The Baltic Express bursts out of the Czech capital on a crisp winter morning. As the sky lightens, medieval Prague is streamed through the train's windows like a Netflix trailer. From armchair seats in private compartments, a city of Rococo castles and wide boulevards appears: the "Paris of the East", mostly unscathed by Nazi occupation in the 1940s or socialist planning in the 70s. Moments later the train hums through a timeless Czech countryside. Onion-domed churches and frozen fishing lakes scroll past as the train sprints north.

The recently launched route from Prague to Gdynia on Poland's Baltic coast operates four times daily, and takes travellers directly into Central Europe's most vibrant and less-touristed cities that were previously tricky to get to. It will entice international travellers who want to combine a city break with a rural experience, followed by a holiday on the beach.

The term "Baltic Express" is an ambitious misnomer. Think of this new 878km connection not as one of the speedy plane-killer routes trending in recent years – like London to Amsterdam or Istanbul to Ankara – custom-built to compete with budget airlines. Instead, the eight-hour trip promises a scenic history tour through overlapping empires via some of the Czech Republic and Poland's most buzzing cities, including Gdansk and Poznan. Best of all, this highly affordable and experiential journey allows passengers to hop-on and hop-off wherever they choose.

My own journey started in Prague's Hlavní Nádraží station. From outside, the terminus looks like a cathedral to train travel with twin cupolas rising from its roof like Roman temples. The station was built in 1871 when the Austro-Hungarian Empire, which ruled Central Europe, laid train tracks around the empire as a way of weaving all trade and security through the empire's capital of Vienna.

Inside the station, Nádraží Hlavní's main departure hall was decorated when the Czech Republic was part of the Soviet Empire and is a socialist rainbow of primary colours. Yet unbeknown to most passengers, one floor above sits an original waiting room styled in Art Nouveau, while a soaring dome in this higher level overlooks Romanesque statues and polished brass rails. In 2024, the fancy Foyer Café opened in an adjoining salon, serving Czech riesling and viennoiserie pastries high above the hoi polloi. It's a fine way to start a continental meander.

After just one hour aboard the Baltic Express, I make my first hop-off stop at Pardubice. The 100,000-person city exudes Czech charm. The old town square is Prague-esque, with church steeples shaped like space rockets and townhouses coloured every shade of pastel. Pardubice's Austro-Hungarian townhouses are as fancily familiar as in every empire city: Sarajevo, Brno, Lviv. Yet I can count that day's tourists on one hand.

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Ironically, statues in Pardubice commemorate the birthplace of Czech aviator Jan Kašpar. In 1911, Kašpar flew south from Pardubice to Prague, following the railway tracks now used by the Baltic Express. The mechanical efficiency of aviation has competed with the romanticism of rail ever since.

I rejoin the Baltic Express an hour before sunset. The topography rises towards the Polish border in an undulating green sheen. First oak woods, feral deer and icy streams. Then pine forests, hunting lodges and deep snows as the train climbs into the quickening night. As........

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