I do it my way

Dispatches from a TGV, somewhere in the fog

I am currently gliding through the misty hills of the Minervois on my way to Lyon, wrapped in the kind of fog that makes you feel like the lead in a moody Scandinavian crime drama. All that is missing is a mysterious corpse and a detective with a troubled past. Instead, I have a laptop and a mission.

I have, against all odds, managed to connect to the train’s Wifi. It looks stable. It looks reliable. It looks like the kind of connection that would never betray you. This is, of course, a lie. It is slow, it cuts out whenever it feels like it, and it seems to have the work ethic of a civil servant on the eve of a long weekend.

Which brings me to my great philosophical question of the morning: why is it that in every TV serial and film, the bandits get to log on from absolutely anywhere? A moving van. A cave. A hot-air balloon. They tap three keys, say “I’m in,” and suddenly they are inside the most secure facility on the planet, with progress bars that always finish dramatically one second before disaster. Nobody ever buffers. Nobody ever sees “Connection lost, retrying.” Meanwhile I am fighting a duel with a loading wheel just to open my inbox.

And the stakes of my own little heist are considerable. In 30 minutes, I must log on to the ticket office of the Le Mans 24 Hours to snap up the two tickets I am still missing. It seems the general public sale opens this very morning, a fact that escaped me entirely until I was already hurtling through southern France at 300 km/h. In hindsight, I could have delegated this noble quest to someone sitting comfortably at home with fibre-optic broadband and a nice cup of coffee. But no. I will do it myself, from a train, in the fog, on Wifi with commitment issues.

It will be a battle of nerves, thousands of racing fans clicking at the same instant while my connection decides whether today is a day for working or for existential reflection. In the real race, cars travel at 340 km/h for 24 hours. In mine, a tiny loading wheel will decide my fate.

So if you will excuse me, I must now concentrate. Lock in. Crack my knuckles like a movie hacker. Somewhere ahead lies a ticketing page, and I intend to get in.

Wish me luck. If this post suddenly stops, assume I entered a tunnel.

Some people track flights. I’ll admit I dabble too. But lately I’ve upgraded to a more seaworthy obsession: following things that float.

On screen one: the Route du Rhum armada, sailors who set off yesterday to cross the Atlantic powered by wind, grit and what I can only assume is very little sleep.

On screen two: the AIDAstella, which left Mallorca bound for Cape Town, powered by diesel, buffets and a cocktail menu. Aboard are our youngest son and his family, which is, naturally, the only reason I’m checking it so often. (Two or three times a day. Okay, maybe four.)

Same ocean. Completely different definitions of “roughing it.”

One fleet is battling swells with a sleeping bag and freeze-dried meals. The other is deciding between the pool and the second dessert. I’m rooting for both, though I suspect only one of them has a midnight snack station.

Fair winds to the sailors, and bon voyage to the family. I’ll be here, refreshing two maps and calling it “keeping up with the family and the sport.”

Return to Mission Control

Monday

A bit of a non-event day apart from the arrival of 3 comic books at once which had to be read sitting outside in the timid afternoon sunshine resulting in a very pleasant time.

Tuesday

In Which We Close a Pool and Open a Bar Tab

Some days begin quietly. Tuesday began with the pool man, who arrived, tucked our pool in for the winter like a very expensive, very wet toddler, and left with the news that a couple of replacement parts will be needed before spring. Of course they will. Pools, like cars and teenagers, are never truly “done.”

The moment he left, we leapt into the car. I may be exaggerating the leaping. There was a pause for knees, and a brief negotiation about who had the keys. But we were off, heading north, or at least in the general direction of “not here.”

First Stop: Aigues-Mortes

Home is Carcassonne, a magnificent walled city, and I say that with love. But Aigues-Mortes is also a walled city, only this one is lively, beautifully kept, and sits by the water in the Camargue like it knows it’s the good-looking sibling. I spent a good part of the visit wondering why we didn’t move here in the first place. I have no answer. I have since been told there is a mortgage involved.

Lunch was at Banaras, an Indian restaurant I’d scouted online with the focus of a man planning a heist. Verdict: excellent. Pleasantly spicy 🌶️, and then came the Indian café gourmand, which was a dessert platter that might, in hindsight, have been a cry for help from my stomach. A digestive stroll followed, past restaurants with every outdoor table occupied. End of October, and the French were still sitting outside as if winter were a rumour. Respect.

