Rouen, September 30 2018
So. Fucking. Tired. I was actually in pain as I slept and woke up at 4am because my feet and legs ached so much. Also starving so the clan of Japanese tourists is going to have to fight me for the individually wrapped slices of Emmental. OK, start from the beginning. I splashed out on a train to and from London this time so I had a slightly later start: left the house at 7, grabbed a bacon buttie and a cup of tea at Dashi, train arrive on time (see, South Western Railways, that’s how its done) and settled into my corner seat and watched Lego Batman on my laptop. Very cultural. I hadn’t been able to activate the roaming on my phone so I took a quick (ish) detour to a Car-phone Warehouse where the men were incompetent but apologetic and we got there eventually. The check-in at Euro-star went almost suspiciously smoothly this time, but the passport control had changed. Whereas before there was British then French, this time there was a guy visually checking then you had to manually scan your passport, then have a half-body portrait taken. But from scanning my ticket to finding a seat in the waiting area was no more than 5 minutes. The train was pretty crowded but I got a seat to myself which was a relief because those seats are strangely uncomfortable. The upright is too upright but the recline is a weird angle. Having my feet on the floor felt too prone but putting them on the foot rest meant the table dug in my knees. The best position was to put my feet on the foot rest next to me. Read a bit – bringing the Silmarillion was a master stroke, I never would have read it without having nothing else to do -slept a bit and had that bizarre feeling on arriving in Paris that I hadn’t really travelled.
Once I got out of the station my phone immediately stopped working so I went back in to ask directions. The woman clearly didn’t trust me to understand even basic instructions, so she just pointed but I’d broken the seal nonetheless. A very hot, dull, exhausting hike later during which I only nearly died from Parisian traffic once or twice and I achieved Gare St. Lazare. I didn’t trust that I could get my phone to work to show my ticket electronically, so I printed out my tickets and legged it to the train. Coach 5, first class, seat 15. Only there was no coach 5. I trotted the length of the train but there was only one first class coach, 4, so I found a non-carriage seat and started rehearsing how to explain why I was in the wrong seat. No one asked, I didn’t even have to show the damn ticket. If I hadn’t printed it out, someone would have asked.
I had planned to walk to the hotel but I was so tired to the point of tears already, so I took a crack at the tram system. They aren’t really trams, it’s more of a light railway that goes underground a lot, and the map indicated that the Saint Sever stop was near my hotel. I bought a ticket, against the express wishes of the ticket machine, walked down the stalled escalator much to the chagrin of my ankles and rode the four stops. When we emerged I was immediately reminded of Tours, and the casual way pedestrians interact with traffic. There’s no crossing, you are just trusted to look and judge if it is dangerous. In Paris it felt like the green man meant ‘now is the safest time to cross but you should still look out because the cars will carry in driving around you’. Crossing the road in France can be a nightmare-it was one of the few negatives things about Tours and Saumur. Phone still not working, no clue where my hotel was from here except that its right next to a church so I tried asking directions, but the nice, safe, maternal looking woman I picked didn’t know, so I bimbled around for a bit in the mall I felt instinctively was between me and my bed and after a few wrong turns found the right exit. The hotel looked closed…no, it’s OK, there’s some other people with rucksacks, everything is OK. Walk boldly up to the desk, introduce myself and say I have a reservation. The clerk asks how long I’m staying – until Wednesday – she says something very fast but I catch the word passport – yes, I have my passport – she says something else and I think she’s asking if I want to pay but my brain freezes and by the time I’ve even dug up the word for pay she’s offering an English translation and saying we can try French again tomorrow. Fail. Don’t care, I just wanted to get to my room, get my boots off and be still. It’s a nice, Travelodge type room, no overhead light which is weird and I have to sort of sidle up to the toilet but the window opens all the way, the bed is comfy and I’m back in the land of wi-fi.
Later, Rouen Cathedral, Rouen…
I haven’t found her yet, but I needed to stop and take stock because I am totally overwhelmed. I’m in the cathedral and I caught the last half hour of the mass and even though I didn’t understand any of it, I still felt the weight of the ritual, it was reassuring seeing the people shake hands and give the kiss of peace, and the organ music, that finished me off, I couldn’t stop crying. I think it’s a visceral reaction to something bigger than myself – not a deity, but the noise, the height, the mass of history over my head, towering and swirling. The organ, the choir, the call and response of the congregation, no wonder people feel safe here, no wonder its seen as a refuge. It is enveloping, all encompassing. There’s no noise from outside, it’s a world all of its own, cut off entirely from all reality but the one created here. It would be easy to promise anything. Being surrounded by the artistic and architectural message that you are at once insignificant but included, that you are a speck but one in a million-speck family. What a strange feeling it must be to believe yourself unconditionally loved, to be capable of no crime, no atrocity so great that you cannot be forgiven and loved again. What strength that must give to a believer. What power. It’s almost like justification – the idea that all action is preordained and therefore there is nothing a devout person can do that is outside of God’s plan. You can do no wrong and you have the entire church hierarchy to back you up.
