“Now. Do I want to go to Lourdes next weekend?” I asked.
“Course you do. Or you could go to Toulouse this weekend to see the parade of the machines. Or do both. Or go from Toulouse to Lourdes via… Marseille for example,” she said.
“Tell me about this parade of machines?”
“Google it!” she replied.
“Rude,” I thought.
Thus started my mini-adventure in Toulouse. Of course I Googled it, then found myself unable to stop myself from telephoning a hotel I’d found on the Interwebs to see if they had any rooms available, which they did — thereby sealing my fate.
I felt very virtuous at five o’clock (well, perhaps twenty-past) this morning when I got out of bed, and even more so that I was ready to leave the house sufficiently caffeinated at 6am ready to walk to the bus for six forty-five, eager to repeat the success of the impromptu trip to Saint-Sebastian. The walk was slightly less enjoyable as the seasons have moved on since then and it’s cold in the morning, but with the help of my trusty head torch I found myself at the bus stop at about half past six, alone and happy that it wasn’t raining – looking forward to a gentle train-pootle to Toulouse with stops here and there for snacks.
It was at about ten to seven that curiosity led me to discover that the Région Nouvelle-Aquitaine had taken it upon themselves to effect their winter timetable changes without telling me personally and that the bus had left at twenty-past and, somewhat rudely I thought, without me on it. A variety of thoughts went through my mind but they were assuaged by a coffee and a chocolatine in the boulangerie, whereupon I decided the best thing I could do to remedy the situation was to go back to bed disaffectedly and try again later, because experience from once being a child tells me that this is by far the best way to deal with all sorts of pressing problems in adult life.
I took solace by reassuring myself that I am a seasoned traveller and therefore clearly not at fault.
With the Poor Person’s Railcard, Périgueux to Agen costs 9€ via Bordeaux with sufficient time to enjoy all of the breakfasty treats on offer at the Grand Comptoir before snoozing gently on a TER to arrive in time for lunch in Agen. There is a brasserie in the station there, so I was quite looking forward to a leisurely lunch before boarding the 13:31 Intercités to Toulouse. All this for just 24€.
Bargain.
However, my imagined mini-adventure to Toulouse today was not the langourous grazing experience I’d been hoping for but rather a slightly perfunctory dash through increasingly depressing weather and turgid landscapes which I tried desperately to enjoy, ever aware that I’d spaffed 120€ on the hotel and couldn’t really abandon the project now. I was sad to have spent so much time last night calculating the cheapest route to get me from Périgueux to Toulouse via Agen using my poor person’s railcard and Christmas refund voucher, only to have it all ruined by my own stupidity.
All that money-saving was pointless. The cost of changing my 15€ Intercités ticket was a massive 11€, 2€ more than it would have been had I done it when I checked the prices before my early-morning siesta. So, well-rested at 11:40 — rather than 6:20 — I successfully got on the bus to Périgueux with a clucky breast-plumping French lady weighed down with bags that only moved with chagrin, as well as her overly chatty counterpart who unlike me hadn’t needed to ask for access to the seat in the bus stop. I settled down for a dreary ride through the lunchtime-ish traffic and driving rain while Madame Bags occasionally looked at me as if we knew each other and attempted to strike up conversation by asking me questions to which she clearly knew the answers already. The chest was replumped.
The silver lining of arriving at the station in Périgueux during not the middle of the night was that I had time to scout the parvis and find that on weekdays at normal times of day there are at least three places open within a stone’s throw of the station where you can get food and beer. As I’d had a sandwich before I left the house I decided against sampling Périgueux’s falafelly delights, and instead contented myself with a swift half as I waited for the 13:22 TER to Bordeaux.
Before long I found myself wondering what I was going to have for lunch. My initial plan had sufficient time between trains in Bordeaux and Agen to partake of station buffets — including bread and butter and jam — but sadly that was not to be and although still feeling slightly sour for having spent 20 euros more than I needed to changing tickets, I did manage to reconcile that not having time to stop anywhere for lunch along the route had saved me that money already, and so therefore treated myself to a reminder of the romance of modern-day rail travel by sitting on a wooden bench on the concourse of Bordeaux Saint-Jean stuffing a 5€ Monoprix sandwich into my face while miserable busy damp people jostled around me looking for free USB ports. A ferrovian Epicurean triumph thus far, I fear it is safe to say, this was not.
