This chapter outlines to you our transition from Dijon to Connelles in Normandie (Normandy) in northern France. Although, the more observant ones amongst you will probably notice that the accompanying photos are more of our latter hours in Dijon. We felt these were too good to omit from a potential Pulitzer Prize publication: fullness and richness is required. So fullness and richness is what you’ll get.

Breakfast in our room 13B in the l’aparthotel, Dijon with the finishing off of the traditional sausages (saucisses). We had to be at the nearby Gare de Dijon for the 0826 hours train to Gare de Lyon, Paris.

The trip to catch the train was successful, except that Fred made me forget my iPad: luckily, I remembered part of the way to the Gare. This is the second time she has had this influence over me. Given my powers of resilience and mental strength, I tend to master such devious behaviour.

Dijon is only 90 minutes from Paris by fast train. This leg was one which did create a little bit of anxiousness for us as (I have indicated before), changing trains and negotiating the extremely complex decentralised Gare, metro system while starting to become clearer to us, we find difficult.

It is hard to explain: but in simple terms, you do not just catch a train into Paris and then look for another platform to which you change to. There appears to be a series of “hubs” in Paris from and to, which trains travel. Not like wheel with all spokes radiating to - from the centre. Our change to catch the train to Normandie, took another 30 minutes to negotiate as once alighting from Gare de Lyon, we had to catch an underground metro (#14) to Saint Lazere. Luckily we had just under 2 hours for the change. On our way back next week, we have a significantly less time period to effect connection for our trip to Amsterdam at another “hub”, Gare Du Nord.

Hence Fred and I spent a significant portion of our time plotting just how we would do this. We think that we have a solution. Flanges are suitably crossed.

A great deal of work prior by Fred had at least given us a bit of a heads up on these potential predicaments. I should give her a big kiss: but she would not want to contract rabies !!

Gare de Lyon in Paris, is gigantic having 3 large halls, each with many platforms. Our initial phase was to go to hall 2 and onto (what we thought was platform 14. Easy, we found hall 2 without an issue only to find that this hall had all platforms that were “odd” numbered (ie 1, 3, 5). Immediately, if not earlier, I made the observation, that this feature does reflect Paris: odd, yes that’s it.

My rather substantial mathematical ability quickly deduced that it was highly likely that platform was probably not to be found in hall 2. 

Please, I know many things astound you about the multi-talented author of this literary masterpiece, but I would rather you concentrate on the matter at hand rather than sit there in awe of such skill !!

Your attention is drawn back to our “platform saga”. This was solved by a nearby attendant who could see the perplexed look on Fred’s face: yes, I’m sure it was her expression and not the one of total failure, dis-orientation, feelings of worthlessness and total confusion that was on mine !!

“Métro numéro 14, madame”, was this attendant’s clarification. To which Fred replied, “wee”. That was not my feeling, I was literally shxxting myself: hence I felt like more a “number 2” more than a “number 1”. 

Still, like a little puppy dog, I followed Fred off along the signs to metro 14 down three levels to the platform to Saint Lazare - Olympiade line, after mastering the local ticket machines. The next challenge was to decide which direction. No sweat, this is where my geographic skills overtook my former inadequate feelings and assertively declared the platform on which to stand. Fred did support my claim after noticing the same sign board. Damn, I felt that she would have been impressed and some of my creditability would have been restored. Not that much was lost: frankly, I din’t have much more to lose !!

The train arrives and leaves quickly: we’re on our way, with the fourth stop being our objective. Throughout this trip, many Parisians also joined us for the ride and had to confirm that they were on the correct rain by looking at the station indicators within the carriage. I din’t feel so inadequate, now. “Ne pas s'inquiéter” (not to worry).

After getting off at Saint Lazare (another monster train hub !!) and finally following the “sortie” signs up a number of levels, we appeared to reach the “regional trains” levels. Our train wasn’t listed so we waited and sought help from the SNCF attendant. We sat and started plotting our return journey, as I indicated earlier.

Our trip to Rouen River Droit (number 13807), was again to be 90 minutes in first class.” Reminds me of my schooling days”, I intimated to Fred. “Yep”, she replied: “no wonder you repeated first class until you were kicked out for being too old”. A fast trip and efficient but unfortunately we arrived just before “siesta” had expired. We had to wait until 1400 hours to collect our car. Another Renault which we duly drove some 40 minutes to our residence at Manoir Des Deux Amants. Positioned on the lower reaches of the River Seine. Here for 7 days. 

We sought directions to the local “intermache” (supermarket) in a village about 10 kilometres away in Pont St Pierre. To which we duly drove and purchased some food and drink as our residence had its own cooking facilities. A bit of fun again here, selecting our meats, cheeses etc with those serving us. The cashier was extremely patient with us while we foraged for coin to pay.

A french meal in the “traditonale” restaurant over the road (and yes I had the local speciality of “tripe” (pronounced trip-ee), while Fred and a local beouf (beef) meal. Both meals were exquisite supplemented by “frieze” (fries). After our meal, we swapped English and French pronunciations with the maître de. She found our enunciation rather odd and could not understand how we interpreted some of her menu items. She was bilingual, we were not. So we bowed to her greater skill.  The French feel that we speak quite fast and are surprised that we feel the same about French speech.

As you may gather after eating tripe in both Tuscany and here, I am a bit of an offals man. Correct. Which one was the better ? Well, this was, a little more “tripey” than the Italian version: besides this was the chef’s family secret recipe !! Probably not to be tasted beyond this region. 

“à bientôt“