The particular seat number stays with me for obvious reasons. Anyone would recall the exact location they occupied when a tremendous explosion rang out and carriage six suddenly swung violently from one side to the other.

Shouting filled the air as the locomotive ground to a stop. What appeared to be a blast had ripped an enormous gap in the side of my carriage. Fragments of glass spread across the floor like broken teeth, seats were torn from their fixtures, and metal panels buckled under the force.

Passengers demanded to know where we were and pleaded to leave. Some began taking photographs. I struggled to close my drinks bottle. Accessibility facilities remain largely unavailable on most Ukrainian rail services. Gazing down the steep stairwell and at the considerable drop beyond the final step, I questioned how I would manage to disembark. Here I was, having apparently experienced an explosive incident, yet concerned about maintaining composure. We traversed the tracks toward an empty platform at Brailiv station, a modest rural settlement, uncertain about what had occurred. We reboarded before being instructed to leave once more, carefully navigating around the rails to reach an alternative platform. The absence of any fatalities struck me as remarkable.

I had begun composing this piece merely minutes before. My journey home from Ukraine via the Kyiv-Przemysl service had left me confined to standard class, and I contemplated how to occupy the time. Eleven hours, even for someone accustomed to lengthy trips, provides considerable opportunity for inactivity, limited to watching the scenery or browsing news. I had not been this perched on the edge of my seat since waiting for Valley Gardens to be completed or watching a film at the cinema. Not the one featuring a killer targeting wrongdoers, but rather a BBC documentary concerning the dismissal of senior government officials. Someone ought to relieve Keir Starmer from public attention. Would I be arriving back in an England already overtaken by extreme weather events? Residents abandoning their homes on inflatables, cigarettes in hand.

Not that entertainment had been lacking during my time in Kyiv. Three days earlier, a tremendous muffled explosion had awakened me, despite my spouse and I having somehow overlooked the air raid alarm. At three in the morning, I stumbled downstairs into the freezing cold to take cover in the relative shelter of the stairwell at my mother-in-law’s residence, genuinely frightened as yet another ballistic missile struck the area. Was my number up? Unsurprisingly, given most aspects of contemporary existence, there exists a resource for this: the air raid alert map of Ukraine. Such a tool would prove useful for outgoing prime ministers. This map displays Ukrainian regions, with those under air raid attack highlighted in red. One can determine the number of Shahed drones approaching or when a ballistic missile has been identified. Additionally, a Telegram channel named Realnii Kyiv offers minute-by-minute accounts of casualties and damage. I devoted two hours alternating between the application and website, addicted admittedly, though my anxiety was somewhat alleviated by a false impression of control. One of the detonations on that April date claimed the life of a twelve-year-old child alongside his parent. Fifteen additional individuals perished throughout Ukraine.

Ukrainian citizens endure air raid sirens as part of daily existence. Walking along streets, conducting personal business, purchasing flowers, the alert sounds without warning. Youngsters linger in play areas, so accustomed to the siren that seeking shelter seems pointless, the situation beyond their capacity to address. Each evening I found myself unable to rest easily, anxious about another three am awakening. Sleep becomes difficult during even brief stays.

And there I was, stranded on the railway, seeking amusement. In Ukraine, one must be cautious about what one hopes for. My wish was granted.

The replacement service at Brailiv arrived to scattered applause. I searched Realnii Kyiv on Telegram to verify whether our incident had been reported. It had indeed been covered, caused apparently by a passing quarry train. Possibly. Then again, deliberate sabotage of rail services occurs with some frequency. Days afterward, a vehicle collided with the identical Kyiv-Przemysl service. Coincidence?

We arrived at the pitch-dark border crossing around one in the morning. The total journey lasted fourteen hours. Yet we had completed it, experiencing perhaps the same relief felt by the Artemis II crew returning from lunar orbit. Except their return to solid ground proved less jarring than witnessing the endless queue at Polish customs. Could those procedures possibly move any slower? Buzz Aldrin certainly faced no such delays.

Alistair McNair serves as Conservative Leader on Brighton and Hove City Council.