At the private train station in Pretoria, South Africa, the guests of Rovos Rail are getting into the general scheme of things: this involves helping themselves to the triangular fine-cut cucumber and salmon sandwiches, introducing themselves to people they’ve never seen before in their lives, taking hundreds of photos and quaffing never-ending amounts of champagne and Buck’s Fizz.

I’m one of them, and like them, I’m star-struck and blinded by the glare of brass chandeliers from some bygone era; liveried staff wearing green and black uniforms. There are lampshades. Tiny lights dotted around me like the little stars one sees when the blood pressure dips. When I pretend to be looking under the chintzy sofa and come back up again to get the rush, I realise that everything is still there. Surrounded by such opulence, I realise that I really am living the dream. This is how the other half once lived.

The Edwardian train on which we will be for the next three days chugs up outside, making the appropriate whooshing noises, belching steam and hurling its sulphuric smoke into the air. Some of the guests are kitted out in almost period costume, with massive sunhats and linen jackets. I feel decidedly grungy in jeans. What was I thinking?

Every one of the carriages that is being attached to the engine room is a bedroom and an en-suite bathroom, except for the library. And the 1920’s and 1930’s dining rooms. And the smoking lounges. And the observation deck. Once we’ve all caught a glimpse of what awaits, most of us can’t wait to rush in. Obviously, nobody carries anything except their small personal bags - there is enough staff to kit out Buckingham palace, and appropriately, we all start getting a real royal flush.

Every guest has been assigned their own suite. Some lucky sod has the presidential one, which actually comes with a full-size bath, and I’m curious to know who it is. Agatha Christie and one of her most famous stories immediately springs to mind, and I do a quick look-round to see if anybody looks like a potential murderer.

The guests are a heady mix: the dinner-party-circuit British couple whose cut-glass accents transport us to a colonial India; a more modern mix of what looks like two Japanese men, laden with cameras and lenses; and a strange concoction of Germans and Eastern Europeans. A set of parents have dragged along their i-Podded son and wayward daughter who probably would much rather be slitting their wrists and acting Emo than accompanying their once-golden-but-now-matt oldies. Another couple have brought a mother – one of theirs. Now that must be fun.

Once we’re settled in by the lovely Francinah, our personal butler(ess), she shows us the nooks and crannies of this unbelievably beautiful room. I’ve seen a few train couchettes in my time, but this South African gem really is something else. We look through the mini-fridge, the contents of which are all included in the price, add a few personal requests (Campari, Southern Comfort and Amarula, a Bailey’s-like liqueur which is made from the Marula fruit, turn up pronto in decanters) and do some serious settling in. Browsing through the folders that have been left on our table for two, we pop open the champagne and prepare to give Francinah the laundry and pressing requests. It’s amazing how crumpled and dirty your clothing starts to seem when you realise that you don’t have to pay an extra cent to get it as starched as the temperature outside.

Dressing up is also part of the deal, especially for dinner, where it is mandatory. For anybody under 40, or for those whose lives are spent in suits, this may seem a tad regimental. The Writer becomes despondent when he realises that ties are obligatory too and he’s only brought along a very Out of Africa-style Armani linen suit. The upholding of genteel style is part and parcel of Rovos Rail.

When I nip into one of the lounges for canapés and cocktails, the sun has set, and from the observation deck at the back, I see hundreds of workers returning back home. It reminds me of the rat-race I’ve left behind and, should I have needed any prompting, convinces me that this is the side I should be on. I make my way back to the suite with its full-sized shower and toilet decked with antique fittings to doll myself up. Even the bathrobes are fluffier than most five star hotels’.

And truly, for dinner, everybody turns up in full garb. In fact, the pressure on the men is high and Maltese weddings start to seem drab by comparison. Only a lady called Linda turns up in full Little Black Dress and a South Seaful of pearls around her neck. I’m positive one guy has Sylvester the Cat emblazoned all over his tie, but TW, who spends his life clad in 3-piece suits and competes with himself on tie-knowledge, does not care: he is mortified that he is the only one with an open-necked shirt. He’s convinced that the manager, who is kitted out in full tux, was not greeting him upon entrance but glaring at his lack of sartorial rebellion.

