The French Collection

[Ali Smith]

Brother Rob and myself recently enjoyed a holiday in France. Although it wasn't a total trainfest there was quite a bit of railway interest so I'm writing about it here.

Neither of us knows much about railways outside of the UK or USA, so I apologise in advance if information is sparse or just plain wrong.
 
The trip started with a taxi ride to Bedford Station. We were travelling on Interrail passes which we had never used before and were a little nervous that we were using them correctly. Happily there was no difficulty and the cheery lady on the gate waved us through. There was a train to London and beyond waiting at platform 1, so we climbed aboard and were soon on our way to St Pancras.

Having escalated from the suburban platforms we made our way to the Eurostar terminal. Here there was an airport style baggage check, although you don't have to take your shoes off. The conveyor appeared bit more substantial than those at airports, which is not surprising when you see the amount of luggage some folk take. We had one fairly modest suitcase each and found them to be a nuisance at times.

Next came UK passport control followed directly by French passport control. So here we were, British citizens, geographically in the capital of our nation and hence surely subject to English law. Yet we had been accepted into the French Republic, so presumably subject to French law. I don't know the answer to this conundrum, but by behaving unobtrusively and following the instructions of Eurostar staff we managed to avoid an international incident.

At around 20 minutes before departure time we were allowed up the ramp to find our reserved seats and stash our luggage. There are racks at the ends of the coaches and more above the seats which were capacious enough to accept our cases.

Soon we were on our way and passed under the Thames into Kent. Kent - apples, cherries, hops, and women or so the Pickwick Papers inform us. I saw some hop gardens. I suppose I must have seen some women, but they were too far off or through the windows of buildings. As for apples or cherries I have no idea.

Shortly after passing Ashford the train ran into another tunnel which was rather longer than the one under the Thames but when when we burst out into the sunshine once more it was clear that we were crossing the vasty fields of France. It wasn't all that long before we were passing housing estates and industrial or commercial buildings and then train 9018 drew to a halt at Paris Gare du Nord. The journey had taken just two and a half hours from St Pancras, although three and a half hours of our day had been consumed due to the time difference.

We stepped down onto the platform (a long way down: French platforms are lower than ours). Having passed French passport control in London, we were free to walk straight out onto Place Napoléon III but couldn't do this without being twice bothered by men offering taxi rides. I understand that anyone who does this is a scammer. There are plenty of marked cabs outside.
Happily, we had no need of a driver, be he saint or sinner, because our hotel was but a short walk down one of the roads opposite the station. 
I'll tell you about the hotel next time, and promise to include some pictures.

[Newportnobby]

Next came UK passport control followed directly by French passport control. So here we were, British citizens, geographically in the capital of our nation and hence surely subject to English law. Yet we had been accepted into the French Republic, so presumably subject to French law. I don't know the answer to this conundrum, but by behaving unobtrusively and following the instructions of Eurostar staff we managed to avoid an international incident.

I believe it's the same the 'other side' but reversed i.e. French then UK passport control, and that the last one you passed through dictates whose law you come under

[Bob G]

Good job you didn't want to go to a sales desk to buy another ticket at Gare du Mort. Last time we did that, we queued for ages to get a Metro pass. Got to the window, and after a suitably Gallic shrug, a sign went up "Fermé pour le déjeuner". I think we walked instead, muttering SNCF or something similar.

Funny how you can always remember those irritations.

Bob

[Newportnobby]

Gare du Mort.

Station of the Dead? Really?

[Bob G]

Freudian slip.

That's like a single slip with a preferred direction.

[joe cassidy]

Good job you didn't want to go to a sales desk to buy another ticket at Gare du Mort. Last time we did that, we queued for ages to get a Metro pass. Got to the window, and after a suitably Gallic shrug, a sign went up "Fermé pour le déjeuner". I think we walked instead, muttering SNCF or something similar.

You can buy passes for the Paris metro in the buffet car on board the train
You can also buy london transport oyster cards on trains en route for London

[Ali Smith]

There are machines that will sell you a Navigo card and charge it up with tickets for various forms of transport at Gare du Nord. We bought cards and 'bus credits using one of these. They are right by the ticket window. Bob doesn't say how long ago his visit was, I get the impression that systems and rules are changing all the time with RATP.

[Bob G]

There are machines that will sell you a Navigo card and charge it up with tickets for various forms of transport. We bought cards and 'bus credits using one of these. They are right by the
ticket window. Bob doesn't say how long ago his visit was, I get the impression that systems and rules are changing all the time with RATP.

It was ages ago. can't even remember when, but in the 2000s. We saw Matthew Horne (Gavin of Gavin and Stacey) in the bar on Eurostar, and Frank Skinner (still in his Mac) in the Louvre.

