There’s something undeniably romantic about seeing the world by train. From alpine climbs to desert drifters and coastal cruisers, we’ve rounded up some of the most incredible rail journeys across the globe – routes that promise more than just a scenic ride, but a true adventure.
To help us track down the very best, we turned to a true expert on travel – Lonely Planet – whose latest guide launching in August 2025, Epic Train Trips of the World, features 200 unforgettable adventures by rail.
Here’s some first-hand insight into what these epic rail journeys are really like – starting with an Aussie icon, the mighty Indian Pacific.
Two Oceans by Two Rails: The Indian Pacific
Beyond my window, Earth has lost its features. There are no gentle undulations of terrain. No roads or fences or distant stands of trees bending in a far-off breeze. There is nothing but red soil stubbled with scrub, a horizon that could have been scored along a laser level and a blue sky. The land is so flat it creates an optical illusion, making the vast distances seem oddly truncated. The furthest reaches of my vision appear almost close enough to touch. I feel certain I can see the curvature of the planet.
I’m aboard the Indian Pacific, a railway that crosses the breadth of the Australian continent from, you guessed it, the edge of the Indian Ocean on one side to the Pacific on the other. In a three-night luxury sprint, it covers 2700 miles (4345km) between Sydney in the east and Perth in the west, across some of the country’s most inhospitable terrain. Inhospitable is not how I’d describe the start of my journey though, at Sydney’s Central Station. The grand sandstone building looked almost golden in the sunshine, and it buzzed with commuters and chattering day-trippers. There on platform one, humming gently as if in anticipation of the grand journey ahead, was the Indian Pacific – a 2300-foot (711m) streak of steel, with 25 carriages and a sturdy blue locomotive.
I stepped aboard and happily explored my single bunk cabin – opening and closing tiny cupboards and marvelling at how an en-suite bathroom can be squeezed into a space the size of a phone box – when a shrill whistle sounded. The train lurched forward. We were on our way. Sydney’s high-rise buildings flashed past the windows, followed by suburban streets lined with squat bungalows. Somewhere, without me noticing the transition, we entered a different landscape – what Australians call ‘the bush’, an all-purpose term used to describe areas beyond the urban fringes. Through my window were speed-blurred swathes of eucalypts and colourful bursts of bright yellow wattle and fire-hued banksia.
The route led us up through the Blue Mountains, so named for the vapour that rises when the oil of its countless eucalypts evaporates in the hot sun, forming a bluish mist. Then it was down, into the rolling green farmland of the Murray-Darling Basin, Australia’s food bowl – evident from the distant hills lined with orderly rows of fruit trees and the vast fields of wheat and barley waving as we passed. No doubt some of this produce was served in the Queen Adelaide dining car, a comforting, wood-panelled space of brown leather, brass fittings and white linen. There were canapés of curry puffs scented with native lemon myrtle. Saltwater barramundi, and tender beef from the fields of the Hunter Valley. Plates of seared kangaroo fillet and ravioli stuffed with Hervey Bay scallops. And to drink, a generous list of wines from across the railway’s path – from a deeply fruity Barossa Valley shiraz to a citrusy Margaret River sauvignon blanc.
Such luxury on the rails must have been impossible to imagine for those who first dreamed of a cross-continental Australian railway. Work began to unite the east and west coasts in 1912, just a few years after the country’s federation. Yet the extraordinary challenges of building a line across mountains, arid deserts and extremely remote topography meant it was nearly six decades later, in 1970, that the first coast-to-coast rail journey took place. Some of the views may have changed since, but when we left the built-up areas behind after the South Australian capital Adelaide, only the stark, timeless land of the outback stretched ahead of us.
Which brings me to my present view, and that exceptionally barren expanse outside my window. We’re crossing the Nullarbor Plain, a prehistoric seabed of solid limestone stretching over 100,000 sq miles (260,000 sq km) and littered with fossils of ancient marine creatures. The name is Latin – literally, ‘no trees plain’. But before anyone who spoke Latin stepped a foot on this land, it had another name – Oondoori, meaning ‘waterless’.
Onwards along tracks straight as pins. The Nullarbor is home to the longest stretch of undeviating trainline in the world – 297 miles (477km) of it – a feat made possible only because there are no geographical features to avoid. An apple-cheeked train manager bustles by in a high-vis vest and notices me staring out in slack-jawed wonder. It’s not always the same, she tells me. Sometimes there are wildflowers. Birds and animals crowding around scarce water sources. Dust storms so thick you can barely see. Rains so heavy it floods the tracks. ‘I love the Nullarbor’, she says, ‘because I know every time I come, it’s going to be different.’
Signs of civilisation appear at Cook, a near-ghost town in the eastern Nullarbor, and again at Rawlinna, which is little more than a pub by the tracks where jackaroos and jillaroos (cattle handlers) gather from far-flung cattle stations. I become so accustomed to the desert, plain and scrubland that it’s a shock when the trees – purple-blossomed jacarandas – return. Then forests as we roll into the Avon River Valley. Houses, which have been so rare for the past two days, appear more frequently, until they merge into a suburban blur on the outskirts of Perth.
