Four genial Ukrainians were seated and bedded across from us. We shared snacks and Georgian wine. One of them was a veteran from fighting the Russians in the Crimea. His friends implied he had suffered some form of shell-shock and gestured to a scar on the back of his head. When I asked about the size of their country – twice the area of ours, but with only 40 million people, one of them ruefully added that following the Russian invasion it might now, of course, be less. It was a longer conversation waiting to happen. Russians slept all about us. One was asked by a fellow passenger to open her window to cool the carriage. She heard him out before refusing with a laugh.

Leaving on the mid-evening train from Georgia

Third Class proved fine if a little malodorous. We’ve already booked First for our return in two days. We would have no-one else to blame for undesirable smells.

Crossing the frontier was protracted rather than problematic. We disembarked on the Georgian side, but the guards restricted themselves to stern looks and temporary possession of our passports rather than trying to sift much sense from the babble of languages and nationalities. There is no real lingua franca here – the closest probably being Russian. Sinister comedy was provided by two stern state spinsters. The first was our carriage quartermaster and sergeant-major. She thrust a blanket and towel on me as we voyaged out and prodded me awake as Yerevan hove into early morning view.

The second was part of the border guard assigned to any potentially evil aspects of the job. She reminded me of Aunt Lydia in The Handmaid’s Tale, but without the speck of humanity. She inspected our bodies with a torch at point-blank range, ruffling the blankets of small innocent children, on the scent of potential deceit. I was up reading and gave her a smile. She didn’t like it one bit.

Day 7 - Yerevan

We stayed in a very comfortable MyHotel where the youngish staff were happy and helpful and provided large buffet breakfasts to power us through the day. The 20 pounds or so we paid a head for our luxurious room was probably worth five times that in real terms, but we were still treated like honoured guests despite our grimy appearance.

We have upgraded our two nights in Armenia to four – still too few on reflection. Our walk from the train station via the city square early on Saturday morning was uninspiring, but the bland characterless architecture was deceptive. These two destinations were the first two stops on the Soviet tour we took the following morning. Our vivacious guide, Shushara, bubbled over with information that was garnished with tales of her parents’ comical Soviet-era behaviour. She helped us change our tickets back to Tiblisi to gift us another two days in Armenia.

Yerevan with Mount Ararat in the distance

Things we learned: employment is now around 80 per cent – 20 per cent down from Soviet times; Russian is still the second language at school, but English is now taught i.e. when in doubt, ask a child; when Sarah asked if there were any statues of women, most of the minibus, and all of the women made an ‘aah!’ sound in recognition of her perspicacity; the basement of the national museum houses the head of Stalin’s statue, though they deny it; the Russians and US are vying for influence on the government after the bloodless popular revolution of the previous year; Mount Ararat is the symbol of the country, but was gifted to Turkey by Russia a century ago and remains tantalisingly in view from Yerevan; neither the UK nor Ireland officially recognise the Armenian genocide; the latter took place over an extended period before 1915-1920 with various pogroms preceding it; Charles Aznavour is a much loved Armenian, Kim Kardashian a more dubious role model, while Cher is a bit Armenian (one-quarter); some people get away with saying ‘merci’, which originated with linguistically lazy French Armenians.

On this last point, it’s easy to make friends in Yerevan. All you do is say ‘Shnorhakalutyun’ for thank you. With few exceptions, the recipients break into a smile and decide to like you forever. For the same reason, it’s harder to make friends after you’ve been drinking. Saying ‘Shnor…’ and giving up gets you nowhere. Nonetheless, the people seem a little gentler in Armenia than their Georgian neighbours, however you thank them.

Shushara told us about Kanye West and Kim Kardashian’s recent visit to Armenia. An impromptu gig by West ended when he jumped into a lake followed by sections of the crowd. Bottled West water is now being sold on eBay. Capitalism with its swarms of willing fools has now surely arrived.

The afternoon that followed was spent drinking with three travellers from the tour. Our little party consisted of Adam, an American with a winning smile, fresh from the Peace Corp in Mexico; Helena, recently graduating with a Masters in Holland, before now heading reluctantly home to blighty; and a New Zealander, Amanda, who like the others was travelling far and wide for an unspecified time. They averaged less than 30 and were generally wise and independent beyond their years.

The drinking began on our last stop of the tour when we were offered chacha by a sculptor from whom most of us bought a bust of Lenin. It is probably his top-selling product though the buyers, I imagine, are generally from countries without a Soviet past. He was delighted for us to join him in several rounds. It probably marked the end of his day’s useful work. The afternoon was pleasantly lost in the dappled light of café courtyard amid wine and chacha with our new friends. Budgets disintegrated into thin air. Things fell pleasantly apart.

Later, Sarah and I dined on beef and prunes, and one more beer. For some reason, Sarah’s came without the sauce so the ensuing FOMO was justified. Our young wide-eyed waitress was incredulous when Sarah ordered another drink without me. Both the action and reaction became a recurring scenario.

