A tour of the worst stations in the country was never going to be a glamorous or uplifting assignment. Pretty soon it turned into an exercise in extreme travel.

Mine was an odyssey of wind-swept platforms and urine-soaked floors. Old ladies struggled over footbridges, travellers shivered in the elements as they waited to get home. They talked of parking rage and waiting for taxis in the rain. Many refused to use the fetid facilities.

It became a journey of headaches and hunger; inedible food provided from vending machines. There was the stench of disinfectant, rubber floors that gave the feel of hospital waiting rooms, peeling paint and pigeons picking through litter.

Disgrace, dismal, dreadful, dingy: just some of the words my companions used to describe the stations. Britain deserves better. Surely the country that developed the first railways should aspire to an infrastructure worthy of the 21st century, not a dilapidated relic of what it had 100 years ago?

Anyone who spends enough time on our trains runs the risk of falling out of love with the railway. Even an ardent rail enthusiast such as Lord Adonis, the Secretary of State for Transport, has been pushed to the limits by the experience. His moment came one night in Southampton. Hungry and weary, even Lord Adonis couldn’t find anything to eat or drink. Even he arrived at stations where toilets were locked or simply not there. If the Secretary of State for Transport is caught short, what hope for parents travelling with children, or commuters heading home after a hectic day?

My epiphany came at Manchester Victoria, named by permission of Her Majesty in 1844, when it was one of the grandest stations.

Today the station is better known as a cruising ground for gay men. Pigeons pecked at sandwich crusts and coffee cups scattered across the platform. In the gentlemens’ toilets, a homeless man was standing at the only hand drier, filling his trousers with hot air. Outside another slugged from a bottle. A seasoned observer said that the telephone boxes were used by drug addicts who dialled up orders from dealers. The rent boys, he said, were some of the most regular arrivals. This was a place of great splendor 160 years ago; today it has become a place for watching the dark side.

Beneath a blue and gold mosaic promising “First Class Refreshment Room”, a Selecta vending machine offers only packets of crisps and chocolate bars. Panes are missing from a once-fine glass dome above the restaurant, letting pigeons into what is today the Pumpkin Metro Bar. Even at 11.30am on a weekday, there was a steady stream of punters for four-pint pitchers. Edwardian finesse has been ripped out, replaced by plastic seat covers. Scaffolding and nets hang above the main concourse to catch falling debris from temporary roof panels.

Yet if you scraped away hard enough at the grime, the majestic remains of a once-thriving hub could be glimpsed. A giant mural shows the glory days of the Lancashire and Yorkshire Railway. Past the abandoned café and to the street, the honey-coloured stone facade and the canopies are a beauty to behold. And that is why the place has become so depressing. It would not take much to restore the hidden glory. With a bit of imagination and money the potential could be realised.

For Manchester, read Clapham Junction, Wigan North Western, Preston, Crewe. At the exit of Stockport station, past a pall of tobacco from the smokers kept outside, passengers pass a signpost for Heaven and Hell nightclub. A devil and an angel compete for the affections of new arrivals. It is not always clear which will be your companion when you travel by train.

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