The Second Great Train Chase

Time then to tell you all a story. Oh, I know you are dying to hear my opinions on the new Labour Party Political Broadcast with the cycling chameleon that is supposed to be David "Dave" Cameron, or the story of whar really went on at the gala viewing of Doctor Who on Saturday, but if you have read my page before, you can probably guess, i.e not much and nothing.

It is the summer of 1999. I am midway through an Interrailing adventure wth my friend Guy. We had been inspired by the events of the previous summer (there were none) to get out of Harborough as far as we could. To that end we had bought Interrail tickets and spent the whole of the following year planning our route around Europe. Emails passed regularly between me in Leicester and Guy in Lincoln. Our agreed itinerary - Copenhagen, Hamburg, Berlin, Dresden (to visit my friend Jana), Prague, Vienna, Rome, Barcelona, Paris, Bayeux, Brussels, Amsterdam and home. An ambitious 4000 miles, in a hectic four weeks. But me and Guy are good mates, we'll be fine. We were 20, crazy and out for adventure.

It is now three weeks in. Having abandoned our plans as early as Denmark (we heard that Berlin was full and so went to... Hannover, I have no idea why now) we had argued our way across the continent as far as Paris. I had just realised I had left my wallet in Bayeux and begged a hundred quid off Guy, who in Rome I had come as near to punching as I ever have anyone. So we were not in the best of moods when we pulled in to the Gare D'Austerlitz, only to find that the metro line we wanted was closed. We had thirty minutes to get our connecting train to Brussels, or pay a fine. Bollocks. In response to our new-found problems, I immediately lost my passport.

Having found it by having a saintly man in a Liverpool FC shirt follow me down the street as I panicked blindly, and who walked off without taking a word of thanks, we found the replacement bus. This took ten minutes as RATP decided that the one thing the replacement bus didn't need was a sign telling us where it was going. We boarded the third bus that came past as the first two had been closed for some reason. The bus took off, and a voice said "Prochaine arret, Gare du Lyon" This was entirely the wrong direction. We got off at the next metro stop, crossed the road and boarded the third bus that came along, the first two having been closed for some reason.

Fifteen minutes, and we were back where we started. Back on the bus to the right place, a gloomy silence descended. Where the fuck is the Gare du Nord? Suddenly, through the insane Parisian traffic, a huge building loomed. We got off. A stop too early. Eight minutes. Bollocks. Again.

Then, a miracle. We were at the right station, just the wrong end. A gate marked "Gare du Nord" revelaed a length of railway track and in the distance, buildings and trains. Perhaps we would make it. The July sun beat down on us. We had been up since 4am; I have a photo of the clock at Bayeux train station saying 0455, a time I was hitherto unaware was possible. I really, really wanted a wee. Our mind wordlessly made up, we ran.

I can confidently say I have never been so uncomfortable. My backpack was pulling my arms off, my boots were rubbing the skin on my ankles through to the bone, my moneybelt was cutting off the blood to my leg. I had sunburn on my neck, arms and shoulders. And you have no idea how far it is from the back maintainence gate of the Gare du Nord to the ticket office. We had to walk up the far end of the furthest platform, over the ticket barrier for the suburban trains and thence to the Grande Lignes terminal. It was about a mile, and every inch was agony. We did it in eight minutes exactly, and watched our train leave from the comfort of the wrong side of the turnstile before Guy fell over. I leant on the counter of the suburban line ticket office and put my head in my hands, which slipped on the perspiration I had worked up running into the staton, and landed heavily against the ticket window, leaving a trail of blood, sweat and tears.

After a while spent laying in silence on one of the busiest railway concourses in the world, we walked to the ticket office to see how much the TGV supplement was for the train to Brussels that was due to leave an hour from then. It was twenty francs. Two pounds. Guy and I looked at each other for a long, long moment.

Good night, and good luck
Doug