Stranded at the train station - languishing in Lille

Posted by Nora K ,
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The Kid was beside herself with glee, ecstatic that she wouldn’t have to endure le dreaded walking and aimless meandering around town for at least the next couple of hours, as we were instead scheduled to recline in comfortable leisure in a speeding train, heading to Bruges via Lille, France.  Little did we know then that our early morning departure was all in vain for we were destined to spend a good chunk of the day sequestered in a hustling and bustling train station, hapless prisoners subject to the whims of track breakdowns, repairs and cancelled trains.  Literally kicking our luggage along the curb, as we once again miserably schlepped our over-burdened bags to the station, Miss Spoiled Princess lamented her unfortunate predicament of having to trudge - one pink sneaker at a time - to the railway station. Why was her mean ol’ Auntie so damn frugal, unwilling to fork out a couple of Euro for the convenient luxury of a taxi ride?   Why couldn’t she instead be driving around Europe in chauffeured limos, jetting around in private jets and sailing the seas in luxurious yachts?  Like seriously, her cheapo Auntie has absolutely no qualms about dishing out several hundred of those colourful bills for the latest haute couture designer satchel, so why therefore scrimp on fast and efficient metered cabs?  Well, Kid, in my own defense….hey, hold on a minute here….who’s writing this post, you or I? 

 
Yikes!!  Now that I’m back on track here…I’ll just carry on with the rest of the story….

Even though we had to wake up at the crack of dawn in order to high tail it to the railway station, transfer trains in Lille for the short hour and a half long commute to Bruges, I was pleased as punch for having seamlessly plotted our journey, envisioning a noon-ish arrival in the medieval canal lined town.  What I hadn’t anticipated for, were the minor hiccups that every globe-trotter eventually encounters, the sort of roadblock that leaves one at the mercy of those mischievous gremlins of travel, delighted at being able to throw a wrench in your plans and trip you up a bit.  The travel gods must have been laughing it up at our expense, for today was our turn to miserably languish the day away, wasting endless hours sitting on the cold hard benches of Lille’s bustling railway station. 
It was too good to be true, the pair of us, effortlessly cruising into town, precisely on schedule, as per our meticulously detailed itinerary.  This was more our speed, luckless pawns in the untimely breakdown of a portion of this well-travelled corridor, the tracks requiring urgent repair, resulting in the cancellation of our 11:08am train.  With the next train departing at 1:08pm, we now had several hours to fritter the day away - not enough time in which to actually leave the railway station and explore this corner of France but way too much time in which to become expertly acquainted with the nooks and crannies of this transportation hub.  To be perfectly honest, I’d much rather be languishing in a quaint outdoor café, lunching on moule et frites and sampling the local brew in pretty as a postcard Bruges, than having to resort to mercilessly kicking the vending machines into spitting out a few cans of soda and a couple of packets of stale crisps in a gritty railway station.

 
And then, lo and behold, just when I thought that I’d heard it all, the Kid once again astounds and astonishes me, by uttering six words I never dreamed would effortlessly roll of her tongue by asking just one simple question – Auntie Nora, can we walk there?

 
Come travel with the Kid and I as we jump back into time to medieval Bruges, our arrival delayed due to the unforeseen complications of modern rail breakdowns.  Come hang out in railway stations, sit back, relax, read a magazine or two, as you wait for the next train to yet unexplored destinations en route to new adventures.

Next week – Still languishing in Lille?  Bruges?  Where do my pink-sneakered feet take me?  Stay tuned!!
 

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Shops closed on Sunday? Looks like we're back to wandering, meandering and strolling!

Posted by Nora K ,
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Whether ambling, meandering, wandering or merely strolling, the Kid and I were doing what we do best, and that was walking.  Yes. Once again, our poor tuckered out tootsies were hoofing it across town, yet, this time, on the search for sustenance in a sleepy eyed French town, one, incidentally, that was locked and shuttered down on this Sunday evening.  Lacing up her sneakers, the reluctant niece hesitantly broached the prospect of perhaps hailing a taxi to whisk us to our destination, thus avoiding the dreaded aimless traipsing through yet another foreign ville.  In your dreams Kid, besides, how else is one to garner a sense for a not yet familiar location, randomly discovering pocketfuls of memories along the way?  So, it was on a late summer’s eve, that we schlepped (thankfully, sans le dreaded luggage!) up and down the deserted rues and avenues of this maritime port, not another soul or tourist in sight.  How could this be?  It was only 7:00pm, unquestionably early for hustling and bustling metropolises such as London and Barcelona, yet, eerily quiet on the desolately abandoned streets of Calais. 


So much for my long anticipated shopping excursion, constantly on the lookout for one of a kind European treasures, my purse strings itching to acquire whether a bauble, a trinket, a souvenir, or just about anything, actually.  Padlocked shops and locked doors instead greeted our inquisitive stares.  Disappointment mounting, anxious to indulge in a wee bit of retail therapy, we plodded on, hopeful that the next corner would lead to a welcoming storefront, eager to trade designer duds for hard-earned Canadian dollars.

And that is how we stumbled upon the Burghers of Calais.





Rodin’s Burghers, the six of them, their history dating back to 1347, proudly proclaimed their presence squarely in the center of the Ville, imposing bronze figures a testament to the perseverance of a town besieged under the brutality of Edward 111’s English army.  After more than a year long siege in which the townsfolk were literally starved into submission, six outstanding citizens of Calais chose to graciously offer their lives in exchange for the liberation of their fellow townsfolk, a selfless offer of hope that resonated with the British Queen, who miraculously, spared their lives.   

