It’s a long weekend for Toussaint. This is all a bit last-minute.
Earlier in the week I’d contemplated a trip to Toulouse, but after battling with the SNCF site had started to think that wasn’t going to happen as going via Limoges necessitated a wait between trains in which I could have driven to Limoges directly. This was an option, until it posed a parking problem; street parking in Limoges is free from 7pm on Saturdays and all day on Sundays and public holidays. Monday, however, is not a public holiday, though Tuesday is, hence the long weekend.
Angoulême presented similar problems but going via Bordeaux was looking like a goer until I saw the cost of hotels in Toulouse, which quickly put paid to any ideas of a weekend in Toulouse. As I also noticed during the faffing that my Poor Person’s Railcard is set to expire on the 5th, I looked at the TER Nouvelle-Aquitaine network map and decided that I would go as far as I could in a direction that was doable, given it would be somewhat churlish to let it expire without having used it for some exploration.
My choice was between Hendaye and Lourdes. The cost of accommodation in Hendaye was even more eye-wateringly prohibitive than Toulouse. Somewhat fortuitously, I’d woken up to find I’d caught a toenail on a sock and also managed to get a splinter. Lourdes was my only hope.
Despite my misgivings about using Thiviers — the SNCF apparently dosn’t want anyone to use La Coquille — it was a necessary concession and so I was thrilled to discover somewhere to park. A servant of the devil in the car in front of me got the last space right next to the station, but noodly appendages were clearly at work and led me to another parking space a few metres further away from whence I hobbled, valiantly battling my new-found infirmity, to get the 11:35 to Bordeaux.
After my last experience of trying to park in Thiviers, that’s quite literally a miracle.
I left plenty of time for lunch in Bordeaux, so took a leisurely stroll from the station to Au Nouveau Monde, where I had a lovely serving of poutine and a glass of “CBD-infused” beer. I was very nearly distracted by the Beirut Kitchen, but the search for poutine was on the recommendation of a friend and was definitely worth the extra walking.
There’s a relatively rubbish French joke that relies heavily on the fact that a certain belligerent president’s name is re-spelled in France to avoid newsreaders referring to him as “Mr Whore”: What’s the difference between poutine and Poutine? One is a dangerous congealed mix of greasy and lumpy ingredients, the other is a delicious North-American delicacy.
Mine was yummy; I had the Bordelaise with shallots and red-wine gravy and it was like eating a vin chaud. I shall make a mental note if there’s a Christmas market.
I worked the poutine off with a bit more walking and a look inside the Basilique Saint-Michel. As the weather was a bit gloomy (not regretting the choice of coat) there was not so much opportunity for the stained-glass to do its thing, which was a bit of a shame as photos on the Interwebs show the nave looking really rather fabulous when bathed in sparkly light. The original stained glass was destroyed during bombing in 1940 and was replaced in the 1950s, following a competition, with splendid modernist interpretations. The basilica has something of a Tardis quality to it; the vaulted ceilings seem much higher inside than would be suggested from the outside. Worth looking up.
The 17:20 to Pau was busy, but I’d got a window seat. It followed the same route as the train to Mont-de-Marsan until Morcenx, where it was getting dark. The train split in Dax, the front half going on to Hendaye and mine to Pau, where I amused myself during the 40-minute change for my next train by taking myself up and down the funicular.
TER 867028 to Tarbes arrived at Lourdes five-or-so minutes late. A man in an orange vest was waiting to usher us over the tracks to the station building, from whence a short walk took me to the Hotel Duchesse Anne.
After Paris, Lourdes has the second-highest concentration of hotels per square kilometre in France. 1.2 million people live in Paris and there are roughly 1,600 hotels; 14,000 people live in Lourdes and there are 189 hotels. This probably goes some way to explaining why mine is only 30€ a night, although evidently none of this expense has been spared on the facilities. I am in the Heath Robinson suite which, although a bit tatty — you gets what you pays for — has a baloncy which gives onto the Pharmacie de la Grotte opposite. The neighbouring Hôtel Saint Jean-Baptiste has a large hoarding with a crucifix-clutching John the Baptiste extending his right arm towards us and offering a miraculous 60 gigabytes of data and unlimited calls and texts for just 19,99€ a month. It’s hard not to lose your head with bargains like that.
After settling myself in and decanting bags, I had a vegetable curry in the Sri Lankan restaurant opposite, complete with side show from an angry, mad, shouty woman. By all accounts she’s something of a regular attraction; the police recognised her straight away and were courteous but swift in her removal, though her watching me eat through the glass doors was somewhat off-putting. As I left, the police had been called a second time and were dealing with her particulars.
I took a little walk around the town and felt giddy with excitement as I found the plentiful purveyors of tat whose wares I shall have to examine in more detail tomorrow. And this is not your usual tat, oh no. This is gaudy, pious tat on a monumental scale. I can’t wait.
When I got back to the hotel after a Picon and a bit more walking, Angry Mad Shouty was still outside the restaurant, although no longer Shouty.
Perhaps she had a vision.
