Travelling south with the TGV to Aix

We took the train to Lausanne in August. John and I had been invited to stay with a colleague so they could discuss ideas about a book they are writing together. It’s a pity continental train travel is so expensive as opposed to the plane but later in the year, when I explored the possibility of going to Aix-en-Provence by TGV, it was a lot cheaper than to Lausanne. When I asked why such a difference in price, I was told it was because of crossing borders! I think SNCF might work on getting that sorted out because if we go to Switzerland again it would have to be by plane re cost – even though the train was preferable. You do have to make the change from the Eurostar (Gare du Nord) to Gare de Lyon – and signposting is not very clear – but it’s only two stops on the RER. The Gare de Lyon could do with more seats in the waiting area – we ended up sitting outside the station – which wouldn’t be possible in cold and rainy weather… here endeth a paragraph of ‘nuts and bolts’ for those so minded with practical detail!

I was looking forward to this TGV trip to Aix. We had to change at Lille – easy – same station, downstairs platform. Orange and brown continue to be the colours of Belgian choice. The loos are, in mood, like the old Parisian pissoirs. Inside, one’s private parts are enclosed but otherwise it’s draughty and I’m clutching onto my bag at the same time. John says I clutch onto my bag with such paranoia that I begin to look like one! Afterwards, I can only get a squint at my anxious face, as the mirrors are tiny designer slivers.

John is ensconced in the waiting room with some women clutching their dear ‘petits chiens’ to their ample bosoms. The dogs are very well behaved and look as if they offer comfort to their owners. I think I may also have one in due course.

The seats on the TGV are black and white striped, with burgundy antimacassars. That is such an antiquated and mysterious word, conjuring up Victorian moustachioed men using pomade and leaving unsightly, greasy marks on the backs of armchairs – hence the need for an antimacassar. Today it probably fends off the unwashed and maybe a stray louse. We have a stylish lamp at our table for two. It’s dark yellow, the colour of my orange juice.

The landscape outside Lille continues flatly with rows of spindly trees flanking the autoroute. The agricultural taming of the countryside is both comforting and dispiriting. We pass the name ‘Arras’ on the faded side of a building and just tucked in behind in a small field, shaped like an unfurled scroll of paper and enclosed by trees, are lines of small, white gravestones, presided over by a cross.

Huge lorries (‘camions’ is a good word) roar along parallel to the train, with names emblazoned across them – Petrus, de Kraker, Parex Tanko, Kôkez, LeuLeu, Roussel, Charbonnier, Cobelfret, Peyrot, Gokbora … they are following signs to Cambrai, Valenciennes and the Somme.

The mournful sound of a mobile phone similar to that of the old black, bakelite telephones, reminds me of being brought up in a doctor’s house – that sound often signified illness. News of death, victory, defeat – something extreme and often bad. So I began to think of the soldiers in both world wars and their remains here – some of them left in the trenches – and how the countryside must have looked then. The trenches are dug in now but there are lumpy banks here and there and mute remains of DNA along with rusty ironmongery – all resting in the same mud.

And we, the survivors, are speeding through it on our way to the soft warmth (‘châleur’) of the south – pour chercher un petit séjour doux et ensoleillé contre la réalité de la vie humaine. We have a lot to thank those soldiers for who lost their lives that we might enjoy ours. Are we worth it? We have a duty to try, at least. ‘Tristesse’ is the word for ‘sadness’ in French.

We have now arrived at the airport – Charles de Gaulle – the station is a totally grey and metal landscape with walls of ‘waffelled’ concrete. Each square contains sixty four ‘waffles’ – so you can see how exciting it is to be here … ‘Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I’m 64?” – probably not. Where is the coffee trolley?

I see an orange and white Easyjet flying in at the end of a field of cabbages. I was contemplating the lugubrious face of one of my co-passengers. He resembles a bloodhound – a smartly shorn bloodhound with a moustache – and glasses. He is looking at the girl opposite with timid but intent interest. I listen in to the phone call of an American who is going to miss his plane connection and will be late for his operation. Then he finds out the surgeon’s plane has been cancelled. He is speaking in English but using a lot of ‘mercy buckets’ so obviously talking to a Frenchman. His bowel will have to wait.

Another man, reading ‘Science et Vie’ or similar – with very thick glasses and very thick black straight hair, cut pudding bowl style, disappeared for a time and his place was taken by a tall, bony, melancholy looking robot. Inexplicably, the first man has now reappeared – no sign of M. Melancholia. The girl opposite the bloodhound is playing cards with herself. I think the bloodhound would like to join in and try his luck but she is not cooperating – she is listening to music on her headphones.