In spite of TW’s Jermyn Street misgivings, dinner is a truly wondrous affair, contributing greatly to my ever-expanding girth. Everything here is full-sized: from the crystal glasses which come in sizes according to tipple, to the china, to the food. The service puts most restaurants to shame and the menu is not only extensive for such a small kitchen, but truly inventive and really South African. We try kingklip fish with dill sauce, stuffed ostrich fillet (which tastes like chicken, with flavour) with blue cheese and vodka sauce and sample a different wine with each course.

At the start of dinner, we notice that all the wine bottles - an extensive list of South African beauties - have been opened and are getting chilled for the duration. This means that guests can choose whatever they like from the list and do some serious food and wine matching. And yes, this is all included in the price too: from the pre-dinner cocktails, to the champagne and dessert wines, and the post-prandial Amarula, we slug it all down, safe in the knowledge that no matter how drunk we get, the full-sized bed with night-time nougat on each feather-filled pillow is only a few hundred steps away.

 

On Saturday morning, we wake up to a tinkling bell in the corridor (tannoys are unheard of) and a delicious breakfast (smoked salmon and scrambled eggs? Eggs Florentine? Fresh fruit?) arriving at a massive flamingo-laced lake when the coffee is being poured. Hundreds of thousands of the birds play around in the water. The cameras start whirring and clicking and, having stuck to our couply selves so far, we strike up a conversation with the guys that are toting the biggest ones of all.

They turn out to be Chinese, and not Japanese. Joy is the Editorial Director for Voyage Magazine, a travel glossy which has a print-run of fifteen million. For us writers from the tiny island of Malta (Malta where?) is overwhelming. It doesn’t help that his companion, Joe (all jet-setting Chinese have ‘English’ names) is a photographer for National Geographic Traveler. We all converse in broken English. The Writer and I even try to put on Chinese accents to make ourselves understood.

They, and we, are not the only writers around. Later on, while chilling about the smoking lounge, beautifully decked out in leather and dark wood (the lounge, not me) I meet Sam, Publisher at Large and writer for Worldonline and her partner Clive. [Clive messaged me soon after we had been on this trip to say that Sam died soon after, a heart-breaking encounter and happening if there ever was one]. Everybody on the train gossips incessantly about ‘the Americans’ who do not seem to be at all popular in any part of the world. Judging by the US guests on board and their never-ending and very loud chatter about ‘when we met Bill and Hilary’ and so on, we are left in little doubt as to why.

We all alight at Kimberly, some of us almost against our wishes. This train, with its beautiful interiors and whatever-you-need service, is starting to creep into our psyches. This town is still the seat of the De Beers diamond mining company and the bus carries us all to a massive crater which was once a load of little nine by nine metre batches. We find it all very uninteresting, and the accompanying fun-park has no fun, but seems like another good way for De Beers to make money out of silly human-sized wax figures, tinned music and unsuspecting tourists. Most of us almost rush back to the bus.

Another smorgasbord of food awaits us, this time in the shape of afternoon tea, which comes replete with one-inch square lemon cake drenched in syrup and covered in pink icing, coconut rectangles drizzled with chocolate and a flutter of dessicated flakes. We take to having afternoon naps, an unheard-of luxury for frazzled worker bees like us. We also read from our pre-packed magazine stash (most of which we 'borrowed' from the Emirates flight) and from the library of books and magazines. We write and chat. What we cannot do is log-on, and not having access to anything connected to the net makes us so relaxed, we even switch off our mobiles.

Post-nap and shower, we again walk to the dining room, which tonight has switched from that of the previous night. The linen glistens and the crystal sparkles. The chat is a constant hum around the room and regardless of background or nationality, there isn’t a single sad face. Every single visage is an absolute picture of contentment. Even TW has stopped caring about his lack of ties and the Chinese are definitely wearing mismatched jackets, trousers and trainers. The wonder of Rovos has overtaken us all.

