European Rail Trip 2012 Geneva to Dieppe, Monday, Day one

With my French High Speed Train due to depart Geneve Cornavin at 0612, my two alarms have been set for 5am. Why then am I wide awake at 0330? Partly excitement, mixed in with a fear of not waking up and missing the train.

So I take my time making sure that I have packed everything I will need for the trip, cramming in to my two trolley bags an extra item or two, things that I probably will not actually need, but I have had extra time to think about.

The taxi arrives outside the front door exactly on time. I ask the driver to take me to the nearest entrance to the TGV lines. He says he will drop me right outside, because Gare Cornavin is a 'bad place' and that 'I need to be careful with my belongings'.

At just before 6am, I sweep through Swiss and French border control and customs with not a soul in sight. Various security doors open automatically. Quite eery, really.

At my seat on voiture 11, I ask the 'chef de train; where the electric point is. He laughs. 'This train is from 1981, they had not thought of such things then'.

When I booked, I had been told that the train was almost full and that I was lucky to get a seat. But, bizarrely, it's very quiet, with a dozen of us crammed into one section of a carriage, with the rest of the seats vacant. The first class carriage next door has only three people in. Really odd.

We are served a continental breakfast at our seats. It's nothing special, but adequate, although the croissant is, for a French train, especially disappointing.

At 0910, only a quarter of an hour before our scheduled arrival in Paris Gare de Lyon, we grind to a halt. An announcement tells us that because of 'an incident', we will be delayed by approximately 90 minutes. Later, the chef de train comes through First Class, to explain, rather graphically, that there has been a suicide on the track and the police are collecting what's left.

We pull into a platform behind another TGV at Marolles, Seine et Marne, and are invited to get off and stretch our legs while we await permission to proceed.

The delay means that I will miss my only good connection to Dieppe, the sole reason I have got up at an unearthly hour. At Gare de Lyon, we are told to stand in a line to collect an envelope to compensate for the delay, but when I eventually get to the front, I am told that they only deal with French trains and that, as I have come from a Swiss one, I have to queue elsewhere. So I don't bother.

Outside the station, I take bus number 20 across Paris to Gare St. Lazare. As we approach l'Opera, the driver suddenly pulls across the road, stops his bus and, without explanation, tells us all to get off.

I walk to the nearest stop where, 10 minutes later, the same bus and driver appears to complete the journey. I ask the French lady next to me what the problem had been but, like me, she has no idea.

I have over an hour to wait until the train to Rouen, so I stand in another line to make bookings for the next section of the trip. When I eventually get to the front, I am electronically ordered to go to a particular counter, only to be told that I need an international desk.

There, the man hammers away at his keyboard, scratches his head, consults the Thomas Cook timetable and consults with colleagues. There are no Inter Rail seats on any route to Germany on either Thursday or Friday. If I pay full fare, there are plenty of spaces available, but nothing is available for Inter Rail pass holders.

There are two double-decker TER trains coupled together; the first is jam packed, but, as I approach the front of the second, it is mercifully quiet. I sit upstairs in a very nicely appointed First Class carriage, in glorious isolation. It appears to be no different to Second Class, but it's quiet.

At Rouen, I set off for the information desk, to discover that, despite what my timetable says, I have nearly three hours to wait for my connection to Dieppe. I enquire about booking for Germany on Thursday, any route, at any time. Laureline hammers away at her keyboard, consults colleagues, then shrugs her shoulders. Non. Pas du tout.

I repair to the nearby Metropole Bar, which has wifi, food and beer. Two hours later, I return to the station, where, armed with additional suggestions, Chantal finds me a seat to Frankfurt via Stuttgart. It's all there is, she says. But it's something.

The ancient little train to Dieppe is stiflingly hot inside, but really quiet. All these empty trains today have been really odd. The man comes to check my ticket. I ask him why, on a Monday, I have had to wait so long for a connection. Ah, he says, it's not Monday really, it's a bank holiday and thus it's a Sunday service.

That explains a lot.

The Normandy pace of life is underlined, when, at the station of Montville, a group of people are playing boules. On the actual platform.

At Dieppe, my friend Ghislaine surprises me by turning up at the station. She runs a delightful 'Chambres d'hotes' in a former convent. But it will probably be the last time I will see her at 'Villa des Capucines' because she plans to sell up and retire to Corsica.

In the evening, I have a splendid meal at the nearby 'Le Turbot'. On the €13.95 menu, there's a splendid buffet for starters, with a great variety of seafood, a great terrine and loads of salads. The main course gives several choices. I opt for the steak with saute potatoes and haricot verts, which turn out to be excellent, and finish off with a splendid piece of cheese.

After that lot, I really do need a walk round the harbour before retiring in the Mother Superior's bedroom!

In the morningI have a couple of hours to explore Dieppe, especially enjoying the displays of fromagerie and charcuterie in C' Royal in the Grand Rue. I make some enquiries at the Office du Tourisme, but the young girl on duty gives me wholly inaccurate information and, in response to one question, says she doesn't know but makes no attempt to ask any of her colleagues. But I am given a badly designed leaflet that alternates between English and Dutch, without any differentiation in typeface. Absolutely useless.

I buy a French sim card for my iPad. The terminals in the SFR shop are down, so I have to buy credit at the tabac opposite, much to the amusement of the proprietor, who waves merrily to the watching SFR staff across the street.

Ghislaine kindly takes me out for the day along the coast, where we visit the wonderful little church of St Valery at Varengeville-sur-Mer perched high above the beaches where, almost exactly 70 years ago, nearly 1000 young Canadians lost their lives in the futile Dieppe raid of WW2. In the graveyard is one single stone to mark the passing of a 21 year old Seaforth Highlander.

It's a gorgeously sunny day, but as we head along the coast to Quiberville sur Mer, a sea mist rolls in, creating a somewhat eery feel.

L'Huitriere is the only place that seems to be open for lunch, but it rather makes itself appear unwelcoming by the endless computer-generated instructions attached to every available bit of wall.

In the evening, Ghislaine and I enjoy a bottle of chilled Sancerre with some lovely saucisson and Normandy cheeses while sitting in her lovely old conservatory overlooking the delightful garden. Mme. Poucette lounged on the sofa, but did not participate.

Tomorrow, I will potter around Dieppe for the day before setting off on the long journey to Fulda in Germany, a stopping off point I have selected rather at random, my friend having advised that Frankfurt was 'just full of office blocks' and not worth visiting.

I have also been able to organise some emergency business cards for next week's rail conference in Leipzig, having lost my proper ones in the bag that was stolen at Geneva station. Luckily, I found a very helpful man, Henri Lieury, at Le Plumier, almost next door to my favourite cheese shop, Olivier's in Rue St. Jacques. I had popped in to see Benedicte, grand-daughter of the founder, but she was not at home and I almost stumbled across the sign advertising 'cartes de visite'.

The sun does indeed shine upon the righteous!

I finish the day visiting a local florist to buy some flowers for Mme Bore and then going to Dieppe's wonderful swathe of pebbled beach.

Photos of the trip can be seen at:

European Rail Trip 2012