Inside the World's Largest Model Railway in Germany

Years ago, a new girlfriend was about to introduce me to her closest friends. Minutes before the grand unveiling she anxiously leaned in and whispered: “You won’t tell them will you? I mean, about the model railways…”

I kept quiet that day — but I’m coming clean now. Throughout my life I’ve been a railway modeller. The love affair began aged seven when I received my first Hornby Flying Scotsman. It expanded in my teenage years when, amid a maelstrom of hormones, a layout took form in my parents’ spare bedroom. But its crowning glory came when — aged 37 and three quarters — I made the pilgrimage all modellers inevitably make: to the doors of Hamburg’s Miniatur Wunderland, the world’s largest model railway system.

Built by German brothers and rail enthusiasts Frederik and Gerrit Braun, it consists of some 10 miles of track about as wide as a 5p piece; the layout itself covers 1,694sq metres. It sprawls over multiple floors of a warehouse in Speicherstadt. Goods from all over were imported to this area in the late 19th century, and it maintains an international spirit. Miniatur Wunderland opened in 2001 as an evocation of a humdrum German town, but now encompasses distant countries and continents. In a few steps you can cross the Rockies and the Alps. A trip to the loo might take you past the canals of Venice and the lavender fields of Provence.

It’s one of Germany’s most popular attractions, and from afar you might get the impression it’s a frivolous one — a nice day out with the family. Visiting, I quickly come to understand it’s a deadly serious operation. Soon after entering I pass the control room, from which 1,200 model trains are controlled — a little Cape Canaveral, where operators with furrowed brows study countless screens, and white-hot panic ensues whenever someone utters the word entgleisung (derailment).

All around is a subtle hissing sound — the noise railway modellers like me recognise as that of tiny wheels on tiny rails. A pantheon of trains from around the world is represented: the bright-red trains of Switzerland chug up steep inclines, the diesels of the American West trundle by miniature mesas. And my favourites: Italian trains, whooshing along the littoral of the Cinque Terre.

Every 15 minutes day turns to night in Miniatur Wunderland — the lights are dimmed and tiny lamps come on in little streets and inside carriages.It’s endless fun but also, I think, full of profound lessons. I know from my own experience, the role of the railway modeller is akin to the God of Genesis — over several days (or months or years) you build a world to your own design, sculpting landscapes and populating them with people. Whether they know it or not, the tiny plastic figures of Miniatur Wunderland inhabit a tiny utopia: a place where the trains run on time and model planes land safely, a world devoid of wars or upheaval. It’s all overseen by a benevolent, all-seeing model-maker whose hand appears from on high to put things right. I find myself lost in this small world, temporarily forgetting the turmoil beyond the warehouse walls.

And yet, upstairs in a special exhibition space, you see that model making can also shine a light on darker matters. A series of dioramas outlines the history of Germany in plastic and papier-mache. One shows a concrete wall dividing families, another illustrates bombed-out buildings and marching figures in tiny grey uniforms. The series stretches back to prehistory and a time when no trains travelled; indeed, when no figures trod the soil on the site that’s now Miniatur Wunderland. It’s the human story as it might seem to someone watching from the clouds. It’s oddly moving.

Miniatur Wunderland reputedly plans to build a Great Britain layout. In another life I’d volunteer my services: to help build a tiny Albion of green lawns and huffing steam engines at the heart of that great German warehouse. But that girlfriend is now my wife, and I’m worried she might derail my plans.