When hubbie said he was going to the UK to see his Mum, I must admit I was slightly in a state of shock. No, not because he was leaving me or that he was going off on his own. But because he has refused to travel on planes ever since I have known him. That’s 29 years, by the way. Not particularly for ecological reasons at the beginning, but now he is a firm and absolute refuser – for environmental reasons, but also that he’s simply too scared to. (He knows that I have written this, and he’s fine with it.) He’d only spent about 20 days in the UK in the last 20 years, I should point out, so this is quite a big deal. So all of this is going be by land and sea.
1185.2km
That is the distance between our home and his Mum’s. Or Google mentions around 12 hours of driving. He did do this before by car with a stop-over in France which was ok, but that was over 10 years ago. This time though, we are a “one car family” so he had to (and wanted to, he loves this kind of thing) rely on public transport. Travel of course would include Thursday 5th January, when Rail strikes were planned in the UK. Perhaps a good way to see how public transport stands up to the car or flying in this age of trying to live more sustainably?
The Rules which we both agreed on for this challenge
We both agreed that, if he was going to attempt this, we’d see what is possible and feasible. So the deal was that the trip should consist of (a) public scheduled transport only, and (b) no taxis. If any problems were encountered en-route with connections and the like, they’d have to be sorted out under the same set of rules. Oh, and no comfortable hotel overnight stay allowed halfway through.
France
Saying a tearful goodbye at the station (well he could get lost, fall off the train or drown on the ferry crossing!) he took the train from Montauban, Occitanie to Paris Montparnasse station, the first leg of the journey.
“Not being a frequent traveller, a few things caught my attention on the train. Firstly, nobody speaks anymore – everyone I could see had a laptop open in front of them. Then something which kind-of reinforced one of the reasons for making the trip in this fashion, when the conductor announced ‘Thank you for traveling on the greenest form of transport.’ Another piece of good news came when a window-seat got freed up, so I could gaze at the wonderful French countryside from Bordeaux to Paris.
And my goodness, how I was rewarded with 150+ miles through central France of the most boring, flat countryside that one can dream of. This leg of the trip was amazing in one regard though, in that the speed of the train tipped past 310kph for great chunks of it. Almost 200mph, taking just 2h 7mins in total. And as smooth as you like. Absolutely shrieking for a coffee, though.”
After a wander around finding (as only he would) broken bikes, graffiti and a brief glimpse of the Tour Eiffel in the distance and almost hidden behind tall buildings, it was back on the train to Saint Malo on the Brittany coast. Not before nipping out of the Montparnasse station concourse, and immediately being hit by the shock of urban noise and general hubbub, and also being accosted by some chap attempting to foist a religious book of some kind on him.
“Finally a loo break. But not here, I think. One Euro for a quick pee. And security guards outside the loos to make sure nobody gets it for free.”
So, off on the train to St. Malo after an hour’s pottering about. An uneventful journey of just over two hours saw him arriving at what is the terminus of the line. An open, wind-swept station which was like another world compared to Paris. More his cup of tea.
“Accosted again. This time by one of the biggest seagulls I have ever seen. It was like being in Jurassic Park, only far more serious – he wanted my sandwiches and coffee. Interestingly, Brittany is very much like Cornwall in having it’s own language of which it is fiercely proud. I was surprised and delighted to see that even the slogans on the sides of the train, and the notices around the station itself, were written in both French and Breton.”
Unfortunately he is nursing a knee injury from being a football linesman here in France, and the 30-minute walk through the pretty town from the station to the ferry port was not appreciated. Luckily the wheels of the suitcase coped with the cobbles. Remember – public transport only, no taxis allowed.
“That walk was bl**dy exhausting, and my knees are shot. And for a major ferry port, I barely saw a sign that pointed me anywhere towards the boat. St. Malo though (signposting aside) looks really lovely, especially the really old walled quarter right on the coast. I’ve now finally made it to the ferry port, and my ‘international VIP departure lounge for celebs and influencers.’ Coffee from a machine now, and stale cheese sandwiches from my departure earlier this morning. Yum. Boat leaves in about two hours or so.”
