Train (regional, double-decker, French): a warren in whose burrows bunnies often wedge.
Our carriage, burrow 3, has a colony from les États-Unis blocking the stairs, debating whether the small seat numbers are downstairs or up. Being on their way down from up, they decide the lower deck is a safe bet. We’re keen to get to up, so cherrfully encourage them on.
We soon encounter a problem.
“Seriously?” says The Mathematician.
Our seats are heading backwards. Again.
“Seems so,” I say, sliding in. “I didn’t get to chose when I reserved.”
She sighs and joins me. As I inspect what counts for a window to my right, I catch a glimpse of her peering round the chair in front. She gets up and inspects a four-seater section. She checks the display on the luggage rack.
“These aren’t reserved,” she says. “Let’s sit here.”
In these circumstances, my face usually answers before my voice. I’m Law and Order Boy, committed to sitting where the train gods ordain.
She makes a face in answer.
“Stay there if you want then. I’m sitting here.”
“Fine,” I say, getting up.
“We can always move back if there’s an issue.”
“Yep.”
“You can sit by the window.”
“Thanks.”
“We have a table! I can do some work.”
“It is nice to have a little extra room …”
As she unpacks some food, I watch a teen lope up the stairs, check out our empty seats, and flop down. He positions his rucksack as a pillow and pulls his blind down. Not going back there then.
“Nuts or nana?” says The Mathematician.
“Um, nana.”
She passes one across.
*
Shortly before the train’s about to leave, a suited late teen/twenty-something man hurries down the aisle to a set of occupied seats.
“Oh,” he says to the kids sitting there, “one of these seats is mine.”
He points to where his butt should be. As the trespasser starts to rise, Young Suit shakes his head.
“No, no, it’s OK. I’ll just sit somewhere else. I just wanted to let you know that I’d reserved this seat, in case the conductor asks.”
[You might, at this point, be wondering how good my French is. Not good. I can, however, read hands and faces — The Mathematician kindly translates the rest.]He takes a seat across the aisle from us and begins to cough.
The Mathematician looks at me, clearly annoyed. As all frequent travellers know, there’s a Universal Public Transport Law: There’s always someone coughing, and they’re always next to you.
“I don’t think he’s sick,” I say quietly (English not being the language of secret conversations). “Look at his neck.”
His hair is wet and matted, his skin flushed.
“I bet he ran for the train. He’s just out of shape, that’s all. Probably coughing up phlegm.”
The Mathematician’s somewhat convinced. She eats a few hazel nuts. In 30 minutes, the coughing will stop, but until then, I feel her wince every time he clears his chest.
As we amble in the direction of Normandy, I watch Young Suit with some amusement. He gets out a laptop and phone, stares at one, slaps at the other nervously to check for notifications. When the conductor comes, he hastily explains that he should be sitting over there (he half stands to point) and says he can move back if needed. The conductor shakes his head. He couldn’t give less of a shit. Lesson for us all there, perhaps.
*
Ah, Caen. Sand, sea, and sustained traffic noise. We amble the 600 metres or so to our hotel, starting to feel a little tired from all the travel.
“It’s really loud,” I say, looking for a quiet road.
The Mathematician shrugs. “It’s a city.”
“Yeah, but Leipzig doesn’t seem this loud.”
“Its Leipzig. I told you it’s quieter than other cities.”
I think about this as I reacquaint my body with walking, and I’m not convinced it makes any sense. I also can’t say that she’s wrong.
Our hotel/apartment is fine, if (you guessed it) noisy. It’s also exceptionally slippery.
“Did they spray teflon on the lino?” I ask. Shoe, sock, or barefoot, you’re powersliding into the bathroom.
*
Part of our reason we’re travelling to the UK via Caen and not Brussels (on the Eurostar) is that I rather fancied the idea of undertaking William the Conqueror’s 1066 journey (though landing in Portsmouth and not leaving from Saint-Valery-sur-Somme (and also with only one ship)). His residence is here in the Château de Caen, a castle that would become one of the largest fortifications in western Europe.
We head there now, walking along the estuary of the river Orne before heading into the medieval quarter. It’s a magnificent structure, still in the process of being restored after centuries of damage. (It was also bombed in 1944.) We walk the ramparts and admire the fantastic barbican guarding the eastern gate house. There are benches and seats on the grounds, tastefully cemented in positions that face each other. You come to the castle to talk, not just to look.
I look out over the city.
“Do you think that’s a restaurant down there?” I say, pointing to a place with tables outside.
“Maybe. Are you hungry?”
I nod.
“It’s 17.10.”
I nod again. We have an understanding.
“There’re some other things I want to see. Think you can hold on till 18.00?”
This seems like a big ask — we’ve been up since 4, so this is about 20.10 in the evening for me.
“Sure,” I smile, casually adding, “any idea where you’d like to go?”
“I’ve shown you a bunch a places already.”
“Yes, yes you have. Only, I was just wondering if you knew which was the closest.”
She tuts and gets out her phone.
“Or I could look,” I say, pulling out my own.
“You do that,” she says, and we go off exploring some more, looking at very different things.
*
Fun fact: Many restaurants in Germany are closed on Mondays. Many restaurants in France are closed Mondays and Tuesdays. Today is Tuesday.
“This one’s closed too?” I say, despairingly.
“Seems so.”
“What the f—! I thought the French liked food!”
We cover a good few kilometres of closed doors before deciding to head back to a place we know is open, somewhere we passed on the way up to the castle. Most of the tables are full, but we find a few inside that are free. We find the owner.
“Um,” we say, pointing to the wall-mounted menu.
“Ah,” says the man. “Désolé. The kitchen’s closed. But I think if you try …” He gives us the addresses of a bunch of very touristy restaurants that we’ve already walked past and decided against.
“Thanks,” we say, and head off in the opposite direction.
I’m getting hangry.
We navigate to the Asian quarter, giving up on our dream of eating local cuisine, and find a Chinese restaurant with some vegetarian dishes. We enter. We eat. We’re a little disappointed. Still, what it lacks in ingredients, it makes up for in atmosphere. It seems to be very much a locals’ place. The restaurant owner greets the customers like she knows them, and the customers greet each other like old friends. It’s the special sauce that makes the dishes palatable.
Somewhat stuffed, we make our way back to the hotel.
“The light’s really beautiful,” I say.
The Mathematician squeezes my hand.
“We don’t have to go back right away,” she says. “What about walking along the river? We’ve about an hour before sunset.”
And that’s exactly what we do.
Next week: The river, the abbey, the English Channel.
