday unless, perhaps, you get half-price tickets and your husband comes with you to split the hotel bills. The further away from London you live, the better the value, because the ticket includes an outward and inward journey in your home country.
That scuppers my plan to begin my continental odyssey in Amsterdam; I have to start in Paris instead. I arrive in time for dinner at Les Philosophes in the Marais, where I sip vin rouge and eat an obscenely large portion of duck rillettes.
The next morning I worry that the red wine might have caused me to snore after one of my roommates gives me a filthy look. Not realising there are women-only carriages tick Espace Dame Seule when making your reservation , I fret about being trapped in a couchette with a bunch of pervy men, but end up sharing with four respectful blokes and one woman, waking up to a view of the French Riviera.