The ferry port is not really built for comfort, and the bench which could have easily been brought in from the local prison provided the only respite for the several hours of waiting until the ferry was due to leave.
“The ferry has a swimming pool on board. Empty, mind. Right, where’s the bar?”
The English Channel
The night ferry cruised across the calm seas towards Portsmouth. Hubbie had booked one of what he dubbed the “executive recliners” (i.e. a seat) on which he managed to grab about three hours’ sleep. He hadn’t brought his cossie for the pool, but very soon wished he’d brought his coffee machine with him in his lugagge as the main one on the ship was out of order. Night crossing, restaurant closed. Hats off to the crew, though, who came to the rescue at 3 in the morning when said husband (grumpy from the travelling, shrieking for a coffee, and being bold enough to ask the ship’s purser if there was anywhere he could get a coffee) let him use the “Commodore Lounge” suite where, lo and behold, there was a working and help-yourself-for-free coffee machine. Hallelujah. Another couple of hours of shut-eye on a lounger, some mild trouble with one of the passengers at the docking, and off hubbies legs walked. Again.
“A quick note about using mobile data on your phone while on board. Yes, it is available – but it is a premium satellite-based service. Turn your data off, folks. It’s going to cost you €15.84 per Megabyte. One full-length film later, and your mobile phone bill will be ‘a bit more’ than the price of the crossing. In fact, approximately 31,000 Euros. Seriously! Be warned. And a BIG nod to the crew member who opened up the lounge for me for coffee. A generous gesture, and much appreciated.”
Portsmouth
“Pompey. Bloody hell, the traffic!”
A city we know, with my Mum living close by and which was my home for several years. Unfortunately the construction of the city means that the main bus station and the ferry port are miles apart. A huge stroke of luck, though – passing a bus stop on the way to the bus station, hubbie manages to catch the No. 4 stopping service to Southampton. Southampton I hear you cry? Well, the decision was made right at the beginning to avoid going through London. This meant that the only direct bus to Oxford was from Southampton. And as the trains were on strike…
“That was a nice gesture. The lady bus driver was still rebooting her ticket machine, so she let me off the fare.”
The “stopping service” turned out to be almost two hours in duration. For a distance of only about 30 miles. He saw people come, people go. Young and old. Many with small shopping bags, but none with suitcases and rucksacks.
Southampton
Bumbling slowly along to Southampton hubbie finally reached the bus station, right by the West Quay Shopping Centre. For some of you that might seem fortunate. For hubbie it was a huge culture shock. In his words, a nightmare. He was used to “urban sprawls” being something as large as our nearest village, his preferred and habitual place to shop being our nearest little supermarket. A vast four-floored shopping centre with lifts? And one of the largest in the city of Southampton at that, he was not prepared for. With me directing him from afar over WhatsApp with Google Maps, he managed to locate the loos (necessary) and McDos (necessary, though other fast-food outlets are available), and his legs and arms were starting to wonder what they had let themselves in for.
He’s now been travelling for over 24 hours, let’s not forget. And he’s just arrived in the UK. Bless ‘im.
Probably the most frustrating part of the trip was now upon him, though. A six-hour wait in Southampton, before he could get the National Express coach to Oxford. This being the result, he says, of “joined-up thinking on behalf of the transport companies.”
“A four-storey shopping arcade (as we used to call them) is not my idea of fun. What has happened, for starters, to a world where you can go to a café and ask for a coffee? I don’t expect to have to translate my simple request into Italian, or have a Barista make it for me. Or to have to ask him for no steamed/frothed milk, and no cinnamon sprinkles. And certainly not to be ambushed for over four quid for it. €1.50 back home in France. I just want a coffee. Black fluid. Strong. ‘An Americano’, as it turns out. Costabucks (or whatever they’re called) is a confusing and biblically expensive place.”
Oxford, the place of his birth and his childhood
Almost there. He arrived at Gloucester Green bus station in central Oxford at nightfall, walked round a few streets to Park End Street, and caught the No. 33 bus in the rain and the dark off to Dry Sandford. Two quid for six miles, which didn’t seem bad at all.