After four days and thousands of miles, we come to a gentle stop at East Perth Railway Station. I’m back in the world again, amid the skyscrapers and manicured parks of Perth. Suddenly my epic cross-continental journey feels like a dream of another world. One of raw nature, red dust, limitless expanses and a distant horizon I can almost reach out and touch with a fingertip.
Ride The Hiram Bingham into the Incan Heartland
In 1911, the American Hiram Bingham set out on an expedition in the Andes, tracing the Urubamba River downstream. It would have been a journey of considerable hardship that involved crossing swollen currents, hacking through thick jungle, clambering up merciless mountains and swatting away insects. But he was spurred on by rumours of Inca ruins in these hills. Eventually he found his holy grail in the lost city of Machu Picchu, whose overgrown masonry he brought to the attention of the wider world.
Contrary to popular belief, Bingham didn’t rediscover the Inca citadel (locals had always known of its existence). Nor was he even the first modern explorer to set eyes on it after the citadel was abandoned in the 16th century. Nonetheless, he is part of the legend of Machu Picchu, even lending his name to a luxury train that roughly retraces his route, from the city of Cusco (where he first heard whispers of its existence) to the little station at Aguas Calientes, at its base. The train I encountered on the edge of Cusco was emphatically not a train of any hardship, nor for that matter was it in need of rediscovery. Enduringly popular since its creation in 2003, the luxury Hiram Bingham train sees history and high-rolling combine. Short of the ceremonial processions of Inca emperors, it’s the most stylish way to arrive.
I was escorted to my linen-clad table, adorned with fresh flowers. A cocktail menu appeared from nowhere; pisco sours materialised moments after. Bingham’s story is a powerful one, and some fellow passengers are attired in the cosplay of explorer like him – fedora hats, utility jackets with multiple pockets. Others are smartly dressed for the occasion – the Hiram Bingham is a Belmond service and sister of the Venice Simplon Orient Express. Like its sibling, this Peruvian train also conjures up echoes of a golden age of travel (which, in truth, never actually existed upon these rails), the decor on board more suggestive of transcontinental odysseys rather than a three-hour jaunt. Not that this bothered passengers on my northbound departure to Aguas Calientes, all giddy with anticipation of arriving in Machu Picchu. The most stylish part of the train is at the rear, in the polished wood of the bar car where cocktails are shaken, and in the observation carriage, which has a little balcony where you can look out to the retreating track as you might a ship’s wake.
We began by trundling through a valley floor chequered with farmland. It wasn’t long before we were acquainted with the raging current of the Urubamba River and entered the Sacred Valley of the Inca – the heartland of the great civilisation. Reaching its peak in the 16th century, the Inca Empire stretched from modern Chile to Colombia. Its people were master stonemasons – and with a railway ride through the Sacred Valley you can see their genius for construction. The Hiram Bingham passed through the village of Ollantaytambo, whose ancient terraces served as both fortress and temple complex. Higher still were the ruins of Pinkuylluna, clinging to a vertical cliff. It was an appetiser for the more famous stone of Machu Picchu – though many eyes on board were instead drawn to the musicians before them, whose appetiser was Andean curd tout.
Effort is required not to spill food on the Hiram Bingham – it’s sometimes a bumpy ride on this narrow-gauge line, the tracks just 3ft (1m) wide. The benefit of this gauge is that it allows the railway to twist and turn sharply in tandem with the meanders of the Urubamba – sometimes we disappeared into tunnels and cuttings, before being reunited with its furious whitewater. The line was laid in the decade after Bingham first encountered Machu Picchu – by the time the tracks reached Aguas Calientes, the city above had been cleared of foliage and was gracing newspaper and magazine covers across the world.
In the 21st century, trains are the only practical way to reach Machu Picchu (unless you hike the Inca Trail): here and there we passed PeruRail and IncaRail locomotives that service the thousands who forgo the expensive Hiram Bingham. It’s a well-travelled route. But grab yourself a window seat on any kind of train, press your face close enough to the glass to blot out your fellow passengers and you might still entertain fantasies of being an explorer, following the great Urubamba on its downstream voyage.
After Piscacucho, the flanks of the mountains closed in, the snowy peak of Nevado Veronica reigning over the sky. More Inca ruins loomed high above – Patallacta, Chochaamba, others out of sight. The landscape became greener as the dusty slopes of the Andes gave way to the greens of another ecosystem. You could sense the Amazon basin drawing nearer. For Hiram Bingham passengers the journey ends short of the great jungle, at Aguas Calientes, where everyone boarded waiting buses to navigate the switchbacks up to Machu Picchu itself.
The Inca had many strongpoints, but timing was unfortunately not one of them. Their empire flourished at the precise moment the Spanish landed in the Americas. The new arrivals had advantages such as iron swords and the wheel, but it was diseases the conquistadors brought which also sealed the Inca decline. In the centuries that followed, the temples and terraces of Machu Picchu were left alone atop their mountain perch, with only the call of the condors. These days there are new sounds: the bustle of tourists and the rattle of wheels on iron rails.