Later again, Rouen Cathedral, Rouen…
It took me two circuits of the cathedral and some frantic googling, but I’ve found her and I’m crying again. I’m not sure I’ll ever not feel like this. It’s weird because again, the thing I’m looking at doesn’t contain her remains, they’re probably somewhere else. There’s no effigy, just a plaque on the wall. Her plaque is in a little side-chapel that I can’t get into. It’s in Latin and underneath, with no explanation is a modern piece of needlework with a French translation. As always, there’s a feeling of anti-climax. I also feel that I’m doomed to always be looking at something next to something more interesting. A tour just stopped by me to look at the tomb of Henry the Young King, Matilda’s oldest grandson. Richard I is just around the corner. In Fontevraud, all the attention was on Richard. In the Louvre, Eleanor’s vase sits next to Abbot Suger’s something or other, which is on the audio-guide so everyone stops there.
I think it’s interesting that her personality is seen as so wildly different by the two countries she ruled. As Empress (whether she really was or not) she was seen as good, charitable, loving and wise enough to rule over the Holy Roman Empire as regent for two years. But when she attempted to rule England she was resisted and seen as un-womanly, mean, aggressive. It wasn’t just about her fighting, Matilda of Boulogne and Queen Adeliza took and held castles. It was how she treated people. Did that change when she came home, or having been raised at the German court, was that how she always was, and in Germany it was seen as a positive. She was literally hounded out of London on the eve of her coronation because she demanded the residents pay taxes to her. Perhaps she learned to rule in the manner of her husband, who was unpopular with the various nobles and popes of his acquaintance. Maybe being empress of Germany, Bohemia, Burgundy and Italy didn’t backwards translate to little England. Maybe she had grown too large, too grand in her outlook, her abilities and yes, her expectations of her position to ever fit into English society, even as its queen. She expected, demanded to be treated as an empress, when she had not yet proven her right to be queen yet. It must have taken some courage from the men around her to back her. I wonder what her and Eleanor thought of each other. What an example to set her daughter-in-law. How much did Eleanor learn, good or bad, from her? Matilda was raised to be a queen, was a queen, and on stepping back when Henry V died, was repeatedly told by all the people she trusted that she would be queen again. No-one can blame her for her actions, and that while fighting she raised a son to be one, if not the, greatest Norman king is remarkable. The top line of her tomb reads ‘great by birth, greater by marriage, greatest by motherhood’, referring to the three kings in her life, her father, her husband and her son. But this reduces her to only a daughter, a wife and a mother. She was intelligent, astute, charitable, kind, wilful, proud, belligerent, dynamic, single-minded and strong, both physically and emotionally. She was great, and I honour all that she was.
Rouen, October 1, 2018
This was totally the wrong time of year to go on holiday. I am exhausted, and you know I don’t use that word lightly. I’m going to Paris today, it isn’t stopping me, but by 4 yesterday I had absolutely nothing left. Breakfast was a revelation. It’s your usual continental fair – cereal, yogurts, ham, cheese, salami, bread, croissants and jam. It’s all spread out nicely so no-one has to fight for space and the pain au raisin were gert lush. Unfortunately, half-way through I popped to the loo and they thought I’d finished – oh no! I also managed to ask if the bathroom water is drinkable – yes – so because I thought to bring travel squash I won’t go thirsty. I was sharing the dining room with a Japanese school group who all, without fail, skewered their pain au chocolat on their fork and nibbled at it. Is it a cultural thing not to touch one’s food? I should find out, though luckily none of the queens ever strayed that far. This all reminds me of when I was travelling, and I wrote up my journal every day at breakfast. It certainly helps you slow down.
