Travel Biography - Week 37.

Please note, the photos I took of the features in this blog aren't available at the moment. Therefore, stock photos are used.

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During the first half of the eighties, despite living on a tighter budget than in the seventies, I still managed to cross the English Channel, or Le Manche, if you speak French, for three consecutive years - 1983, 1984, and once more in 1985. Despite being "just around the corner" compared to Israel, America, and even Sicily, France has its own offers that rouse my interest and delight my eyes.

A Prisoner on the Mount.

One of the delights was Mont Saint Michel, just off the northern coast of Normandy and back then, joined to the mainland by a raised causeway carrying a road and car park, and accessible around the clock, as the causeway wasn't submerged by high tides. That was in 1983. At present, the causeway I became familiar with was demolished at the start of the Millennium and replaced by a bridge. This allowed the tidal flows to pass under the bridge and thus prevent the build-up of silt, deposited by the blockage of the flow by the original causeway.

Mont Saint Michel

The nearest railway station for the mount was Pontorson, about an hour by train from Rennes. Then, I took a bus to the start of the causeway, and walked its length, about a kilometre, to the mount itself. The single road served a shopping precinct as it winded its way up to the summit, over 90 metres high, to where the church stood.

Indeed, I could ask: What was the motive for visiting an attraction such as this? Such motives arose from my interest in volcanology that began after the 1982 hike to the active crater of Mt Etna. An experience of that kind has resulted in a sense of bewilderment and awesome wonder. This was a time when I had in my sleep, dreams of the crater emitting thundering noises filling my head, and even of my companion, Miguel, smiling and giving me assurance. One of those dreams I still remember to this day.

Therefore, I was more interested in the geological history of the granite plug than the history of the abbey that sat on top of it. However, I entered the church which had several people sauntering around. Then, on the other side of the church, a wide-open double door led to some steps to some chambers beneath, one of them, perhaps the crypt, was large and also illuminated by electric lamps, and its ceiling was supported by neat rows of granite columns.

Eventually, after checking out the whole system of corridors and chambers, I made my way up the stairs, only to find that the exit doors were closed and locked. I was literally trapped inside the complex. Thinking that these weren't the exit doors, I carried on wandering through the corridors, even passing through a courtyard that looked out to the street through secure fencing, only to end up back at the crypt. There was no staff member to explain the situation or show me the way out. And so, I sauntered around in circles, ending up where I started. I felt as though I was imprisoned. I was beginning to feel uneasy about this place.

At last, after what seemed like an eternity, the doors were once again opened and I made my exit with a sense of relief, back into the church itself. At the doors, a warden, upon enquiring, explained that there was a Mass, that is, a Catholic Eucharist service taking place in the church, and the doors had to be locked to avoid disturbance from visitors passing through. Now that the service is over, I can leave the complex. Indeed, from a tourist point of view, I was rather annoyed that no pre-visit information was given, warning me that the exit will be closed between various set times.

Even from ninety metres high, the view of the surrounding sand flats exposed by the low tide wasn't that inspiring. For some visitors, Mont Saint Michel might be the fulfilment of dreams, a once-in-a-lifetime pilgrimage dedicated by the most devoted Catholics. But for me, Mont St Michel, in comparison with Mt Etna or even Mt Vesuvius in its dormant state, was something of an anticlimax. Or maybe that was how I felt after being unexpectedly locked in for an hour without any forewarning.

Saint-Malo and Rennes City.

Other places visited included a day spent at the port of St Malo, also accessible by train from Rennes. From there, I watched a ferry depart for either Plymouth, Portsmouth or the Channel Islands. Next to the ferry terminal is the walled Old City with its own beach, the west-facing Plage de Bon-Secours, a sandy strip over 400 metres in length. Heading northward along the beach, I came to a rocky outcrop on which a fort to guard the harbour was built, Fort Nationale.

St Malo. The Old City wall and Plage de Bon-Secours.

The rocky outcrop was also the beginning of the main, north-facing beach of St Malo, Grande Plage du Sillon, up to five kilometres in length. Admittedly, I hardly saw any length of this main beach, as I was spending my time concentrating on the Old City, and even walking along the city wall facing the west beach. However, the beach was virtually deserted, as the nip of the Autumn air deterred any bathing.

And that was the common factor behind these trips to France. I chose Autumn to go, for the two simple reasons of being less expensive and less crowded.

