A surprise visit to Paris

We left La Chapelle-Gaudin, and Helen, on Sunday.  She drove us to Poitiers, bravely joining the taxi ranks to drop us at the door of the train station.  We said quick goodbyes, and know we will keep in touch.

Then the saga began.  Our TGV (fast) train was due to depart at 3:25pm but the departure board told us it was delayed by an hour.  Not as bad as the two earlier trains which had still not arrived and were expected to be two and a half hours late.  There was a nice man wandering around in a TGV uniform and we approached him and, firstly, asked if he spoke English as our French is limited, a lot.  We were in luck.  He was able to tell us that a tree had fallen on the track, halting all the trains using that track.  Our train would arrive about an hour late, which meant we would miss our connection at St Pierre des Corps, but we should be able to get on the following connection and arrive at our destination, Vendome, only an hour late.  I called our new host, Darienne, to let her know of the delay as she was due to pick us up in Vendome at 5pm, and said I’d phone again once we’d got on the connecting train through to Vendome – we didn’t want her turning up there at 6pm and finding we hadn’t been on the expected train.

Back at Poitiers station, we remained in the main hall until the platform number for our train was displayed, then followed a maze of signs to find the lift that would take us onto the bridge and over to our platform.  Having made it that far, we checked the diagram that shows where the carriages will be located on the platform – carriage 19 was the second to last at the back of the train so we headed in that direction and settled down to wait, standing along with most other passengers as there is little seating on platforms – not usually a problem because trains tend to run on time so you arrive just a reasonable time before scheduled departure and do not have to stand around for long.  In fact the TGV ticket recommends you are at the platform at least two minutes before the scheduled departure.  I think I’d be a bit stressed if I were to cut it that fine!

Finally, trains started arriving and departing and it wasn’t long before our one arrived.  But, strangely, our carriage wasn’t quite where we’d expected and we had to trot further down the platform to find it.  Having found it we left our big bags on the luggage rack (always a disconcerting feeling) and made our way to our seats to find a man seated in one of them.  Luckily, he spoke a little English and I showed him our tickets and he was just getting his out to check when an official looking man in a cap turned up and asked ‘Madame’ for her tickets.  He directed us out of the carriage and said we had to go to another, at the front of the train – to be more accurate he’d said a lot of something in French until I said “we don’t speak French”, to which he replied with those basic instructions, plus a tidbit about “the train leaves in two minutes so you’ll have to run” - these trains are very long.  Oh dear.  So we ran, heavy day packs on our backs, wheeling our big Kathmandu travel packs behind us, weaving around the people standing on the platform preparing to wave goodbye to their friends and family on the train.

I’ll divert a little in my story to tell you of a discovery I made early on in our time in Reading, and the decision I made following that discovery.  Where we were living in Reading was less than a half hour’s walk from the train station, and a couple of times we cut it a bit fine.  Often this was because it can take longer to get your tickets from the machine than you expect.  Anyway, we got into a pattern of me buying the tickets while Nigel checked the board to find out what time the next train departed and from which platform.  If we were running a bit late, we would then have to ‘get our roller-skates on’ to get to the platform – jogging through the station, up the escalator, along the bridge, down the stairs and then flying through the doors.  I think it was the next and final step which was the nail in the coffin, so to speak.  If there were seats available, we’d plonk ourselves down in seats to recover ….. and then my back would spasm, painfully.  It would usually only take a minute or so to recover, but it was scary (thrown on top of already being stressed about nearly missing the train), and altogether not very nice.  After the second time I decided it was a ridiculous situation and I declared that in future if we were running late for a train, we would miss it and we would get the next train. 