I’d checked online and saw that two masses are held at the Cathedral on a Sunday morning, so I thought I’d do something else first. So, I took a stroll in the opposite direction to Les Jardins des Plantes. It was almost comical how quickly my body rebelled against me and at the exact half way point I urgently needed the use of the facilities. I hoped there would be public toilets in the park and carried on rather than go back. There was a cache at the gate but I couldn’t spot it quickly so I gave up and minced in. There was something called ‘sanitaires’ which didn’t fit with the other planty descriptions on the map so I thought that was a good bet. A bit further on I checked a different map and yes, that meant toilets. Excellent. Got there, they were open and so close to victory I found that none of them, men’s or women’s, had even a scrap of paper in them. Now, I’m no stranger to adverse digestive crises so I immediately started weighing my options. I had passed no cafes where I might get a serviette or two, the information office was closed, and the supply cupboard was locked. I was at the point of resigning myself to using pages of my journal – and I did not choose this journal for absorbency – when I remembered I had been using a napkin from Coffee #1 as a bookmark. Saved. And relieved. In every sense.
So now I can appreciate the gardens. And the best way to do that is to find a geocache, which I did. The gardens were nice, but a lot of the buildings were having work done which spoilt the symmetry a bit. It was – nice. I didn’t really feel like sitting around waiting for the next incident, so I started walking towards the nearest metro stop to get to the cathedral. The metro stops are weird – even the underground ones are only one floor down and are completely open. There are no barriers, no obvious instructions of what to do. But they’re fast and clean and take me nearly where I want to go. There weren’t many signs for the cathedral but I just looked up at every street corner, so I could see where to go. That part of Rouen is obviously old, but they’ve kind of spoiled it by painting each building a different colour. Or maybe that’s what 15th century France looked like. A bit Disney. Like a lot of grand churches, Rouen doesn’t really have its own space. From its start, streets grew up immediately around it so unlike Wells or Exeter there’s no space to admire, you just turn a corner and its right there, like Cologne, just looming at you. It’s obviously beautiful, and against form I enjoy the asymmetry of the three towers. It has some very intricate carvings on the west front, and they’re doing a lot of restoration work to the figures throughout. I’ve written already about the building’s affect, but outside of the ceremony, my memories from today are of just another beautiful church. Apart from the staircase which reminded me of Gormenghast, nothing took my breath away. I imagine to an artist it would be interesting, but I guess I was missing a personal connection. There was no personal connection with Matilda. She was reburied here, and she held her court in Rouen but she had no more connection with it than any of her other estates. Bit of a let-down I guess.
The mass was still going on when I got in so I stood respectfully at the back out of the way until it finished. Which was a while. Had my moment, I circled the church twice, I found my girl. I asked a lady if it was possible to go into the chapel to take a better photo, and she said I could come back later and speak to one of the tour guides but I’d been in there for more than 2 hours and I was ready to go. I went to the tourist office and availed myself of a Rouen pin and the worst cathedral magnet they had to offer. I did my usual casual stroll passed a load of cafes around the old quarter but was too shy to go in any of them. I thought I would pick up something from the supermarket near the hotel but its Sunday and everything was closed. Nearly everything. The Quick Burger was open and I was tired and figuratively starving so I went in. I thought I could get away with using a machine but they were broken so I ended up having a very awkward conversation with a lovely girl who tried to help by speaking English to which I replied in French and we were both laughing with embarrassment by the time I left. It even looked like the picture! So, I came back to the hotel, collapsed on the bed and stayed there playing Skyrim pretty much til I fell asleep.
Later, The Louvre, Paris…
I’ll write up later what a fucking odyssey it was to get here, partly my fault and partly that of the French nation, but I am now on a bench 20 feet from Eleanor of Aquitaine’s vase. This room is not what I remember at all, but fortunately it is still next to Abbot Suger’s vase (I remembered it as a salt seller) so my nifty GPS-enabled Nintendo DS audio-guide took me straight to it. Suck it Suger, I’m deliberately not looking at you. Other people are, they look and take photos and move onto the next thing. And nobody pays attention to the ugly, broken thing next to it. I haven’t read my travel diary for a while but that’s probably what I said then. I think I’ll take a crack at drawing it when I get home. In the meantime I will bimble via the grand galleries taking care not to look at the Mona Lisa.