*******

By Sunday, these three days are starting to seem like a Bacchanalian feast and our waistlines are starting to suffer for it – we start to plan ‘the walk’. This is an optional hike over the South African plains which most of us opt for, grabbing the chance to move our limbs, me in trousers that are now definitely too tight (thank goodness for the large room and locking TW out while I struggled to put them on). The Maltese spirit kicks in and although TW and I set off after everybody else, we manage to overtake them all as we refuse to be pipped at the post by 60-year olds, even if these probably do this kind of walk daily.

Because yes, most of the guests here have probably hit the big six-oh, sometimes surpassed it, and some even seem to have come back in another life form. As one does in similar situations, most of our hours are spent analysing fellow guests, making presumptions as to their backgrounds and origins. In some cases, we’re absolutely wrong, as we realise from the list of guests distributed to everybody on board. We do get a lot of questions about Malta, and surprisingly, nobody thinks it’s a little rock where everybody dances naked around flames.

It is only in the last few hours that our mental barriers start coming down, enabling us to join some of our supposed companions for a shared seat and an offered cigarette. Clive went to university in Cape Town with a Maltese we know by name. Joy and Joe throw caution to the wind and ask us to model for them, which turns out to be great fun when there’s nothing to do. We’ve all had enough of the Americans, especially one who spends all her lunches and dinners establishing her pedigree. Her daughters (two: they’ve booked three suites – one each) pepper their language with ‘Liiike’ and ‘You knaaah’ and describe this trip to Africa and onboard this beautiful train as an eye-opener because they’ve had ‘to do with very little’ as if they are on a mission.

For the record, we hear how they’ve stayed in 5-star game lodges, flown everywhere on private chartered planes, and will later be crashing out at the not-so-humble Cape Grace Hotel. The other two Americans spend most of their lunch and dinner times haranguing the waitresses for ‘sauces on the side’ (‘on the right’ one male tells one of them, imagining himself to be really funny) and changing menu items continuously. On one occasion, he asked the lovely Mr. Winterbottom, the manager, for a baked potato and vegetables, taking him by surprise and professing disbelief when this didn’t turn up in two minutes. This, in spite of the fact that everybody is asked for their dietary specifications before they’ve even paid.

*******

When we arrive in Cape Town, we’re all almost in shock, and none of us want to get off. The owner Rohan Vos, stuns us all by being the one to welcome us off his pristinely restored jewel. He does this with every train-load of guests and his presence at our departure is one last personal touch which gives us closure, but which doesn’t help with the feeling that we seem to be almost getting ripped out of the womb. Business cards are exchanged, the not-to-be-kept promise of communication hangs in the air like summer heat, and a bunch of previously ecstatic riders make their separate ways away from this steam-mother which has amazed us with its hospitality.

 

 

FACT BOX

The Train

The journeys on Rovos Rail are perfect for honeymooners and empty-nesters. Three times a week, the train leaves from Pretoria to Cape Town or vice-versa from two private train stations. From the 30th July onwards, Rovos have added another amazing itinerary from Pretoria to Victoria Falls via the landscape-rich Zambia. This one takes six days and includes a game drive; perfect if you don’t feel like driving all the way up to the Kruger and would like somebody else to do the organisation for you.

Prices start from around LM350, and they include everything from the food to the laundry to the excursions. Unlike many other ‘all-inclusives’, this trip also includes all alcohol, wine and champagne. You are actually asked to take the luscious beauty bag away with you. The easiest way is to book online on www.rovos.co.za

The Plane

Fly to Johannesburg airport with Emirates, who now fly to many airports in South Africa including Cape Town. I suggest you fly up to Johanneburg and down from Cape Town

Emirates now fly the incredible A380 planes to Johannesburg: in first class you can have your own private suite, take a shower and socialise (or drown your post-holiday sorrows) at the bar.

Book

With Royal Travel as part of a South Africa package: let them combine some brilliant wildlife viewing in the Kruger and a winelands tour further south.

The Weather

South Africa’s weather is usually the opposite of ours, so if you want warmth, go from November to March, and if cool is how you play it, then choose their ‘winter’, which is our summer. No matter when you go, Rovos Rail provides airconditioning in all suites.