We woke up early on Thursday morning with a sense of smugness. We had decided to avoid the long Easter queues, the traffic jams and the nightmare scenes at the security check at Heathrow, instead opting to take the train to visit Aude’s parents in the south of France. “What could go wrong?” we thought as we boarded the 8:05am service from in front of our house to Ashford.
Our trip down to Ashford was painless enough, and once we arrived there we checked in. We were through security in five minutes, then straight to the (very small) business class lounge for a cup of coffee. An hour later they called our train. We boarded, found our seats, and sat down with a look of self-righteousness. We set off from the station right on time, and a few minutes later the driver announced that we were about to enter the Channel Tunnel. With a contented look on my face, I turned to Aude and remarked “What a good decision. This is definitely easier than the whole airport struggle.”
Ominously, at that moment the train stopped in the middle of the Channel Tunnel. “A problem with the regulation,” said the driver, who had no further information to provide. Twenty minutes later and still stuck 40m under the English Channel, the driver came on to provide another update. Apparently, the train in front of us had broken down completely, and until they could move it we weren’t going anywhere. Pierre, the purser (honestly, I’m not making this up), came onto the tannoy to give us an update. “We are now twenty minutes behind schedule. Don’t worry, ze ventilation system is working properly and we are completely safe here for ze moment.”
The ventilation system failing was something I hadn’t considered until Pierre had helpfully brought it to my attention. Suddenly I was claustrophobic. More importantly, our 1-hour connection in Paris was looking less and less likely.
We finally started to move again. Allez, Pierre, allez!
We made it into Paris Gare du Nord at 13:25. Our train to the south left from Gare de Lyon at 13:50. Cue two travellers frantically sprinting across Gare du Nord to try to catch the RER D train. Luckily, we managed to push our way onto a train that was waiting at the platform (the carriage was half-empty inside, but everyone insisted on standing in the doorway so that no one else could go on. I’m suddenly thankful for the London Underground announcements asking people to “move right down inside the carriages, please”). We arrived at the RER station at Gare de Lyon at 13:45. Cue more sprinting as we tried to locate our train.
We finally boarded at 13:49. Being the last to board, there was no luggage space left except between the seats. So I figured that’s where I’d put my bags. Until Madame Crazy in the seat next to us decided to give me a stern talking to in French – apparently upset that I had moved her bag. (Come on, you silly French loon, what part of “communal luggage space” don’t you understand?) I feigned ignorance, carried on with what I was doing, then spent the rest of the trip quietly detesting the woman.
Nevermind. We’d made it. We pulled out a nice picnic lunch and a bottle of wine and settled in for the four hour trip to St Raphael. The friendly ticket inspector was even kind enough to wish us a “bon appetite!”
Our little sprint aside, the train was actually pretty stress-free. The seats on the TGV, even in second class, rival our first-class seats in the UK and are certainly more comfortable than their airline equivalents. We arrived right on time, no one hassled us about the size of our carry-on (except for Madame Crazy), we had no security nightmares, and we didn’t get stuck in traffic. All things considered, I’d take the train again.