Later, Gare St. Lazare, Paris…
I’m not going to say today was a disaster, or a waste of time and money because I firmly believe that even the experiences that disappoint me are still a valuable part of the story. But my goodness I’m having a hard time holding on to that philosophy right now. Fuck the Louvre. And a little bit Fuck Paris. I didn’t enjoy being here before but at least then there were beautiful things to see. After today I’m not sure I can even say that. It has always been a part of viewing a work of art that I am standing where they stood and that there may be a million copies online or in books, but this is it. Its right there, between me and a thin pane of glass. But after today, I find that almost no work of art is worth the battle through a thousand meandering tourists. The pieces that caught my eye – Chasseriau’s Suzanne & the Elders and Scheffer’s Francesca & Paolo had crowds around them either looking the other way or taking selfies once they saw I was interested. In fact if I take anything away from the last two days it’s a deep suspicion of holiday photography. There were a hundred people – no exaggeration – around the Mona Lisa. They all took the same picture from the same distance with the same bored guard next to it. What do they gain from this? Will they look fondly at that photo, and the 50, 60, 100 others they took today and remember how they felt when they saw it? Did they take the picture so they could study it at home, so they could take the time to appreciate it? Is there a difference between a clear image online and their photograph? it feels like an act of ownership. Or maybe fear that if they don’t have evidence that they were there, maybe they weren’t. I took photos of the vase because it is meaningful to me, but I also sat with it and allowed myself to feel whatever bubbled up. I looked at my photos of the cathedral yesterday and most of them were a bit shit so I’ve swapped them for better stock photos for my project. Maybe I should pose the same question to myself. I have albums of photos from holidays I’ve taken that I don’t enjoy looking at. Could I get rid of them? How would that feel, to throw away the only remaining evidence of a holiday or a relationship? A first step would be to digitise them and get rid of the albums but that doesn’t really answer the question. I could get rid of my photos of holidays with Liz: there are no memories in them I would hurt to lose. My travelling photos? Well honestly, my diary is a better record, and if I want a reminder of what Plaza Mayor or Munich town centre looks like I can google it. Maybe that’s it: the camera is objective. There is nothing of what I feel in a photo, nothing of what the subject means to me. Whereas in my journal, I can capture, albeit amateurishly, how I feel. With a photo you think you’re capturing it and by extension capturing meaning because it was worthy of photographing but it’s a replacement for real consideration. All you have captured is your own impatience, indifference, and acquisitiveness. Could any of those people describe what painting they photographed without looking back at the image? I’ll say one thing for France, it gets the philosophical juices flowing.
Rouen, October 2, 2018
So, yesterday was fraught, that’s probably the best word. I’ve slept well so I can be a little more philosophical this morning but damn, Kate, people say you’re good at organizing, what the fuck happened? Normal start, filled up at breakfast, discussed my plans for the day with a fellow breakfasteer – though looking back I’m pretty sure that isn’t what he was asking – stole a pain au raisin for the journey because I know myself and buying something in Paris was probably going to be beyond me, and got the tram to the station. Typically way too early so I cracked a few more pages of Silmarillion and finally boarded – prayers answered, it was a triple-decker! Awesome view as we travelled back into the Paris along the Seine – I don’t think I was paying attention the first time but Normandy is beautiful, almost like the Netherlands in places, flat with all low houses and avenues of mad pinky-orange trees.
We had some excitement on arriving at Paris – ticket checks were in place, which sent a ripple of confusion and disgust through the crowd, eliciting a lot of ‘bah’s and ‘harumph’s and looking at one’s neighbour to register your incomprehension. Turns out it was Interpol and they had big guns and big muzzled dogs (also a small un-muzzled spaniel I named Bob who was sitting very patiently with a ‘explosive detection’ hi-viz vest on. I took a photo because I doubt he has a web-page and he was doing an excellent job.)
Half hour walk to the Louvre which was fairly uneventful except for all the drivers in Paris trying to kill me. So, I get to the Pyramid, dodging the photo-takers and the street vendors who all seem to think a tin Eiffel Tower will bring me eternal happiness and headed for the Port des Lions. Now, I looked online last night and it said that tickets could be bought in advance for entrance via the Pyramid. I knew I could avoid that by going in through the Lion Door so I didn’t bother. Imagine my pissed-off-ness when the guy at the Port des Lions told me no re-booked ticket, no entry. I freely admit to looking at the queue outside the Pyramid and weighing up just not bothering. I took a time out and looked for a geocache – I’m pretty sure I found it but it looked like a dead rat so I did not ‘find’ it. OK, I came all this way, I have to go in. So maybe 10-15 minutes in line, La Securitella, another 20 minutes to get the actual ticket, got an audio-guide because that’s my rule. I say audio-guide, it was actually a Nintendo DS 3D with GPS so it knew where I was, what room I was in etc. The map was almost totally useless. Most of the room numbers were missing and none of the stair wells and landings were labelled so I didn’t know what floor I was on. Once I worked out how to get it to guide me to Suger’s vase I’d been going in the wrong direction for 10 minutes and had to exit one wing and be readmitted to another.