Fast-forward to platform 2 at Poitiers Station.  We had run towards the front of the train to find that they were all first class carriages and were certainly not carriage 19.  The platform staff blew the whistle.  We’d just passed the third carriage from the front where the entrance to the carriage was crammed with people standing.  Left with little choice, and finding only two people in the entrance of the next carriage, we climbed aboard, and the doors closed.  Phew!  I was not in the best of moods.  'Angry' is a pretty accurate description of how I felt about what had happened.  I haven’t been angry for a very long time.  Anyway, there was a woman sitting on one of the fold down/pop up seats in the entrance way, with her stuff on the one next to her.  She moved her stuff and I gratefully collapsed onto the seat, still gulping for air after our run.  And had another of my ‘episodes’ – back spasms, a few moans and groans thrown in for good measure, tears in the eyes.  As usual, it settled down again, and I just wanted to burst into tears.  Luckily, Nigel was by this stage sitting opposite me and held my hand until I’d calmed down. 

We’d been looking forward to this train trip, but instead we were sitting on crappy seats with limited views of the countryside flying passed us.  But there’s no use crying over spilled milk.  We were at last on our way.  We would miss our booked connection, but hopefully we’d get on the next and we’d be in Vendome at 6pm.

A quick look at a map will show you the locations of Poitiers, St Pierre des Corps and Vendome.  From Vendome you would have to stay on the train another 45 minutes to reach Paris, so how does Paris fit into this story?  The trip from Poitiers to St Pierre des Corps takes 45 minutes, so 45 minutes after departing Poitiers we were mentally preparing ourselves for the imminent slowing down of the train, and disembarkation.  Except the train didn’t slow down.  We got out our phones, turned on the GPS and ran Google Maps to find out how far away we were.  They couldn't pin-point our location, probably because we had limited access to the satellites through our pokey window.  So Nigel bravely tried a little French on the woman sitting with us.  She spoke enough English for us to understand, so, without the added confusion of smatterings of French, I’ll explain...

We were on the wrong train and we were on a non-stop journey to Paris.  We could do nothing but join her in laughing at our situation!  We were very lucky though - she was a TGV employee and explained that this train had come in to platform two just before our train.  The trip number was one digit different from our one, but I hadn’t even looked for that – I’d just been looking at the carriage numbers.  She spoke to the ticket collector and he looked up the trains out of Paris back to Vendome and she wrote down the trip number and departure time for us.  He also wrote a note on our ticket to explain the error, to reduce the chance that we’d have to pay for the extra trip.  In the event, on our arrival in Paris, our ‘rescuer’, having pointed out the Eiffel Tower in the distance as we caught a glimpse of it in the distance between buildings, assured us she had the time to take us to our return train and ensure we got free seats.  She spoke to the men at the help desk on the platform next to the train and one of them asked us, in English, to follow him please.  We quickly said our goodbyes and again said our thanks to her and followed our guide.  He kindly pointed us to very comfortable seats in a first class carriage and we most happily settled back to enjoy our 45 minute trip to Vendome.  I phoned Darienne and said we’d arrive at 7pm.  Thankfully she was still able to pick us up and we’ve now spent a day in our new ‘home’, a beautiful French chateau ….. but that’s a story for another day!

French life

After being here just a month I can’t speak with authority on the French way of life, but here are a few observations …

All the little villages we have been through are generally well cared for, all but the tiniest have public toilets and a Mairie (town hall). Our village of La Chapelle-Gaudin, with just 65 houses or so, has a mayor, a two-story Mairie (where you must get married if you live in the area), one shop (for bread), a salle des fetes (a multi-purpose hall for the community to use), sports grounds, a recycling centre, and a school with 19 children. It also has a church which, like all churches in secular France, is owned by the state. The community pays a person full-time to maintain the village. There are also 18-odd wind turbines (each 130m tall!) nearby and the power company gives tens of thousands of euros to the community each year as compensation.

Today (Saturday) is one of the major travel days here (because families are setting out for their annual holiday). So large trucks are banned from the roads. Hence no mail is transported today.

