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.