It’s warm and comfortable in the carriage. ‘De quoi pensez-vous, Monsieur?’ Granny takes a Trip. ‘She always turns up to auditions in Hollywood town – she always turns up and she’s always turned down … (John lent me his I-Pod for a minute) …

I find reading on the train much easier than on the plane but as I was really excited about this trip from north to south, I spent lots of time gazing out of the window. I should really call this piece ‘Moi on the TGV’ – because I was interested in how my photos came out at speed. Also, John wrote a blog on the birthday festivities, so mine has to be a bit different.

When I was a child we used to travel by train from Manchester to Edinburgh every summer with my Scottish aunt for our ‘grandes vacances’ three week holiday by the sea. I only realise now how much my parents must have enjoyed waving us off from Manchester Piccadilly station! One of my favourite poems probably dates from that time as Auntie Jenny used to read to us as well as handing out all sorts of puzzles, guessing games e.g. how many cows would be in the next field? – first person to see John of Gaunt (a statue by the railway) – followed by the ‘Welcome To Scotland’ sign, which was not far away from a glimpse of the sea, leading to heightened hysteria as we ran up and down the corridor outside the six person railway carriage. Fellow passengers unamused, no doubt!

FROM A RAILWAY CARRIAGE
by Robert Louis Stevenson

Faster than fairies, faster than witches,
Bridges and houses, hedges and ditches:
And charging along like troops in a battle,
All through the meadows the horses and cattle:
All of the sights of the hill and the plain
Fly as thick as driving rain;
And ever again, in the wink of an eye,
Painted stations whistle by.
Here is a child who clambers and scrambles,
All by himself and gathering brambles;
Here is a tramp who stands and gazes;
And there is the green for stringing the daisies!
Here is a cart run away in the road
Lumping along with man and load;
And here is a mill and there is a river:
Each a glimpse and gone for ever.

What would Robert Louis Stevenson have made of the TGV? Maybe faster but still very much the same experience. Somehow, I managed to capture a few of those glimpses as I sped by them at over 300 km/h. We’re certainly on our way south now…

This first photo turned out to be something quite different from what I thought I’d taken!

We’ve arrived and Mont St. Victoire is a powerful presence as we take an evening stroll through the vineyards.

The swimming pool looked inviting even at night time. This part of Provence was exceptionally hot during July and August and I think everyone is relieved that the temperature has fallen. For me, this is perfect as I struggle in the heat. Now it is cool both morning and evening and still about 25C during the day. By the field of spent lavender are thousands of tiny white snail shells which you can’t help but crunch underfoot. The grapes are already harvested.

Breakfast and dinner happen at a long table under the mulberry. There is a tree frog which we hear as we drink the local wine in the evening and an enormous and splendid spider outside the kitchen window. I will remember these days and the special light of Provence when the grey city rain brings me low.

As soon as I get back to London, I must buy a colourful umbrella. I did have a Japanese one covered in red roses and dewdrops, which I, very sadly,left on the bus. It was never handed in. Whenever I am in Richmond and it is raining I keep my eyes open for it – it was quite unusual. I would have to make enquiries, should I see it! Unfortunately, it could not bark or miaow in recognition …

As we walk through the vines, I am struck by the real darkness of the countryside at night. There are covert rustlings in the bushes, the chirrup of a late-to-bed, lone cricket. The air is soft as velvet on my face, the night sky is infinite and starry – I am glad to be here. Enter left, a charging, full blooded ‘sanglier” (wild boar). This is the sort of thing that happens when I am in a communing, meditative state with ‘nature’. Luckily, I am only hallucinating this time but next day we hear shots of ‘la chasse’ up in the hills.

Rested and much revived we meet up with our Norwegian friends next day for breakfast. A friend of John’s, Jørgen Randers, had a book come out about the same time as ‘The Zeronauts’. It’s called ‘2052’. I am determined to read it after the mesmerising talk he gave to us at dinner one evening. John has brought some copies of his own book too. Jan-Olaf has meanwhile devised an extraordinary trip for us all.

We drive over to another village. This disused railway track has been taken over by a French entrepreneur with an original idea – and cycling on rails means you don’t need to balance. Luckily, in our group there is a very sporty Norwegian chap who kindly takes over from me for the uphill part. Even the vertiginous viaduct we had to cross didn’t put me off! It was enormous fun.

Time for lunch at the French Foreign Legion. Mont St. Victoire is still with us! And then it’s home to the mas for some relaxation in the garden and by the pool before dinner appears – as if by magic! This is especially appreciated by me. All I have to do is anticipate what turns out to be a delicious repast – what could be better?!

The mountain does seem to be always in our sights. No wonder Cézanne painted it so often! It’s very powerful – like a large supine lioness that could flex its muscles at any moment.

There’s a small museum which we visited – mainly of men in different army uniforms. But I was taken by this dragon – the colour and the weave of the material …

The battle of St. George and the dragon shown in paintings, symbolizes the ongoing struggle of good and evil. Dragons always remain a threat, a powerful force ready to fight any new invader.