Rennes, in East Brittany, was where I had a room at a hotel from where I visited both Mont Saint Michel and Saint-Malo. The city itself boasted the Cathedral San Pierre, and this was one place I visited a couple of times. I always loved the silence associated with a cathedral, where I was able to meditate and reflect on spiritual matters. Otherwise, I felt that the city of Rennes didn't possess the same historical and touristy atmosphere in the same way as Rouen. However, I recall one occasion when I spotted an indoor public swimming pool and spent an hour lane swimming, thus saving the whole trip from becoming a "dry holiday" - as I like to refer to a break away from home without any opportunities to get wet. As if perfectly planned, across the road and bang opposite the entrance to the baths was a coffee bar - ideal for an after-swim refreshment. 

Continuing on pool swims, the only other French city where I enjoyed a good swim was Rouen. After walking downhill along Rue Jeanne d'Arc, I arrived at the River Seine and crossed the river to arrive at a leisure centre which featured an ice rink and a large indoor swimming pool, back then a square 25 metres on each side before it was eventually demolished and rebuilt. Both in 1984 and 1985, I spent some time swimming there.

1984. To Clermont Ferrand and the Puy de Dome.

1984 was the year I travelled the furthest in France. Arriving at Dieppe Harbour Station from the ferry out of Newhaven, the short ride on the harbour extension brought me to the main terminus, where I alighted to find a hotel to spend just one night before continuing with the journey to Clermont Ferrand via Paris.

The next morning, the train pulled out of Dieppe terminus and having stopped at Rouen, I remained on board the train until it arrived at Paris Saint Lazare Terminus. I then made my way on the Met (Paris Underground) to Gare de Lyon, where I boarded the train to Clermont Ferrand, a through station on the Paris-South Coast and Alpine lines. Interestingly enough, with a distance of around 215 miles or 348 km, the city of Clermont Ferrand is almost on the same latitude as Milan, which means that there are areas of Italy lying north of this city in the Central Massif geological area of France.

The journey was a long one, taking six hours to complete. Since it was early evening when I arrived, I made no hesitation to find a hotel, where I was to spend the next few days. A small, family-run hotel suited me fine and finding a room was no trouble at all.

I liked the city, especially the central square which was a short walk from the hotel. But, what was I doing here?

Again, as with the previous years, it was to do with volcanoes. Since Etna in 1982, for a while, I became "volcano mad!" Just to the west of the city, there is a chain of extinct volcanoes. These included the Puy de Dome and its neighbour, the Puy de Come (pronounced "comb"). It was the second cone which inspired me the most. It had all the resemblance of a crater, filled almost to the brim with the partially eroded lava plug, now a circular, grass-covered field. My awareness of this came after buying a book on volcanoes from Foyles in London. In the book, there was a beautiful photo of the French Massif Central and the Puy de Come in the foreground, covered in green and bathing in the summer sunshine.

Puy de Come with Puy de Dome in the background.

After settling in and spending the first day exploring the town, on the morning of the second day, I started the long hike to the Puy de Dome, the nearest extinct volcano to the city. It took me about three hours to complete the 6-mile or 10.3 km walk to the summit. However, the weather wasn't exactly favourable. True, it wasn't raining, but whilst on flat ground, both in and out of the city, there was little wind, hence looking to be an ideal day for hiking. But when I reached the summit, the galeforce wind almost blew me off my feet. Yet, from where I was standing, the other volcano stands majestically further away, telling the history of its violent past.

But the wind deterred me from going any further. Especially if I have to hike all the way back to the hotel. Eventually, after some time spent resisting the galeforce wind, I started to make my way back to the city. Yet, was I disappointed? No, not really, as I wasn't expecting to see any lava or hear the hollow rumble of steam escaping from the vent. But at least there was no church built on the summit and imprisoning any visitor unfortunate enough to arrive at the wrong time!

The path I was on passed by some country houses as I made my way back to the city. My thoughts were far away, left behind in the wind-blown summit of the Puy de Dome, when all of a sudden and so unexpectedly, an Alsation dog barked just inches from me and behind a closed garden gate. I jumped out of my pants! Yet, despite the sudden fright and the anger at the owners that followed, there was nothing amiss. And that was fortunate. It takes an incident like this to give me severe lower back pain, sharp enough to temporally immobilise me. In the middle of nowhere and far from home, this was something I just didn't need. 

Boy! Was I glad to unlock the door of the hotel room and slump onto the bed after hiking twelve miles in a day!

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Next Week: I find myself alone walking through a one-kilometre-long corridor dug deep underground.

Travel Biography - Week 36.

1982, Summary and Conclusion.

Looking back, 1982 had the best Italian holiday in my life. It not only surpassed the 1981 trip but also the 1975 and the 1973 Italian holidays as well. This was due to holding a national train pass. Like the Greyhound Ameripass of the late seventies, the travel pass I had validated all train journeys in Italy for a set time, in my case, three weeks. This enabled me to travel the entire length of the peninsula, including the island of Sicily.