As it happens, and to add insult to injury, tickets for the TER are valid on all trains on the day of the ticket provided you respect the route, something I discovered as I was perusing my freshly-purchased replacement ticket just before handing it to the controller on the train. If I’d known this I could have have saved myself another nine euros which might’ve seen my lunchtime glamour stretch to a can of pop or a vinaigrette-drowned self-harming salad in a plastic bowl with a wooden spork, but never mind. I feel I should have known this already because I seem to remember it being something I learned when I missed to the train to Limoges for the steam extravaganza, but it never hurts to do a little revision from time to time. Nonetheless after an hour and and half in a very uncomfortable seat we arrived in Agen, and I had time to explore what might be the world’s smallest and most disappointing church, the Chapelle Sainte Foy, just opposite the station, before returning for a beer.
The station in Agen has been there since 1856 and serves destinations including Bordeaux, Marseille, Paris, and Périgueux, but the direct Agen-Périgueux service doesn’t align with the bus, which is sad as it would only have to wait outside for ten more minutes to allow people to get it. I digress. In 2010 work started on covering the façade of the region’s second busiest station with an atrium which provides an extended concourse at the front of the station and protects the façade from the elements. It’s like a mini-Strasbourg, without the itchy French soldiers. The station has a brasserie in the station proper which has chandeliers and a menu with plates and cutlery, and I think I have decided that I shall stop there for lunch on Sunday on my return as I have an hour and a half between trains. I was told I’d be better off reserving for lunch on Sunday, but I might be a rebel at this point and wing it because what (more) can possibly go wrong?
The 17:31 Intercités train to Toulouse left five minutes late and was comfy and full of people not making noise, even in second. The weather cleared as we trundled south-east and became almost pretty at times, although not quite as spectacular as the time Companion and I travelled to Marseille. This leg of the journey was in stark contrast to the dull and dreary plod thus far alongside brown rivers and overwhelming brownness in everything which was not even autumnal and golden, but brown and unenjoyable, much like my mood. We pulled into Toulouse Matabiau on time five minutes late at 18:43 and I quickly found myself enjoying a nice clean and colourful station with lots of men in uniform walking around grasping large weapons and looking surly, yet somehow incredibly chic. Ever aware that I was late for check-in, I found my hotel wasn’t far from the station — probably a five minute walk at most — and after check-in and a little power-nap ventured forth into the unknown.
A gentle stroll down the rue de Bayard past food places making lovely smells brought me almost by chance to the Capitole looking at a minotaur which tomorrow will be moving around. I was on a mission at this point to find something to eat and had been directed by a friend to a Lebanese restaurant on the rue Léon Gambetta where I was told I’d get all sorts of yummy things. Sadly, it was absolutely heaving and there was no chance I was going to get my manakish but as if the Noodly Appendages were touching, I found myself ushered into Chez Victor next door and — after quite a long wait — eating a gargantuan assiette falafel which contained not only a plate with falafels, but rice, chips, salad, harissa, “white sauce”, and flatbreads. And free tea. All for about a tenner. Not quite Trelleborg-quality falafelly goodness, but really, really good falafelly goodness which I was delighted to devour as I’d been up — more or less — since five and had not had more to eat than an egg sandwich at home and the aforementioned Mozarella sandwich in Bordeaux.
On my way back to the hotel there was some compensatory post-bus-fuck-up schadenfreude to be found in watching cars being towed to clear the city centre before tomorrow’s events, and then on the street next to my hotel I found a dinky little bar where I had half a white stout which was free, because the barrel ran out just before the nice lady behind the bar could fill my glass to its appointed measure. I’d have stayed for another and made up for it, but was skating dangerously close to a food and fatigue coma which necessitated a hasty exit once the glass was dry to discover my bed to be very comfortable indeed.