On to Nîmes

Fifty kilometres later we reached Nîmes and our home for the night, the Novotel Atria, a couple of minutes’ walk from the famous arena. Not our first stay, and the location in the old town is perfect. We had barely unpacked before we were out again, which is the sort of discipline I usually reserve for finding the biscuit tin.

First up was the Maison Carrée, so well preserved it makes the rest of us feel poorly maintained. Nîmes is basically a Roman history buffet, and we were hungry for more. Then the Jardins de la Fontaine, which were absolutely worth it. We even sat on a bench for a few minutes to take it all in, which at our age counts as an extreme sport. The spring of Nemausus bubbles away a few yards off, and you can’t help picturing yourself in Roman times, wondering what it was like. (Mostly, I suspect, a lot of sandals and no gin and tonic. A tragedy.)

We then couldn’t resist buying tickets for the arena. Of the 200-odd Roman arenas still around, this is one of the best preserved, and it’s still used for shows and concerts. I must attend one soon. Gladiators optional.

Aperitif O’Clock

By 6pm, a tough fact had emerged: visiting ancient monuments is thirsty work. Fortunately Nîmes’s old town is generously stocked with bars, and we settled outside one for a couple of drinks plus one gin and tonic. (The maths is deliberately vague. History is hard to count.)

Still full from lunch, we staggered back to the hotel bar for a couple more G&Ts and a planche mixte, that glorious French plank of charcuterie and cheese, then retired very early to a very comfortable bed. I say this with authority.

The 1 a.m. Plot Twist

I woke just after 1 am, an odd hour even for a man who has just consumed a small distillery. And then it hit me: exactly 15 years ago, at this very time, I was having a rather nasty heart attack and being rushed to hospital in the German town where we then lived. It was touch and go, but I made it through in the nick of time.

So here I am, 15 years on, in a Roman city, full of cheese, gin, and curry, with a perfectly good heart and a very comfortable bed.

Maybe I should celebrate this anniversary every year. In fact, I think I will. Same menu, please.

Wednesday

In Which We Survive a Roman Hangover and Celebrate Not Smoking

Today also marks 15 years since I gave up smoking. The heart attack wasn’t directly caused by the habit, but lying in a hospital bed I took the hint, the way you do when a doctor looks at you over his glasses. After some 45 years of a nasty and, may I say, extortionately expensive pastime, I quit. And here is the annoying part: I had no problem stopping. No patches, no gum, no dramatic scenes. I’d like to say it was willpower, but I suspect my lungs simply filed a formal complaint.

So, a double anniversary. One heart attack survived, one cigarette-free decade and a half. Frankly, I’m getting good value out of this particular date. Next year I’m asking for a discount from the hospital.

Breakfast, or The Plan That Actually Worked

After a not-so-calm night, I was awake and upright at an hour usually reserved for bakers and the very guilty. The plan was simple: walk into town towards Les Halles and find a bistro for breakfast. And, in a rare triumph for the human race, the plan worked perfectly. We ended up at a place on the Place de l’Horloge that we remembered from a previous visit. The pain au chocolat was good, the coffee was good, and for ten glorious minutes nobody asked me to make a decision.

Maison Carrée, Part Two: The Interior

Having admired the Maison Carrée from the outside the day before, we decided to go in. We paid our entrance fee and stepped into… one room. A single, lovely, ancient room with a few boards explaining the history. It’s a bit like being invited to a famous restaurant and being shown a very well-preserved menu. Still, two thousand years old and it hasn’t needed a pool man once. There’s a lesson in there somewhere.

The Great Car Extraction

Then came the logistics. Back to the hotel, collect our things, check out, and liberate the car from the hotel garage to find a spot near the lunch restaurant. Which, as it happens, is a mere 150 metres from the Maison Carrée. Driving there took twice as long as walking would have. Then add another ten minutes to find a parking space. I’m told the Romans had chariots and still managed to build a sensible road system. We have satnav and a sense of dread.

The Whole Point of the Exercise

Eventually, and with time to spare, we arrived at Le Questel, where we were meeting our friends Cécile and Thierry from Montélimar and Gérard from Pézenas. This, you see, was the whole point of the trip. The Romans, the gin, the arena and the cardiac anniversary were all, strictly speaking, a very elaborate pretext for lunch.