I’ve already written about the vase so after that I thought rather than wander aimlessly I’d go to the grand galleries where I would most likely find something to move me. By this point I was so hacked off by the weight and wires of the audio-guide I gave it back and trusted to the terrible photocopied Mona Lisa This Way signs to get me in the right direction. A battle every step of the way. I got there but I was both physically and emotionally drained – I did one circuit of the gallery and headed for the exit. Which was harder than it sounds – you can’t just exit through the pyramid, there’s miles of vaguely museum-esque tunnels with gift shops, the actual shops, then a school before you emerge blinking into the daylight. I was actually hurting by this point so as soon as I saw the first metro stairs I caved. It was only two stops but I just couldn’t face all that traffic and noise and dust and people. I found a Starbucks at Gare St. Lazare and had a little joke with myself – I told them my name was Matilde so I have a cup with that written on. I feel like this could become a theme…could be a problem when I get to Berengaria. Even that little thing – getting a caramel frap in an SB – helped settle the anxiety. Not exactly anxiety but doing a lot of new stuff or being in new places has a cost, and familiar things replenish that cost. A little, and it’s impossible to pay it all back, but it helps.
Only a double-decker train this time – took a while to find a seat because most of the carriages were half 1st and half 2nd class. Uneventful ride back, caught the metro like a pro, even had a little energy left – or was I driven mad by hunger – to grab some snacks from the supermarket. Cheese strings (gouda and emmental, I preferred gouda), apricot frangipanes and salami flavoured crisps. Don’t tell me I don’t know how to live.
Rouen, October 3, 2018
I think yesterday may have been my most successful day yet. It was a totally last minute thing, I was looking at the map before breakfast and I remembered the train from Paris to Rouen terminates at Le Havre. It had an art museum open on a Tuesday – a big deal in this part of the world – and a long string of caches along the beach. Worth a try. I sneaked a pain au raison from the breakfast bar again, caught the metro where for the first time I bought AND validated my ticket – took three days to work out how to do it – bought my ticket at the train station and waited for the train. I feel like I have a good routine now – I know where to go and what to do. It’s reassuring. Like cheese strings and the Hobbit. They help shore up my foundation so I have a strong starting point when I want to do something unusual or uncomfortable.
As we get closer to the coast it started getting misty, and even a small thing like that cheered me a little. Another non-safety feature of French trains is that you can open the doors before they stop – we were slowed to maybe 5 miles an hour when the guy in front of me opened it, so not exactly mission impossible but still, no-one’s in that much of a hurry. They also have these mad public toilets with blue lights and when I blink everything goes white instead of black which is a little bit seizure inducing. Le Havre has trams too, and one was arriving when I walked out of the station headed for La Plage – coincidence? I have been so lazy on this trip. But I love a tram and I hate hate hate crossing French streets. The beach was exactly what I needed. Blowing a gale, rain coming off the sea, maybe 200 metres visibility and that slightly salty slightly dirty smell of the English Channel. Had there been a little shelter for grannies I could have sat there for ages. The walk along the front was wet and I found 3 out of 10 caches I looked for but that’s three more than I had plus a trackable, finally!
Found the museum, clunked my way through buying a ticket and getting a locker, asked if I could take my book in – yes – and was immediately greeted by one of Monet’s waterlilies. This place isn’t messing around. Again, nowhere to sit but it was light and spacious, the paintings had space and it was relatively empty. Suck it, Louvre, this is how to enjoy art. I found quite a few I liked and afterwards I sat at a bench in the foyer and googled a couple so I could capture my initial thoughts.
Back out in the rain – lush – and a long slow – hampered by traffic – walk back to the train station via a few more caches. Le Havre is apparently a UNESCO world heritage site but I think I never saw the original town, everything I saw was new or being redeveloped. It was also mostly closed, like Dawlish or Exmouth, presumably it relies on the tourist trade. The guy at the museum asked if I’d come by boat and there were a lot of English voices in the museum so I guess it gets off season traffic too.
