My trip was like a Curate’s Egg ….

Yesterday evening I arrived in La Bourboule, as scheduled.  But I almost did not make it, because SNCF did their utmost to prevent me from going to that Pearl of the Auvergne.

At first all went well.  I woke up at 03:30, caught the coach to London at 05:00, hailed a cab at Baker Street, and by 06:45 was comfortably seated at Le Pain Quotidien, sipping a Café au Lait while awaiting the arrival of scrambled eggs and fried mushrooms.

The terminal was heaving with travellers and it was extremely busy.  Nevertheless I got through customs quickly and had plenty of time to look for coins afterwards.  I only found one, a shiny penny.  This should have alerted me – fate had issued a warning that all would not be well with my travelling!

But as yet I was unsuspecting.  The Eurostar made good time, and at 11:45 I alighted from the train at the Gare du Nord.  I retrieved my ticket and made my way to platform 44, whence line D departs direction Gare de Lyon.  Then the nightmare started!

No train arrived.  Loads of tourists trying to catch their trains to the Gare de Lyon, but no train arrived.  After 15 minutes I interview a native, and finally discover that there are no trains that day.  No signs, no notifications, except something obscure in French which neither I nor any of the two hundred other tourists understand.  There are large signs saying that there will be no service between 14^th and 17^th of August – but nothing about the 25 of August. 

What am I to do?  I could take the Metro, but I have to make two changes to get to the Gare de Bercy and have just half an hour left before my train leaves at 13:00.  I head for the taxi rank.  As usual other people had the same smart idea, nd there is an achingly long cue.  I pray for lots of taxis to arrive.  As I inch my way forward in the cue my prayers become more desperate.  Come-on God, I pray, you can do it, I need twenty five more taxis!  If I miss this train I will miss my connecting bus to la Bourboule from Clermont Ferrand, and have to stay the night there!  Quel horreur!  Fate worse than death!  Save me!

God seems to think this is all rather funny, but rises to the occasion and somehow convinces every taxi driver in Paris to rush to the Gare du Nord in double quick time.  They arrive in fast succession, but is it fast enough?  Finally it is my turn at 12:40 – I have 20 minutes before my train leaves.

My taxi driver is sceptical and claims it will be extremely difficult to get there on time.  I am becoming slightly hysterical and impress upon him the need for me to get that train, all in my terrible French.  He decides to become my savior and races through Paris at a speed I can only describe as Vistesse Demesure! (Ludicrous Speed).  I arrive at the Gare de Bercy at 12:58!

Is this the end of my misery?  It is not.  There are four trains waiting, and again NO SIGNS!!!!  How do I know which one goes to Clermont Ferrand?  I run hither and thither, almost break down in tears, and then spy a conductor.  Clermont Ferrand?  I cry.  Vite Vite, he shouts and pushes me in the direction of the train at the end of the station.  No indicator board telling you where the trains leaves, no sign at the platform, nothing.

I climb aboard with my last vestige of strength, and look for my seat.  All the seat numbers are jumbled up, number 33 is next to number 52.  I finally find my seat, but someone else has occupied it.  The conductor tells me there is a problem today and shows me to a different seat. 

I was not the only one whose nerves had been shredded by the evil machinations of the French rail road system that day.  Another passenger was so distraught she managed to pour water all over the lady in the seat opposite mine, who promptly had a fit and started to shout words I couldn’t quite make out but were clearly impolite.  I tried to make peace by offering her all my spare handkerchiefs and telling her about my own horrendous experience.  She listened to me with astonishment and burst out laughing.  It was an improvement to her shouting, but I wonder whether she quite understood me?  The woman with the offending water bottle used her chance to disappear, and slowly peace descended.

Someone ought to have a word with SNCF.  If it hadn’t been for that heroic taxi driver and divine intervention I would not have walked into Les Galapagos at 19:30 hours to the delight and acclaim of several waiters and the owner.  Paris is full of international tourists, and the Gare de Nord used by huge numbers of non-French speakers.  Posting cancellation notices in English – indeed, posting them at all! – should be a matter of course, as should be having notice boards which tell you from which platform a train leaves.  And if there are problems with the electrics and the normal signs don’t work, why not write notices on cardboard and put them up?  It's not rocket science!

The journey to Clermont Ferrand was uneventful, by the way.  So was the autocar (coach) trip to La Bourboule.  Most of the time travelling in France is a dawdle.  But when SNCF decides to show you who is boss, beware!