Many of the Armenian women are very beautiful. The thick black hair of the younger women sweeps long and thick down to their waists. I never felt stirred to say this in Georgia despite a rather optimistic (Georgian) website claiming otherwise. Another myth.

For our first evening meal out, Sarah had a yen for an Armenian barbecue, or Khorovat, and we ended up in a smart place after a prolonged walk past various atmospheric and inviting places. On entering, I was already a little hangry – a situation not helped when one of the chefs engaged me in a staring competition. As I was a customer, the fact that I won – after extra time – was hardly a satisfactory victory, or the way I wanted to start a meal. The waiter was brusque and cut Sarah off when she asked about the wine – preferring to answer a question we hadn’t asked. Our expected order failed to materialise. An embarrassment of meat turned out to be two small pork chops. When we inquired about the lost lamb, he insisted, for no good reason that if we still wanted it, we now needed to pay triple the advertised price. The mood turned sour. We paid in cash due to paranoia that my credit card would be defrauded. The only after-taste was bitter, which was a shame as what we did eat was delicious.

We did much better the following evening. We found a place specialising in Khorovats. An Armenian folk band fronted by a middle-aged crooner was accompanied by a younger chorus – several of whom looked slightly self-conscious performing in national costume. A lively crowd of Armenian Americans invited us to dance with them. Apparently folk dances tend to resemble the daily rituals and tasks of the natives. On this basis, Armenians traditionally spend a lot of time fluttering their hands flirtatiously while running around in circles. Our willingness and mastery of the basics caused our stock to rise exponentially.

Stairways to heaven and hell

The Yerevan cascade is giant limestone staircase leading to views of the city with not-so-distant Mount Ararat etched across the skyline. Within its precincts lie various museums while the pedestrianised avenue below is crammed with the high quality eateries and cafes that define much of the city centre. In desperate bids for Instagram likes, Pretty young girls pouted unnaturally all the way up the photogenic steps with the patient help of less skinny friends.

We spent much of the final day at the genocide memorial and museum. Initially, we visited the Exhibition Centre, which we sombrely photographed before realising our mistake. For political reasons, only around 30 countries have recognised the genocide. The UK and Ireland are among the 150 or so exceptions. The US, currently in a huff with Turkey, signed up a week later. Better late than ever, better than our own unscrupulous regime.

The exhibition relentlessly detailed the creative systematic methods pursued by the Ottomans to torture, butcher and culturally obliterate the Armenians from the face of their tottering empire. Imagine if the German government – rather than a few twisted cranks – denied the Holocaust. And then venerated Hitler, Himmler, and Goebbels in its grand avenues and school textbooks.

Day 10 - Dilijan

We took a marshutra several hours drive away to Dilijan. Apparently, it was where the artists and writers hung out. We lodged in a modern rustic chalet that the rather striking receptionist assured us was heavily discounted and half the price of the high season. New favourite place.

After checking out a well-rated restaurant on the valley floor for an afternoon beer, we returned for dinner. We shared the dining room with a large Asian coach party who dined from an expansive 20-dish banquet menu. Collectively, they didn’t seem boisterous enough to be Chinese nor sufficiently decorous to qualify as Japanese. I guessed South Korean, Sarah wondered about the Taiwanese. Two of their number ordered Pot Noodles.

The woman who served us on both occasions took affectionate care of us despite her less industrious colleagues talking over her head whenever they needed to justify their managerial importance. I had fish soup and ostrich steak. Along with the house red, all of which sat on my unnecessary lunch-time beers, I was stuffed to burst and genuinely disgusted with my gluttony. Before we left, our waitress insisted on taking us upstairs to show us the resident artwork. Sarah tinkled winningly on a piano. We wanted to take our waitress home where she would be appreciated better.

With the greatest respect to her, we said as much about many of the gentle and loving canines we met. Nonetheless, we accept we have no right to take ownership of either dogs or waitresses however well we feed and walk them. We regretted neither hugging her goodbye nor asking her name.

The weather was just about perfect. Barely a cloud to spoil the views.

Before we left Dilijan, we took a taxi to the 12th Century monasteries, Haghartsin and Goshavank. Most of the sites sprinkled across a region that boasts the world’s first Christian countries resemble fortified keeps rather than places of otherworldly rest and contemplation. Ethereal slight streamed through the window slits.

That evening, we took the train back from Yerevan to Tiblisi. Before we left, we visited the statue of Mother Armenia in a park at the top of the city via the cascades. She stood in an eerie fun-fair park largely denuded of custom. Mickey Mouse moped dolefully past. Craggy-faced employees with thousand-mile stares paid us little heed as we photographed the rusting hulks they commandeered. A man with a monkey on a chain failed to win our business.

Back on the train, the upgrade in class was more appreciated by Sarah. My grumpiness won over any sense of privilege due to my not sleeping for the first four or so hours before the customs men and women intruded on our little space. Sarah snoozed like a contented piglette in a blanket.

On arrival, we elected to keep on keeping on towards our prize in the High Caucasus.