Travelling by train is my most loved - and most loathed - method of getting around. I doubt there's a finer way of traversing Europe than by train, and even with the rise and rise of budget airlines over the last decade, its popularity shows no sign of waning. Travelling by train out of necessity though, is an entirely different story. Having left the rail-roaming behind me for now (only temporarily, I promise myself) I'm once again a sour-faced commuter, and those of you who may be in the planning stages of the Spring/Summer Eurail Extravaganza may do well to heed a simple warning - avoid the UK train commuter like the plague, for we are the angriest, weariest, grumpiest group of f***ers you could ever have the misfortune to encounter.

Before I get carried away, it should be noted that some of the world's most beautiful train journeys are to be found in the British Isles and as a visitor to these shores, you'll often be able to experience them at a fraction of the cost us natives have to pay. Most parts of the UK are accessible by rail, but there are a handful of trips worth taking for the journey itself - for example, the mainline from London to Cornwall, the county at the southwestern extremity of the UK, is famed for its section of track at Dawlish that runs along the sea wall just a couple of feet from the water's edge. If you have a window seat, you will feel as though you are gliding along the crest of a wave. At high tide, it's an exhilarating, if disconcerting ride. Fears about global warming and rising sea levels have led for calls for it to be re-routed but after considerable investment in maintenance, it appears to be safe for now.

Another incredible journey, and perhaps the most famed rail trip in the country, is the route from Settle to Carlisle, in the northern part of the country. Covering a distance of just 72 miles, the train travels through the green and beautiful Yorkshire Dales, over the 24 arches of the graceful engineering marvel that is the Ribblehead Viaduct, before making its way through the pastoral countryside of the Eden valley before arriving in the small market town of Carlisle, just south of the Scottish border.

Once over the border, there are a multitude of scenic routes to pick from but probably the most staggering of all is the West Highland Line which runs from Glasgow to Mallaig, especially the 41 mile section from Fort William to Mallaig, which travels through glorious Scottish scenery via little Arisaig from where it's possible to look out to sea and spot the islands of Rum, Eigg, Muck and Canna (collectively known as the Small Isles) and the spectacular white sands at Morar before arriving at Mallaig.

After experiencing such a peaceful wilderness, travelling into London is a shock to the system. No matter which angle you approach it from, at certain times of the day, it is unadulterated hell. Of course, it's probably not unlike any other major city in the world, it's just that over here - inexplicably- we seem to put up with it without complaint, no matter what gets thrown at us. If you do decide to travel between the hours of 6am and 10am or 5pm and 8pm in and around the London area, then be prepared for the following:

1) Having to stand for the entirety of your journey with your nose squished against a window and an elbow or three in your back.
2) Having to endure frequent pauses in the journey while the train grinds to a halt for no apparent reason. Don't fret, you can enjoy the view of some warehouses.
3) Everyone sighing as the person with the 'refreshments trolley' insists on dragging it through the train resulting in non-seated passengers climbing the walls and hanging from luggage racks to enable them safe passage.
4) The inevitable collective groan as that day's busker/beggar/charity collector starts their rant at the far end of the carriage and slowly makes their way towards you.
5) Non-stop and interminable 'security' announcements about not leaving your bag anywhere - like you could separate yourself from your bag if you tried.
6) At every intermittent station, passengers outside on the platfrom banging on the window telling you to 'move up a bit' so they can get on. (When you are on the train, you want to kill these people for thinking you can move an inch. When you are the ones on the platform, you want to kill the people inside for not moving an inch.)
7) Barging without shame for the one free seat as soon as someone finally disembarks. Old people and pregnant women be damned.
8) Listening to the tinny residue of 37 iPods simultaneously. (Unless you have your own, of course)

There's many more. But for me, the worst of all is finally getting a seat and ending up next to a sniffer (Oh God. Get a tissue, you freak!) and a snorer. Recently I had the misfortune to be seated next to the worst sniffer and snorer of all time, and I could not move. I was trapped into my seat - on the window side by the sniffer himself and on the aisle side by more squashed commuters, and I was stuck. Then it got worse. This was a huge bumbling oaf of a man, whose elephantine forearm took up the entire armrest and forced me to lean uncomfortably to one side for the entire journey. But it quickly became apparent that this was a blessing in disguise though, as a casual glance to my left revealed a scene of such repulsiveness that to have been seated any closer would have been less preferable than being dipped in a vat of boiling tar. His giant, lolloping head was tilting downwards and I realized he was asleep, despite being on the last-but-one page of Bleak House, which permanently threatened to fall out of the lax grip of his meaty paws. His mouth was wide open and his enormous, fleshy bottom lip hung down almost as low as the base of his chin, whilst his saggy jowels trembled at every bump in the tracks. I turned away. You should never look back! But I did. And this time a long, thin line of glistening spittle was oozing from his mouth, swaying in time with the motion of the train, eager to join up with the lapel of his jacket, but more than happy to take its time in doing so. Like driving slowly past a car crash, I couldn't look away, watching in horror to see if and when it would get bored of just hanging around. Finally, and displaying the admirable elasticity of mozzarella on a pizza, the drool made a permanent attachment between man and material and remained there, swinging from side to side like a rope-bridge, for an unbearably long time, before finally parting company with his lip and seeping into the wool of his suit. It really was quite gross.

Don't let that put you off though...