As a Brit living in Canada, I find myself yearning for train travel the way a French person might long for a crusty baguette, or an Italian for sun-ripened tomatoes. My love of trains started almost before my memories began. A steam locomotive, the Bluebell Railway, ran along the bottom of the field next to our country house in Sussex. My little brother and I would listen for the hiss of the engine coming, see the puffs of smoke rising over the woods and run down to wave at the tourists. 

Then, when I was five years old, I joined my father on his daily commute to London to start my first proper school. I used to sit in the business class carriage, wearing my navy blue coat with a velvet collar, while he – and the other pin-striped businessmen – opened up their pink Financial Times papers and read their way into the city. These train journeys allowed me a peek (from behind my cartoon book) into the mysteries of being an adult and having a job. In my 20s, my train travel evolved to jumping on the Eurostar to Paris to do photo shoots for Tatler, where I was beauty editor, or to attend fabulous events with Dior, L’Oréal and Lancôme. Three hours from door-to-porte, and I would be at Gare du Nord and ready to start a day’s work in Paris. Magical.

But despite all of this travel by train, I have never experienced one of the truly luxurious rail lines that hark back to the golden age of travel – like the Orient Express to Venice, or Rovos Rail to Victoria Falls (which are both on my bucket list). So, when I was offered the chance to take the Hiram Bingham Belmond train in Peru (named after the American archeologist and explorer who rediscovered Machu Picchu in 1911), I didn’t hesitate.

With its classic royal blue and gold carriages, the Hiram Bingham did not disappoint as it pulled into Ollantaytambo Station at the western end of the Sacred Valley. I boarded as soon as we were allowed – I was keen to see the interiors as soon as possible, knowing that our journey to Machu Picchu would only take a couple of hours at most. Designed to evoke the ambiance of the 1920s Pullman era, the carriages were a collection of gleaming brass and wood and perfectly appointed furnishings. 

I was a little concerned about our 10:15 a.m. departure time – it seemed slightly outrageous to go to the Bar Car for a drink before noon. But as the train pulled away and the exuberant Peruvian band started playing, I channeled my inner 1920s flapper and indulged in an expertly shaken pisco sour, while perched on an oxblood leather bar stool.

The train follows the rushing Urubamba River along the floor of the Sacred Valley, trundling past terracotta-roofed villages, cacti and corn, rope bridges and tumbling red-rocked hillsides, all bathed in clear high-altitude sunshine and ringed by soaring mountains. It was impossible not to feel joyful both at the scenery and the impeccable, opulent service on board. I danced with poncho-clad Ukrainians who had chosen to escape the chaos of home by adventuring through Peru. I clinked cocktail glasses with an American father who was so excited to show his children Machu Picchu, he couldn’t stop grinning. I stood in the sunlight of the open viewing platform, chatting to the manager, who let slip that the Japanese Imperial Family had recently hired the entire train.

Lunch was served in the restaurant car with its starched white tablecloths, shining silverware, tiny little gold lamps and highly polished wood. There, we indulged in three delicious and delicate courses: a tiradito (Peruvian sashimi) of trout in a spicy citrus sauce, pato (duck) ravioli with nutty loche squash (a local delicacy) followed by strawberry sorbet strewn with flowers. By the time the train pulled into Aguas Calientes, to Machu Picchu Pueblo Station, the last stop before boarding buses to go the final winding nine kilometres up the mountain, I had been so transported by the journey that I had almost forgotten our objective: Machu Picchu. I wouldn’t have wanted to arrive to see one of the seven wonders of the world in any other style.