I got a sandwich at the train station because I was hungry – a pain au raisin can only go so far – and because as always I was way too early for the train. Again there were armed transport police on the train – they take their transport very seriously here. I’m trying to think of the last time I saw real transport police outside London. I’m not sure I have. Off the train, metro to Saint Sever, picked up something for the journey home at the supermarket and crawled straight into bed. Packing can wait til morning, my train isn’t until 11 so plenty of time. I also finished Silmarillion. I didn’t bring another Tolkien, I figured I’d need a break so I have the first Amelia Peabody to keep me going on the journey home. I also realised I (stupidly) gave myself 3 hours in Paris before I even have to check-in at Eurostar. What can I do in that time that is easy to get to and preferably doesn’t cost money? My room’s wi-fi had already been switched off so I’ll do a quick recce when I get to the train station.
Later, Musee Rodin, Paris…
One out of two isn’t bad. I’m in the sculpture garden of the Musee Rodin. It was a good choice, although it gave me many new and improved opportunities to mis- and/or not understand what people were saying to me. The museum is in his house so it’s a bit crowded and creaky – and there’s the photo thing again – but there are many beautiful works and when the construction works in the street stop, the garden is very peaceful. Why do these people appeal to me so much? To me art is slow and measured. I can do with art what I can never seem to be allowed to do in real life which is stop and view the object from every direction, think how I feel, take the time to achieve real comprehension. That’s why – and not any other reason like being lazy – that appropriate seating is important. A bench in the middle of the gallery tells me the curator values slow consideration as much as I do. That they welcome me and want me to take my time.
Later, King’s Cross Station, London…
I probably didn’t spend enough time in the sculpture garden, but it was a great time-out. I’m in Yo in Kings Cross filling up before the final leg of the journey. I only have 100 pages of Amelia Peabody left so I’m going to write up today, so the book is saved for the train.
Breakfast was busy this morning, quite a few Englishers and for the first time this morning it occurred to me that my habit of balancing a folded piece of ham on buttered bread may look just as ridiculous to my hosts as the pain au chocolat kebab. I didn’t need to thieve any pastries this morning, I had 3 chocolate twists wrapped in a napkin in my room. Packing was simple – throw everything not nailed down into the bag. Gotta say, did not love putting the bag back on. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not surrendering the rucksack, but I would settle for a rucksack with wheels occasionally – on those occasions when my centre of gravity becomes severely compromised, like escalators. And travelators. And walking in a straight line after sitting down for three hours. Or sneezing. Even though I promised myself I would leave the hotel late that was never going to happen, I was out of the door as soon as my back was packed so long wait for the now delayed train which, guess what, had no coach 5 first class when it finally arrived. I think after my Tours trip I assumed all 2nd class seats were in carriages, but it turns out they can also be normal so I shan’t bother with 1st next time – I will pre-order the tickets though, they go up as much as English prices.
Metro to Varenne – having got the hang of the Paris metro ticket booths – and a quick walk to the Musee Rodin. Didn’t understand the security guard, didn’t understand the greeter, didn’t understand the directions to les vestieres, even got greeted in English entering the museum. Urgh. Not a good trip for the language skills.
There was a lovely bronze early on which I stupidly did not write down the name of – it was a male nude, modelled on a soldier Rodin knew and when he exhibited it he was accused of just taking a cast of his body. The realism is incredible. I would have liked to sit on that window-ledge with the bronze on a lazy Susan. I’m going to include the paintings I’ve enjoyed in my queens portfolio. Like the travelogue it’s a part of the visit. I’m also thinking that for the queens in Paris I don’t necessarily have to stay in Paris. If I stayed in London, its only 2.5 hours each way, that’s shorter than going to London for the day. Just spend few hours gathering a queen then go home. It would also speed up the process, I am eager to keep the momentum going.
Long metro ride back to Gare du Nord. Checked in straight away and got a sandwich to spend the last of my coins (I have 24c in my pocket). I was doing a lot of enforced people watching because I didn’t want to waste the book, and I closed my eyes on the train for a bit – only a bit though as I was on the outside and sat next to a table full of self-important yuppies – and now I’m here. That last paragraph encapsulates 5 hours of travel! I’ve written a lot for this journey. I just checked, I’ve written 18 pages in 5 days – the previous 18 pages takes me back 8 months! Travel more, there’s no other way I’ll fill this book. Another way is to use a massive pen! My first ran out and this is the only other one I have, I’m loathed to go back to biro, they’re such hard work. So I’m almost home. I’m done. I have gathered my queen, I’ve stretched myself in some ways, I’ve let myself off the hook repeatedly in others. I did not plan well. For Caen or Le Mans I need to plan in advance what I’m going to do, I can’t have any more of those weird faffy days. Also avoid Mondays. Book in advance. Bring better pens. And longer books. And more books.
Anglica Regina 
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