Madrid to Barcelona by High-Speed Rail
Spain is high-speed rail heaven, with rapid routes out of Madrid radiating to the country’s other great cities. Along key lines, there’s a fast-expanding choice of trains which, while all thundering along at roughly the same speed, offer varying levels of price, choice of seating class and onboard service. Arguably the flagship of the network is the service from the Spanish capital to Barcelona – the first and most obvious starting point in the country’s efforts to get travellers off planes and onto the rails. In what was once Europe’s busiest air corridor, today this service handles three-quarters of all journeys between the two cities.
Starting my own journey one morning in Madrid, I wasn’t sure if it was early or still late as I checked out of my hotel. Madrid is a city that stays out till the wee hours, and plenty of revellers were strolling down the streets as dawn broke. Disconcertingly for this middle-aged Northern European, many were older than me: Spanish pensioners heading home from all-nighters mingled with groups of younger Madrileños, both parties still going strong. As I got closer to Atocha Station, I enjoyed swapping pleasantries with some of these stragglers as the ambience slowly changed from one-more-beer naughtiness to coffee and, for me, the start of a wonderful journey.
Arriving on foot, my first view of what is more formally known as Estación de Madrid Atocha was the curvaceous girders of its original 1892 trainshed, now somewhat sunk below a mesh of modern highways. Upon entering the station by what felt like a side door, I descended onto the old platform level. For Atocha’s centenary, this vast indoor area was reimagined as a tropical garden, with palm trees and looming greenery interspersed with good-looking eating and drinking options to continue last night’s fun. Beams of sunlight shot here and there, casting spotlights on commuters arriving for a day’s work.
Departure formalities before boarding Spanish high-speed trains require a little extra time than you might be used to. These involve passing through slimmed-down airport-style security, then hanging out in a departure hall above the station’s modern platforms before joining – what was for me – a lengthy line for a ticket check. Sense of wonder about this journey returned quickly when I got to platform level and saw my unquestionably handsome Renfe AVE (Alta Velocidad Española) fast train. In fact, I saw several at the same time. The lineup of locos waiting to depart was as impressive as the tropical atrium on the other side: a sleek-looking assortment of trains, united in their capacity to travel at speeds of up to 186mph (300km/h).
Express trains make the Madrid–Barcelona trip in about two and a half hours, but taking a stopping service can pay dividends, despite the slower journey time (an extra 20–45 minutes). Direct trains generally cost more, being the fastest, and while breaking up a high-speed journey might seem anathema if your priority is racing the plane, there is some logic to stop-offs in places like Zaragoza, especially if there’s time for an overnight stay. What was once the Roman city of Caesaraugusta is now one of Spain’s gastronomic capitals, with an Old Town bursting with bars and cafes. You can also detour up the single-track line to Canfranc in the Pyrenees, home to a station that was a white elephant for decades, now reborn as a high-end hotel on a railway to nowhere.
My journey, however, was all about speed, so a Zaragoza stopover was for another time. I’d booked onto Renfe’s AVE direct service in Standard Class, which meant I didn’t qualify for the in-seat food and drink service, but I still got a large window seat and, as no one turned up to sit next to me, plenty of room to spread out. Departing Atocha, the first sight was a vast train yard where many of the workhorses of this route come to rest at night. Leaving the city behind, the scrubby hinterland gave way to a mix of undulating terrain and broad plains dotted with towns and villages basking in the sunshine.
By the time we had passed briefly through Camp de Tarragona, the deep blue of the Mediterranean Sea appeared between hills, heralding our arrival at the seaside and Barcelona. Though I was thrilled to be rolling in on time to one of the world’s most beautiful cities, Barcelona’s Sants terminus made for an unromantic arrival point, with platforms buried deep beneath street level. I followed the crowds up the escalators and out of the modern concourse into the sunshine of the Catalan morning. Visitors need to continue on by metro or suburban train to find the Barcelona of their dreams, whether that’s taking in the city views from Montjuïc hill, strolling the Barri Gòtic or heading to the port for an onward ferry to the Balearic Islands.
If Madrid to Barcelona is too short to be an epic train ride in itself, this need not be journey’s end. The tracks rumble beneath the city from here, pretty much right under the Sagrada Familia, and then the high-speed line thunders to Figueres and the French border at Perpignan. AVEs travel deep into France to Marseille and Lyon, and if Trenitalia’s expansive plans to link Madrid with Paris come to fruition, direct services may soon link the Spanish and French capitals for the first time since the demise of the night train in 2013. Whatever the future may hold, Madrid to Barcelona is an essential cog in the great European rail machine.
All aboard for the ride of a lifetime. This global roundup of awe-inspiring rail journeys spans continents, cultures and everything from luxury locomotives to high-speed escapes and hidden scenic gems. Packed with first-person travel tales, route maps and breathtaking photography, it’s all beautifully captured and ready for you to explore.
Reproduced with permission from Lonely Planet © 2025.