On the down side are the public services. Though they work well they appear inefficient and a means to keep lots of people employed, though strikes are common. We have just tried out the postal service. I mentioned in a previous post that my camera lens is broken, so we wrapped it up in a box for sending back to NZ for repair.  Helen took us to the main post office in Thouars, the largest nearby town, as she warned us any local post office wouldn’t be able to cope. When a staff member finally arrived at the counter and looked at the parcel you could see that it wasn’t going to go well. The parcel was too well wrapped – it was too small! The various forms required wouldn’t fit onto it. They did sell standard postage-included boxes but they didn’t cover the insurance amount required. Plus he could give us two prices: 30 euros or 110 euros! A trip to the supermarket procured us a suitable box so we returned today with the various forms filled out – one in triplicate, the other just duplicate. This seemed to do the trick and the lens will duly be sent somewhere. 

And on the subject of forms, when you send them into government departments they may return them to you with any mistakes or omissions highlighted so you can have another go.

People here do not seem particularly IT-literate. Helen’s two daughters went to school and college here. They would often shop online which was a mystery to all their classmates. Partly it is the general poor state of French websites – very old-fashioned.

France is still very insular and protectionist of their culture and economy. Many of the goods we’re familiar with buying very cheaply (because they come from China) are more expensive here because they are made locally. People do support their local shops and regional produce. They tend to holiday mainly in countries that speak French.

There are many empty houses in the countryside. The inheritance laws mean a property (land or house) is divided up amongst the children. This often makes farms uneconomic and requires all the children to agree on what to do with the property. As not all may agree on how to sell it and how to divide up the money, many are left in a state of limbo. Also, young people don’t want to live in the countryside where there are few jobs, nothing to do, and everyone around is ancient. The chance of selling a house quickly is not good - they may take years to sell. Unless a Brit comes along. There are a lot of ex-pats living here, either with a holiday home or permanently. And some, like our hosts, still work in Britain and commute. For a lot of them it is a way to realise a dream that is nearly impossible in Britain: to own a large house and land. Run down houses needing renovation can be had for 20,000 euros, larger ones ready to live in for under 100,000 euros.

Bastille Day

Monday 14^th July is a public holiday so we duly obliged by taking the day off (we worked the previous day, a Sunday, instead) and did some local sightseeing. Our host, Helen, is away for a week in the UK and has left us the keys to the house, wine cellar, and Landrover. Luckily summer has started to return; we have had warm but very changeable weather of late which is quite unseasonal. By this time of the year it should be very hot day after day, hiding from the sun in the afternoon and eating out late each evening. Sadly that has rarely been the case.

Old buildings are everywhere

Taking the Landrover for some exercise (it is quite a challenge driving a large right-hand drive vehicle, on the right, down little, wobbly, country lanes - though probably not as scary for the people in normal-sized cars coming in the other direction!) we headed to a pretty local town by the name of Airvault. Being a holiday it appeared abandoned, but there were quaint streets to meander down, lots of old buildings, the remains of a castle, and a medieval church to investigate. Like all the villages around here it is somewhat drab, all the buildings are shades of cream. Some are still stone, a few are half-timbered, but most have been rendered over all in a similar colour. At least all the towns are very tidy, clean, and well decorated with flowers. Totally un-Greek!

One of the better residences in Airvault

Covered market areas are quite common

Over-doing the flowers in Airvault

Airvault from the castle walls

Old farmhouses in town

Sadly at this point my wide-angle lens gave up on me so there won’t be as many images appearing until it has had a little trip back to NZ for repair.

Summer in France ...

Forget that little event called the [soccer] World Cup! Being in France and being Bastille day there was no better way to relax than sit back and watch the Tour de France ( on telly). Even if you don't like the cycling, the live coverage always includes spectacular French scenery, and plenty of sunflowers! Unfortunately there are no stages anywhere near where we will be so I have to rely on the telly.