Back in 1981, at Cinque Terre, Italy.

As such, when 1982 gave way to 1983, the sense of the post-holiday blues still didn't fade. Not only was that particular trip the star of the whole decade, but no other European holiday had ever quite matched it since. Furthermore, the year 1982 was the last time I had ever set foot on this lovely European peninsula. Therefore, as I was reviewing the latest data for the composition of this Biography, I was rather surprised by the changes brought on by the rise of tourism throughout the last forty years, as I had already discussed last week.

Not that tourism is a bad thing. Far from it. Many a country's economy thrives on tourism, and Italy, with its natural beauty, balmy climate, and with a history spanning millennia, is no exception. This was a timeframe of my life when I had little interest in spending two weeks lying on a beach and risking sunburn. As a singleton, I was looking for adventure, a location of dramatic beauty, or one with a deep historical significance. I believe Italy has many of these, whether Lake Como, surrounded by high foothills of the Alpine mountain range, the excavated ruins of Pompeii, the Roman Colosseum, the dramatic coastline of Cinque Terre, the gentle beach of Viareggio, or the artistic beauty of Florence. And in my hands the most important instrument man has ever invented - the camera, the means to forever preserve memories of such wonderful experiences.

A Treatment for Travel Snobbery.

Having visited Israel in 1976, then having crossed the Atlantic Ocean in 1977 and again in 1978, there was that danger of developing a feeling of travel snobbery, as I define it. That is the emphasis on distance from home and setting records on both global longitude and latitude figures rather than making a commitment to visit and admire a particular location. Alongside this obsession with distance records and how far I can travel from home, there was the shunning of more local places, a turning up of my nose at the thought of visiting Paris, for example. And I admit that such feelings, wrong as they were, took hold of me by the turn of the eighties. Hence, from 1979 onward, I had to learn a lesson, and this began with the loss of full-time employment bringing a sudden drop in my income, and it wasn't long before any thoughts of returning to Israel or America were beyond my affordability.

As I set up my own business as a handyman and domestic window cleaner, I began to feel fortunate that Europe was still within my budget, hence the two trips to Italy. In one sense, these were humbling experiences compared to long-haul, but once committed to them, the sheer joy found in a more "around the corner" holiday can even surpass a more faraway destination. For example, walking inside an underground catacomb of St John and then visiting the ancient Greek Neapolis, both in the Sicilian town of Siracusa, would be for me, more exhilarating than, say, walking through the streets of Philadelphia in Pennsylvania. 

Please, don't misunderstand me here. It's not that the largest city in the US State would lack anything of interest. Surely, like all other modern cities, there must be many attractions worth visiting, including museums of local history, Gothic-style churches, or areas of well-tended parks and gardens which are so pleasing to the eye and to the camera. But for someone like me who has an interest in ancient history spanning long periods, unlike that of the Sicilian Neapolis, the American city doesn't go two and a half millennia back in time!

France - 1983, 1984, 1985, and a Fright on the Train.

Over time, my budget tightened further as income came in as an ebb and flow pattern. Thus, it became obvious that three weeks spent in Italy was also drifting out of affordability. The next three years centred on France, our nearest neighbour. Indeed, not only the French port of Calais is much closer to home than Edinburgh or even Manchester, but Paris itself is about the same distance from home as the English resort of Blackpool.

In all the three years between 1983 and 1985, each of the three holidays was no longer than a week. But each was quite different from the others. Rather than using the Dover/Calais or the Folkstone/Bolougne crossing, instead, in 1983, I took the overnight Southampton-Le Havre ferry. In 1984 and 1985, it was the Newhaven to Dieppe, a four-hour daytime crossing.  

And here too, there were changes in the French railway layout between the mid-eighties and the present day. During the eighties, Gare de Dieppe was the terminus of the Paris-Rouen and the Paris-Serqueux lines. But the line from Rouen also continued on to Dieppe Harbour, up to a mile further, to connect with the ferry to the UK. The route was served by an island platform at Gare de Dieppe running parallel to the bay platforms within the terminus. Now, this harbour extension line has vanished, having closed in 1994, its station demolished a year later in 1995, and virtually no trace of this line, although lengths of the original track can still be seen here and there, where it's not fully concreted over.

Gare de Dieppe now serves only Rouen and Paris.

The Dieppe-Serqueux line also vanished at about the same time as the harbour extension. Fully concreted over, it's now a cycleway, according to Google Maps. Therefore, at present, the Dieppe terminus serves only the Rouen-Paris line. And that's a pity, for there's a story connected to the old Dieppe-Serqueux route.