Everyone turned up on time, which at our age is practically a miracle, and we caught up on each other’s news over a lovely meal in a pleasant atmosphere. I can recommend the restaurant and will certainly be back. The conversation flowed, the company was excellent, and nobody mentioned the previous night’s gin count. Friends like that are rarer than a well-preserved Roman temple.

Homeward Bound

We parted ways after lunch and hit the road for the two-hour drive home, where we spent a quiet evening in front of the TV. After the previous 36 hours of ancient monuments, curry, gin and cheese, the sofa felt like the greatest civilisation of all.

Thursday

In Which Rubber Meets Road and Whisky Meets Glass

Chores. The word alone is enough to make a grown man lie down. The new tyres, ordered last week with great ceremony, finally went onto the car, so we can now be unsafe in style. Then came the weekly shopping expedition, a ritual in which two adults enter a supermarket for milk and emerge forty minutes later with a pineapple and no milk.

Normally Thursday evening means the online pub quiz, where I confidently give wrong answers to strangers. Tonight there was none. A void. A man cannot be expected to sit quietly with that kind of silence, so I cracked open a bottle of whisky. Purely as a stand-in for general knowledge.

Friday

Blues Rock and Other Medical Treatments

Much of the day was spent at the computer catching up on new music and updating playlists, a task that has no end and which I am therefore very good at. The mood was particularly partial to Blues Rock, which is the correct musical diet for a man who has recently celebrated surviving things. Somewhere a guitar was being bent into unspeakable shapes on my behalf. I regret nothing.

Saturday

Markets, Mojitos and Demolition

The usual visit to the weekly market, followed by a coffee on Place Carnot, where I watched Carcassonne go about its business and felt, once again, quietly smug about it.

Then, with the energy of a man who has had his coffee, I undid a set of cellar shelving that needs replacing. Note the phrasing: undid. Taking things apart is the fun half of DIY. The putting-back-together half is a future problem, and future me is notoriously bad at keeping promises.

The afternoon went back to the screen, where plans are being made for the forthcoming trip to Paris in February. The hotel is booked and the itinerary is set. Train tickets and show tickets are still to be bought, so we have the glamorous parts of a trip, a bed and a plan, but no means of arriving and nothing to watch. Minimalist travel.

In the evening we went out to celebrate Halloween at the newly opened bar and restaurant Coco Bongo. Nobody was dressed as anything frightening, unless you count my dancing, which I kept firmly seated. The Mojitos tasted good, which is the only review that matters.

Sunday

The Tower of Babel, With Lunch

Today the Route du Rhum set off at 13:02 from Saint-Malo, 115 skippers heading out into the Atlantic with nothing but courage and very expensive boats. I would have loved to watch it live. Instead I had 7 guests for lunch, so while 115 sailors braved the open sea, I braved the dishwasher.

They all arrived at midday for aperitif, followed by an excellent home-cooked lunch. And what a table. Everyone spoke at once, at volume, in a United Nations of accents: 1 Canadian, 2 Americans, 1 Scot and 4 English, plus me. Once again I am the only French person in my own house. At some point I stopped following the conversation and just enjoyed the sound, like a very chatty orchestra tuning up. By 5pm they were gone, we did a quick clear-up, and I changed into relaxing clothes, the sacred garments of Sunday evening.

Then it was the sofa for the F1 Grand Prix of Mexico, followed by an NFL game. Other people were racing across oceans. I was racing a cushion to the best seat.

And So Ends Week 44

One heart anniversary, one smoke-free anniversary, two Roman monuments, an unspecified number of gin and tonics, one pool tucked in for winter and nine people at one table. Not bad for a week. Frankly, I’d do it all again, minus the 1 a.m. wake-up call.

See you next week for number 45.

Departures

Good night’s sleep? Check. Foot considerably less painful? Check. I’m giving full credit to the pint of Fuller’s London Pride last night. Medicinal, obviously. Doctors hate this one weird trick.

It’s not even 10am and I’m already on the Stansted Express, waiting to roll out to the airport. Peak efficiency, or just a very committed escape. You decide.

So it’s farewell to London for the second time in three months. Spring, I’ll see you there. Three full, fascinating, wonderfully varied days, and as always, I’ll save the proper reflecting for when I’m back home with a cuppa and my feet up (the better foot, anyway).

Cheerio for now, London. Keep the Pride cold. 🍺🚆