If you’re going abroad, do you always have to travel by plane? Of course not: millions of us take the ferry or the Eurostar to the Continent every year. But here’s an intriguing question: how far can the no-fly zone extend? Where can you reach by road or rail before the trip becomes such a trial that you might as well stay at home?

A straw poll of Sunday Times writers suggested that the absolute limit falls somewhere around Tuscany. But straw polls are no substitute for hard evidence. And so it was that at 11am on a showery Sunday, three journalists lined up at the foot of Eros in Piccadilly Circus. To simulate an authentically bulky holiday-luggage load, we handicapped each one with a guitar. Well, it seemed a good idea at the time.

At the last distant bong of Big Ben, they were off. One made for the Eurostar terminal at Waterloo. Another headed for the Tube, on a circuitous route to Stansted airport. The third sauntered to his motor. Their ultimate destination, though, was the same: Villa Sughera, just south of Pisa.

This was a race with a difference. It wasn’t only about speed. We wanted to weigh up a range of factors — including price, stress and enjoyment — to decide whether planes, trains or automobiles were the all-round best bet for the journey. Here’s how we did.

11AM

Simon Hacker — car: the Volvo V70 diesel has acres of space, so Jenny and I have lobbed in just three huge cases, sundry comestibles, 50 CDs, a boules set and half a yard of literature. Oh, and the guitar.

The GPS man trapped in the dashboard indicates it’s 460 miles to Beaune, our Burgundy pit stop. Nevertheless, his first advice is a touch unhelpful: “There is a traffic problem ahead. There are no alternatives.” Fifteen minutes after waving those suckers goodbye, we’re somehow still within arrow-shot of Eros.

Tim Moore — train: my Eurostar doesn’t leave for two hours, but it’s raining, and with my right arm being slowly lengthened by two stone of flight-cased Fender Bullet, I opt to check in early at Waterloo. Plenty of time to recall that the last time I took a guitar abroad, it earned me a lingering strip-search at Oslo airport.

Stephen Bleach — plane: there’s a 1.30pm flight from Gatwick to Florence, but I’m not going to take it. This is because I have a cunning plan. I’m clearly going to win hands down on time, anyway. I’d like to win on price, too. The Gatwick flight is £160 return — but Ryanair has an 8.15pm from Stansted to Pisa that I’ve bagged for a mere 60 quid. My skinflint soul aglow, I set off to fritter away a few hours in the capital. Brunch, then Tate Modern, I think.

2PM

Car: having eventually scraped London off our tyres, there’s a delay at Eurotunnel’s check-in thanks to a woman who’s there to explain the new delay-reducing, self-service system. It’s all so exciting, I forget to change any currency, forcing us into a euro-hunting detour to the execrable plasticity of the Cité de l’Europe.

Train: we’re reeling in a rain-smeared Pas-de- Calais, drops clattering the windows at 186mph. My Ryanair rival is probably on the Stansted Express, crawling north when I’m barrelling south, and who’d want to drive in this? Time to toast my competitive advantage with a beer.

Plane: Tate Modern’s awfully big, isn’t it? Still, at least they let me leave the guitar at the coat check. It seems Moholy-Nagy’s contribution to constructivism was primarily pedagogic. I feel better for knowing that.

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