“Almost home. That’s been brilliant fun.”
Dry Sandford – not there yet…
From the bus stop outside the Bystander Pub (an old drinking-hole from his youth) he had a good half-mile walk to his Mum’s house, drinking in the dimly-lit sights of the village which he remembered from 37 years previously. Made it.
36 hours. And a half.
And he loved it.
A few observations he made while there, things had changed
He sent a few snippets of news.
“Wandered aimlessly and very happily around the village, and the places I used to hang out as a child. One estate where most of my Primary School friends lived hasn’t changed a jot, which is extraordinary. And it hasn’t got an expensive coffee shop – even the IPA beer in the Bystander was affordable. On chatting with the pub manager, I noticed her strong Black Country accent and so (being a lover of accents) I asked her if she was from Dudley by any chance? She was. Bang on.”
“I arranged a visit to my old Primary School, which was a total hoot. Not much changed in there either, apart from that they now have no pottery kiln, and that they have ‘computers’ which I don’t recall being in there in 1979. I felt like a small child again, and a big thank you to the Headteacher and her team for letting me in and stopping to chat.”
“More wandering around the village revealed a more disturbing trend from an environmental point of view… the sheer number of houses with huge front gardens which are now entirely paved over, and covered with up to five posh cars. One such house was called ‘Bluebell Cottage.’ Ironic.”
The trip home, five days later
Obviously, much the same kind of adventure. Much the same duration, too. The weather wasn’t going to do him any favours, though. There were gale-force winds forecast for the evening crossing, which would be hitting the boat side-on. Choppy waters ahead.
He left home at 8:15am on foot, caught the bus from the Bystander, and safely arrived at Oxford Gloucester Green bus station. At this point, there was the usual grumpy search for, as he puts it, ‘just an ordinary coffee.’
A couple of hours later (he perhaps didn’t have to leave such large gaps for transport changes, but if he was to miss one connection, he could miss the lot) and he was off to Southampton, where he’d have to kill six hours either there or in Portsmouth before the boat was due to set sail at 8pm. McDos and the shopping centre again, then.
“I’m waiting for my bus outside the shopping centre, and a bunch of coaches have pulled up with ‘Queen Mary 2 Shuttle’ on the front. Crowds of American tourists are piling off. What the heck are they doing? Where are they going? Is the West Quay Shopping Centre one of those ‘places to see before you die’ that you read about? This is madness!”
“That’s just about the coldest I have ever been on a bus – the trip from Southampton to Portsmouth was 30 miles of the most uncomfortable conditions imaginable on public transport. It is bitter outside, and tiddling it down with freezing rain. People kept boarding and getting off, letting the warm air out. Ba**ards. Still fun though – not everyone’s cup of tea, but I’m loving it.”
His plunging body temperature wasn’t helped by the bus driver suggesting, on arriving in Portsmouth, that he should “get out here for the ferry terminal.” He then had to walk upwards of two miles in freezing downpours, on dimly-lit streets, through underpasses, over bridges, and across industrial estates just to get to the port. Even then he had to ask the way twice. Thanks, Mr. Bus Driver.
Portsmouth Ferry Terminal
Very, wet indeed. Raining horizontally now.
“This is utterly miserable weather. The only highlights here have been drying off a bit, having a fabulous coffee and a muffin at the café in the terminal, and checking with Border Force that I could indeed bring two jars of Marmite through without incident. The good news came, the Marmite stays with me.”
The rest of the trip through France, and back home
After a rather uneasy crossing in those winds, the rest of the journey was relatively uneventful. St. Malo seagulls were at it again in a threatening manner, the time spent pottering about at the station was very pleasant (though it took him three hours or more to feel like he wasn’t still swaying from side to side) and the change of trains at Paris Montparnasse went smoothly.
Another quick change of trains (only about a 13 minute window, so a bit twitchy) at Bordeaux, and he was back in Montauban.
“That was all brilliant. Okay, you need a bit of free time to do the travelling, but I saw stuff, experienced stuff, had to work out stuff, lugged stuff, and enjoyed nostalgia over stuff. So all good stuff.”
MidLife Crisis In France
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