The little traveller

Today was my first trip outside Paris. I headed north to Soissons to watch the start of Paris-Brussels, my first race in Europe. I was up at 6am, headed for the RER at 6.20 to take the TER train to Soissons from Gare du Nord at 7.01.

Though I gave up on the tickets at Le Bourget and managed to make the 6.40am RER, the rabbit-warren-like nature of one of Paris’s major train stations meant that by the time I figured out where to buy tickets and where to find the train, I had missed the 7.01. Fortunately there was another one in an hour, so I didn’t have to amuse myself for too long. Southern Cross can’t hold a candle to Gare du Nord. It reminded me of one of Monet’s more famous paintings of another Paris train station, the Gare-Saint-Lazare. Paris, and France in general, still retains a lot of its history in the most subtle ways, giving it an old-world charm, as in the construction of these huge, ancient centres of transport.

The train was lovely, as nice as any Vline train you’d find at home (though a lot more expensive). I parked myself on a bench seat and watched avidly out the windows as my seatmates all slept. Soissons is in the region of France known as Picardie, a truly beautiful area. Think of any stereotypical tourist photo you’ve seen of France – small hamlets of white houses with matching brown roofs, surrounded by miles of woods full of deciduous trees in their bright green glory, or acres of farmland in the tricolour of freshly-turned deep brown earth, the pale yellow of a recent harvesting or the vivid green of a new planting. That’s Picardie to a t. It’s just stunning.

There was just over an hour of French countryside on the trip, stopping here and there at train stations that all have the ridiculously long names that the French seem to favour. The conductor was a sight worth seeing – think of British train conductors from Enid Blyton books and you’ve got a rough idea. The royal purple vest and a matching old-fashioned conductor’s hat looked great; I really wish Melbourne had kept those kinds of uniforms!

I arrived in Soissons ready for the race. Unfortunately, the excellence of the Paris public transport network and the coverage of the trains don’t seem to have expanded into the country. My limited choices of buses wouldn’t arrive in time to get me to the race start, so Shank’s pony was my best bet. Using my French on passers-by to ask directions, I made my way to the imposing Abbé de Saint Jean des Vignes, a huge crumbling building that would have been a wonderful sight in its day. Though I only spent a short time there, I was struck with a sense of sadness, having seen other huge cathedrals and monuments throughout other parts of Europe and France. To see the statues on the tower missing heads, grass growing along the upper stories and the walls reduced to a couple of metres of crumbling stone was an ignominious end for a building that was constructed for a far greater purpose than that which it now fulfils. It felt like the abbey itself was mourning the loss of its health and vigour, unable to do anything but sit and watch itself slowly wither and die, useless. It was an eerie sensation.

I eventually found the start of the race, a ways further on. I won’t go into the cycling part of things – if you want to read that, go to Maillot Jaune to Maglia Rosa or Peloton Café and read my article there – but I will say that I got rather excited to see Jeremy Roy riding away from the FDJ van, and yelled out “Allez Jeremy!”, to which he looked at me and smiled. I saw him again at the départ, a metre or two from me, so I called again “Allez Jeremy! Bonne chance!” I think he gathered he had a fan there that day, a nice feeling given everyone was focussing on his teammate, the youngster Arnaud Démare.

I found the local boulangerie after the race had left and grabbed a croissant and an Orangina, my French food lunchtime staples. I’m going to come home so fat from all this butter. After a quick meal, I began the looooong walk back to the Gare de Soissons, arriving just in time to make the next train, thus saving myself a three-hour wait for the one after. I was so tired by the time I boarded that I sat down and promptly fell asleep for the first half of the voyage, missing much of the scenery.

I arrived at Gare du Nord, now with some idea of how to work the public transport system, bought myself an RER ticket back to Le Bourget and jumped on the next line B train heading my way (the TER went right through Le Bourget RER station, but there was no button to stop the train…). A visit to the boulangerie to pick up a demi-baguette (a half-baguette) for dinner and an afternoon snack and the supermarket for some butter, and it was home to collapse and let my poor body recover from the ordeal I’d just put it through. Suffice to say my hands are mutinying and preparing to abandon ship… 

Sunset in Paris from my window.

Please note who makes the TERs...

Love the uniform!!

Another train parked at a station.

The Abbe de Saint Jean des Vignes from behind.

On the tracks to Soissons - the scenery of Picardie.

Jonas Aaen Jorgenson gives me a smile.

The Abbey of Saint John of the Vines from the front.

An Irishman in France..sorry, Mum, I thought it said Dan Martin!