Late afternoon – and we are back at the mas discussing the state of the world by the swimming pool.

a dreamless sleep and our little gecko, who inhabits the ceiling …

A trip to the market in Aix is on the agenda. My camera was in my pocket and now I find it missing – just as I was about to take a market stall full of different types of mushrooms and fungi. I feel downcast but I buy a bag of ceps to take home. We find that the English bookshop, just a few steps down a side street off the Cours Mirabeau (almost opposite ‘Les Deux Garcons’ restaurant) – has expanded into two shops – the English one now being further down on the opposite side. I don’t see the cat that used to sit like royalty in the window but perhaps she is on mouse patrol.

John buys a large paperback containing 100 of Ray Bradbury’s short stories and I buy this. It looks good for the train ride home. There’s a small café in the bookshop and I console myself with a lemon and ginger tisane and a warm scone with jam. I need comforting! We meet up with the others for lunch and then decide to go and seek out Cézanne’s atelier, which I’ve never managed to get to before.

It’s uphill but worth the effort – the atelier has been left almost as it was when he died. There is a huge north facing window and various familiar objects are scattered around. One of his paintings, which is in The Courtauld Institute in London, features a rather podgy, swaggering, self important cherub with a number of various fruits lying on the floor around him – he stands here on a table, now looking rather grubby and a bit forlorn.

It is a strange feeling to think that many of our possessions outlive us – yet without us they have no validity in a way. Unless, of course, they are worth something financially and take on a new persona, are attractive or useful enough to be taken up by somebody else or strike a memory for those who were close to us. I remember going into a house where a much loved cousin had died and his pairs of glasses were on top of the piano he played every day. I found myself near to tears for a minute or two. Still, sentimentality aside, they would probably benefit somebody in a developing country, who would never know of their past life. Our optician collects unwanted pairs of spectacles to send them off to people who need and can’t afford to buy them. And the grubby cherub is doing a good job on the memory front. However, it is not one of my favourite paintings. The bombastic ‘putto’ has had his day.

Cézanne was a strange man. I think he was mostly in love with Mont St. Victoire, which he painted over and over again. He also loved Provence, where he was born – one of the paintings I like is a landscape to be found in The Hermitage Museum in St. Petersburg. A vast pine tree frames the foreground with a gaggle of provençal red tiled houses in the distance. The colours are vibrant and true and you feel the warmth of the red, dry earth reflected on your skin. And it has that magical ‘Alice Through the Looking Glass’ feel of being able to step through and into the painting. I have only seen reproductions but hope the original might come closer to home in an exhibition one day. It would also be nice to have it on my wall …

John lent me his camera but I only took one picture in Aix as I was devastated by the loss of my own small, battered one. We ambled slowly back to the car park. I climbed in to the back seat and there it was. It must have slipped out of my pocket as I got out.

The birthday festivities that evening were full of warmth and friendship. Twenty six of us sat under the mulberry tree and many heartfelt speeches were made and we all joined in the rousing Norwegian songs. ‘For he’s a jolly good fellow’ was added for ‘the British’ (two of us) and for the Frenchman we had ‘Chevaliers de la table ronde, Goûtons voir si le vin est bon’ – un chanson I had last sung with gusto in our French classes at school! Surprisingly, I remembered it, word for word. It’s a good song to roll out. We ended up eating enormous slices of birthday cake and drinking whisky (not me!) by a roaring fire. Our Norwegian friends were off next week to the forest to shoot moose – an annual event.

We made our way for the last time through the vines well after midnight. A kind friend had offered us a lift to the station in the morning.

The TGV whooshes in right on time from Marseilles. We are on the top deck at a table for two. The train is busy, so we soon settle down with our books. This time we are bound for Paris.

These photos are not as dramatic as when we came down to Provence but they give a feeling of the lie of the land and that was one of the reasons that I wanted to come by train.

‘I should like to spend the whole of my life travelling, if I could anywhere borrow another life to spend at home’. (William Hazlitt – Table Talk 1824).

‘If you look like your passport photo, then in all probability you need the journey’.
(Earl Wilson – Ladies’ Home Journal 1961) How very rude!

‘They say travel broadens the mind, but you must have the mind’ (G.K. Chesterton – ‘The Shadow of the Shark’1921) This is also rather rude but definitely hits the bull’s eye!

or could it be a giant caterpillar?

And, finally, some blue sky!

We are at the Gare du Nord with two hours wait before the Eurostar leaves. And what better than to cross the road to the ‘Terminus Nord’ restaurant – I love this brasserie where the waiters are adept at dealing with peoples’ luggage with no fuss, treat you royally, the food is delicious, eaten in ‘art nouveau’ surroundings and you don’t want to say ‘au revoir’ but you know you’ll be scampering back to Paris in no time.

Happy Birthday – Happy Days – When can we do it again?

END