After dinner we drove half an hour to Bressuire, the nearest large town in this region. It has a nice Chateau surrounded by old fortifications – and this was the backdrop to the ensuing fireworks display we had come to see. There were a couple of food tents, a dreadfully loud disco/rap with no one paying it any attention, a dirty-looking and smelly public shared toilet trailer, and a grassy hillside to sit with about 2,000 others waiting for the display to begin at 11pm when it was deemed dark enough. Despite the “attractions” the actual fireworks show was probably the prettiest we had ever seen. Some great old French music (and some not-so-old English!) and a 15 minute display.

And we mustn't forget the frog!  Yes - I said 'frog'.  A little brown guy, about five centimetres long, decided to take a hop through the throngs on this most auspicious of evenings.  We're not sure he made it through the evening, and would be surprised if he did!

Bienvenue en France

Southampton Airport

Flying out of a regional airport in the UK is so much more pleasant than the huge main ones. The train pulls up into Southampton airport just a few metres from the door. All is quiet and peaceful and, compulsory coffee and cake later, we are heading off into the blue sky across the Channel.  Not a lot to see until we fly over the Channel Islands and see how small they are. How Bergerac found so many cases to deal with is beyond me.

Likewise, landing at a regional airport is a quick process and soon we were meeting our new host for the next month, Helen, in the car park at Nantes airport. Not hard to spot a right-hand drive burgundy Landrover! The drive to the village of La Chapelle-Gaudin takes over an hour so plenty of time to acquaint ourselves with the flat arable countryside. Small towns, small villages and small roads hereabouts.

Day 1 - Vicki doing what she does best!

Our new home is an impressive three storey house (plus cellar) as seen from the street, though it is only one room deep, so there are only two bedrooms. There is a big garden and adjoining hay field, plus various outbuildings including a stone shed in the middle of the front garden accessible from the street –the only problem being it belongs to the chap across the road! It seems not uncommon for a house to have land or outbuildings across the road.

Helen and Nick

Helen, our host, is partially physically disabled so we are here to help around the house and garden and to provide some company as her husband, Nick, currently works in the UK and can usually come home only at weekends. There seem to be several English ex-pats in this region with one partner commuting to the UK for work. Helen’s hobby is cooking and she is wonderful at it. It is an opportunity for her to cook properly rather than just for herself, so we are having very large and complex lunches and dinners – wonderful but we feel the need to work hard physically to keep our waistlines in check. And did I mention that they have a well-stocked purpose built wine cellar? We’ve had a good introduction to the local wines.

As it is around the summer solstice we are often eating very late (after 9pm) and sometimes outside. A few thunderstorms but generally warm to hot weather. As I write this it is supposed to reach 35C later in the day! Luckily Helen and Nick have a share of a pool at her sister’s which is just a short cycle ride away.

Poitiers town hall

We have had one real day out when we dropped Nick off at Poitiers airport then we had a look around the ancient university town. As we arrived at lunchtime most of the shops were closed, but also the pay-and-display parking is free between 12 and 2pm. Though it drizzled most of the time, we had a good wander around the streets.

 Some scenes from Poitiers ...

We have also driven through a few of the local hamlets. There appear to be few people around but generally the hamlets are very clean and tidy, though there are also plenty of decaying buildings. Much effort goes into their vegetable gardens. The French, of course, love their food. We were taken to the next village for some groceries (ours has no shops) and there they have a co-op, a shop run by volunteers and one paid staff member. It is full of regional food, generally organic, and welcomes you with a coffee plus lots of samples of the local wines and cheeses: cow, sheep and goat. Even cupcakes made by a local English resident. As they are not out to make much of a profit it is very satisfying supporting the local community.

Remains of a local château ...

with its intact, though shallow, moat

Life is peaceful here with the only noise from the occasional traffic (mostly tractors) and the irregular toll of the bell in the church steeple. I say irregular as at certain times in the morning it appears to have a "snooze" function: about 5 minutes after the hour it repeats the chimes! Then once in a while we here 30+ fast rings - must be a code which we're not yet privy to. It seems a shame to spoil the tranquillity by firing the strimmer up, but I do get to wear green overalls, the official colour for farmers. Other types of workers get to wear different colours!