I’m surprised Robinson doesn’t mention the trip from Hull to Doncaster (and then on to London). It has the most evocative of all railway poems written about it, by Philip Larkin - here are the first couple of stanzas:

The Whitsun Weddings

That Whitsun, I was late getting away: Not till about One-twenty on the sunlit Saturday Did my three-quarters-empty train pull out, All windows down, all cushions hot, all sense Of being in a hurry gone. We ran Behind the backs of houses, crossed a street Of blinding windscreens, smelt the fish-dock; thence The river’s level drifting breadth began, Where sky and Lincolnshire and water meet.

All afternoon, through the tall heat that slept For miles island, A slow and stopping curve southwards we kept. Wide farms went by, short-shadowed cattle, and Canals with floatings of industrial froth; A hothouse flashed uniquely: hedges dipped And rose: and now and then a smell of grass Displaced the reek of buttoned carriage-cloth Until the next town, new and nondescript, Approached with acres of dismantled cars.

As you’d expect, Larkin also did the journey in the opposite direction:

“Here”

Swerving east, from rich industrial shadows And traffic all night north; swerving through fields Too thin and thistled to be called meadows, And now and then a harsh-named halt, that shields Workmen at dawn; swerving to solitude Of skies and scarecrows, haystacks, hares and pheasants, And the widening river’s slow presence, The piled gold clouds, the shining gull-marked mud,

The remainders of both these poems are well worth reading too….