It happened in 1985. I was staying at a hotel in Rouen. Trains from the city station either ended at Le Havre or Dieppe. One day, I decided to spend a day in Dieppe to check out the town proper and enjoy the vistas from the nearby clifftop walks. When evening drew near, I hastily jumped on the first train out from Dieppe terminus, destined for Paris St Lazare. The train began to accelerate, flying through one station after another. Then I realised something. The train from Rouen passed through a long tunnel before emerging to pull into the terminus. But this train I was on, I couldn't remember any tunnel. Soon, panic began to set in. Was I heading to Paris with no money and my bank cards safely inside the drawer in my hotel room?

If I end up in Paris, I would be literally marooned. With hardly any cash on me and with no access to my debit and credit cards, there was no way I could board a train to Rouen without a ticket. Furthermore, there was nowhere for me to spend the night. I would be in a hopeless situation.

The conductor walked by along the central aisle. I stopped to show him my return ticket to Rouen. He looked at it with puzzlement and walked away without saying anything. Neither did he return to offer advice. Maybe this young man was a fresher who has yet to get acquainted with this branch of the SNCF. However, I had already noticed that the seating compartment next to mine was occupied by four teenagers, each chatting joyfully with the other as if they had a good day out together.

I approached them with a degree of timidity and asked in broken French whether this train was bound for Rouen. Realising my non-French origin, they looked up and gesticulated, trying hard to make themselves understood.

"Changement chez Gare Serqueux" was the reply.

"Gare Serqueux." another responded as he gesticulated with his hands at two trains passing each other. I understood.

Seeing my distress, one of them offered me a mint. I felt calmed by both their reassurance and the taste.

"Merci!" I exclaimed, smiling, and soon, the train began to slow as it crosses the boundary from the countryside to a town. The sense of relief I felt as the train finally halted at Serqueux Station couldn't be exaggerated.

At Serqueux, I had to wait a couple of hours before the connecting train from Amiens to Rouen arrived. But I didn't mind. However, I was hoping that the conductor won't oblige me to pay for the extra miles covered. Instead, there was no ticket inspection on the Serqueux-Rouen leg of the journey. Later that evening, after dark, the sight of the beautiful roof interior of Rouen Station looked as if I had just entered Heaven. What a relief!

This rather dramatic boarding of the wrong train at Dieppe taught me a useful lesson and one that would alter my travelling habits. Up to then, it was normal for me to leave my traveller's cheques, bank cards and passport in the hotel room whilst going out for the day without vacating, thus eliminating the risk of loss or falling victim to a pickpocket - as happened in Italy, 1981. But this lesson was a shocking one. Had it not been for the advice given by the teenagers, I could have been left marooned in Paris without any money, bank cards, or traveller's cheques to pay the train fare to Rouen, or for the worst, a night in a Paris hotel. But assuming that I was the sole occupant of the whole carriage, my instincts would have driven me to alight at Serqueux, at least to return to Dieppe and start the journey all over again.

Therefore, ever since that fateful evening, I always carry my funds where ever I go, whether it's the old traveller's cheque system or more recently, a set of direct debit cards. I now find it to be a wise idea to carry my passport around as well.

Locations Visited in France.

During the 1980s, I enjoyed three different holidays in France. In 1983, I centred my stay at a hotel in Rennes, Western France. A train connected Rouen to Renne, and after arriving in Rouen from Le Havre, I had a couple of hours before my connecting train arrived.

This was my first visit to Rouen in my life and I loved it. The main street was Rue Jeanne d'Arc which led into town direct from the imposing station, down a gradient to the north bank of the River Seine. I quickly found out why this street bears such a name. Rouen was the site of the execution of Joan of Arc on May 30, 1431, at the tender age of just 19 years old. She was burned alive at the stake, and now, a modern-looking, oddly-shaped church building occupies the execution site. She was brought to our attention by a hit song, Maid of Orleans by the pop band OMD who released it in January 1982 -  just in time to get to know about her before my first visit to Rouen.

Church of the Execution, Rouen.

I eventually boarded the train for the long journey to Rennes. The reason why I chose this city was my desire to visit Mont St Michel, a Roman Catholic monastery and church on the summit of a solitary granite rock mountain just off the north coast and connected to it by a causeway carrying a road. Contrary to popular belief, the causeway is not submerged during high tide, hence the approach road is accessible at all times. The monastery is surrounded by a bustling precinct lining the single street as it winds up the hill to end at the church.

After arriving there, by mid-morning of the next day after arriving in Rennes, I made my way to the summit church, from where I enjoyed a wonderful view of the coastline.

However, something unexpected occurred that sent shocks down my spine...

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Next Week: Ancient volcanoes, medieval French history.