[Ali Smith]

A short walk down down Rue de Saint-Quentin will bring you to the Hôtel Whistler on the left. This was to be our home for the night. On entering, the reception desk is right in front of you. Projected on the wall behind the desk is a cab ride video. We were informed our room wasn't ready yet (it was around 2pm and check in wasn't until three so no complaints there) but we could have a coffee (no charge) and perhaps go for a walk. Our cases would be stored in the baggage room. The coffee machine is located in the area where a buffet breakfast is provided in the morning. Also in this area is a model railway track suspended from the ceiling. Circling this is an HO train. The coaches look to me to be CIWL stock such as Hercule Poirot might have solved his most famous case whilst travelling on. The engine is a bo-bo electric in grey and orange lettered SNCF. I imagine there used to be an appropriate steam engine but when it failed it somebody was sent out to buy a replacement and got this. The screen below the track is the live departure board for Gare du Nord, not just decoration.



By now I was beginning to suspect that the hotel was not, as I had at first supposed, named after James Mc Neil Whistler, Rex Whistler or anybody else of that name.
Before we had finished our coffee we were informed that our room was ready and that our cases were already there.

We made our way up to our room, admiring a photomural of what was probably a Canadian, certainly North American, steam engine in the lift. The corridor, and the room doors, were papered to resemble travel trunks. The room itself had the furniture finished to resemble more trunks and was very small. The bathroom, however was not so cramped with a washbasin that I imagine you could bath a baby in and a very good shower.
 
Back in the sixties (I think) Paris strangled itself with a ring road called the Boulevard Périphérique. Inside is Paris proper, outside are the banlieus, or places of banishment.
AS inside the 'Périph' can't get any bigger, everything there has to get smaller or dearer or both. This applies to hotel rooms as much as anything else.

On the plus side, our view was of the street rather than les poubelles(the dustbins; I just like the word).  Here's a picture I took in the evening.



The building across the end of the road is a small part of the Gare du Nord.

The next day we were moving on. There was no time to do the Louvre, Notre Dame, Montmartre or even our local brewery's Parisian outpost "The Bombardier" (near the Pantheon) so we did the short walk to Gare de l'Est from whence we were to travel. Having satisfied ourselves that we knew the way (its not much harder than getting to King's Cross from St P.) we bimbled down to Canal Saint-Martin which we had heard is a pleasant and restful spot and not too far off.

On the way we saw this Hector Guimard designed Metro entrance.
 


And this work, I'm not sure whether to call it graffiti or a mural.



I don't really approve of graffiti, but I don't see how a work of this scale could be created unless the building's owner commissioned it or at least acquiesced to it's creation.

[Moonglum]

Hopefully there is more to come Ali?

Tim

[port perran]

Keep the story coming.
Sounds like a fascinating expedition.

[willike1958]

Welcome to la belle France ! Paris, like any capital has its upsides and downsides. My young nephew arrives here tomorrow and I'll be taking him to see an exhibition on the Berlin Wall at the Trocadero before taking the train down to the capital of the Gauls (Lyon) where we will experience the splendours of that magnificent city. Enjoy your visit !
Kevin

[Ali Smith]

We reached the canal and walked south alongside it. It was peaceful and the water cooled the air a little. We soon spotted this group of buildings which appealed to me. I don't know if your chosen device will allow you to read it, but the lettering on the arc-roofed building reads "Exacompta Clairefontaine" which meant nothing to me. A bit of internettery revealed that they are stationers.



Walking further along past bars, restaurants and shops, the number of people began to increase, but you couldn't call it crowded and there was a pleasantly laid-back atmosphere. There was quite a lot of graffiti, much of it of good quality. I thought this one was well done:



 I was very taken with this one:



Near here is this sign:



Apart from the name, which I assume means Street of the Vinegar Merchants or Vinegar Makers or maybe Street of the Pickle Makers there is the number above it as there is on every Parisian street sign. This tells you which of the 20 arrondisements you are in; helpful if you are lost. Beneath the name is a "space invader", examples of which I noticed here and there. I have no idea what this is about.

Apparently there is a boulangerie around here called "The French Bastards", but we missed it. That is it's actual name as I have written it, not a translation.
 
We dropped into a bar and had a very pleasant beer at a not so pleasant price of almost €10 each for 50cl (nearly a pint) of blanche beer. I can't remember the brewery, but the bar was called "La Marine". Not, I suspect, named after Ms. Le Pen.
 
Here's a view along the canal. I quite like it here although it is a bit "bo-bo"* which explains the combination of high prices and casualness.



At this point we decided to turn away from the canal and visit the "Place de la République" and say hi to Marianne.



From here we headed back towards our hotel along the Boulevard de Magenta. I would love to tell you that this leads to "Place CMYK" where it meets Boulevards Cyan, Yellow and Black. Sadly that would be a filthy lie.
 
Magenta is a place in Italy where a battle was fought on 4th June 1859 between a French/Piedmontese army and Austria. The French victory was largely credited to the actions of General Patrice MacMahon who was made Duke of Magenta and a Marshal of France by the Emperor. Whether the street is named after the battle or the Duke I don't know. I suspect that I don't particularly care.

On the way we visited some other bars (around €8 for 50ml seems to be a more typical price for beer) and enjoyed magret de canard in a nice little restaurant, or "resto sympa" as they say here.

So ended the day. The following day we moved on to our ultimate destination. I'll tell you something about it next time. There will be at least one picture of a train.

*bourgeois bohemian: a middle-class person with artistic pretensions.