Quite the impressive history indeed, for this French shipping port, a parcel of land situated in a most desirable geographical location, a mere 26 miles across the Channel from Dover.  Even though Calais was completely re-built after having been virtually decimated during World War 11, it still retains a fragment of its ancient heritage, with its town hall Belfry considered to be an UNESCO World Heritage site.


With a little bit of knowledge gleaned and enough National Geographic digital moments to fill countless scrapbooks, the Kid and I trod on, tummies grumbling, in search of fabulously French gastronomic cuisine.  Trudging away from centre ville, we eventually stumbled across a row of assorted dining establishments, which, thankfully, were open for business, catering primarily to tourist menus and appetites.  Hopes dashed of savouring foie gras and other French delicacies, we eventually settled upon the classically Italian pizza Margherita, Coca Cola for the Kid and a pint of Guinness for myself. 

Note to self – Traditionally, shops remain closed on Sundays in the majority of French towns, except for certain designated tourist venues, so, if planning on spending a leisurely Sunday indulging to your heart’s content, do a bit of research beforehand, so as to avoid disappointment - a fact that I should have remembered and stored in the recesses of my mind, having traipsed through France countless times.  Once again, this seasoned globe-trotter seems to repeatedly delight in wandering the planet in a slightly clue-less manner, as if viewing the world for the very first time. Yikes!!



Come explore deserted rues and avenues as we discover the six Burghers of Calais and appreciate the stoic perseverance of the remarkable inhabitants of this French maritime port ….come stroll with us through history.

Next week – Bidding adieu to Calais en route to ventures unknown.

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Sirens blaring, horns blasting.....our welcome to Hotel Meurice

Posted by Nora K ,
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Dejectedly plunking our burdensome baggage on the pavement, seconds away from unapologetically  kicking it to the curb and just walking away, le Kid and I were beyond fatigued, hopelessly lost somewhere amongst the criss-crossing rues and avenues of a sandy beached fishing port.  Mentally preparing ourselves for the not so remote possibilities of having to spend our first and only night in Calais sleeping on a park bench, fighting the squirrels for a couple of nuts and shuddering at the prospect of having to now scrap with the birds for lukewarm bath water, we were in quite the conundrum indeed.  It was le Kid who initially spotted the police cruiser parked at the far end of the deserted avenue, a beacon of hope to two stranded foreigners who were clearly incapable of getting from Point A to Point B without incurring some form of haphazard roadblock. 

Clearly convinced that we were beyond clued-out, the kind gendarmes pointed us in the correct direction, indicating that Hotel Meurice was located a mere hop, skip and a jump away, just around the corner from where we were currently standing.  Yikes!!  Who knew?  Note to self – try to remember to pack that “oh, so handy” map on future transatlantic sojourns.  After all, having to rely on pure instinct alone is not the most reliable or desirable method of arriving at your destination, that is, if you don’t mind spending the majority of your annual three week holiday traipsing around foreign lands in a discombobulated state of aimless wandering. 

Hopes dashed that she wouldn’t be escorted to the hotel in a fleet of “sirens blaring and horns blasting totally cool” (her words, not mine) patrol cars, my niece was on the verge of tears, crest-fallen that her “once in a lifetime chance” of joy-riding in such a vehicle had been quickly squashed by an “unbelievably mean ol’ Auntie”.  Like seriously? Just wait Miss Kid, you’re still young, plenty of time in which to possibly finagle a way in which to accomplish said goal.

Stepping foot in resplendently charming Hotel Meurice (5 & 7 rue Edmond Roche) the exterior façade of this three star guest house does not do justice to the quaint and homey warmth emanating from the interior of this gem of a find.  Located virtually in the centre of town, the hotel is an affordable luxury in the middle of a nondescript ville.  Greeted by the welcoming bienvenues of the hotel staff and a leashed rescue dog, our Calais digs were one of the unexpected highlights of our one night stay.  The grand old sweeping staircase invoked memories of the old-fashioned kind and was a comforting leap back into the tranquility of a by-gone era.



Checking into our upgraded suite (in retrospect, I believe that that the hotel staff took pity upon us, two weary sweat drenched wanderers in dire need of a hot bath and a warm bed), both the Kid and I gawked in disbelief at the luxuriousness of our palatial French salon, grateful to finally stretch out our limbs and dreamily languish – that is, at least until supper time and our frenzied search for dinner on a Sunday evening in a town with early closing hours.

Who says that meandering aimlessly for hours on end doesn’t have its perks?

Next week – Discovering Calais – Come traipse with us on adventures unknown as we amble up and down the avenues (yes, once again!) in quest of sustenance and National Geographic digital moments.

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There's a shuttle bus? Who knew? Our marathon trek to Calais centre ville

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Schlepping (yes, once again!) our over burdened baggage along the narrow walkway, confident that “le centre ville” is just a hop, skip and a jump down the road, Le Kid and I dutifully trudged along the barely trodden path, hoping beyond hope that the next step would finally lead towards civilization.   After all, we were merely following the arrows that pointed “vers le direction de ville”, guiding us to accompany their trail as indicated on “les tres helpful” signs plastered about the exit doors of the Calais Maritime ferry terminal.   So, who were we to question said signage?  Mind you, our first clue should have been that the directions didn’t list exactly HOW many kilometres town was situated from the ferry terminal or perhaps we merely failed to notice the distance indicated.  Details, actually, whatever, surely it couldn’t be “that” far now, could it?

The term “kicking your luggage to the curb” took on larger than life magnitude as we blindly stumbled along the walkway, suitcases in tow, two clueless Canucks - a slightly scatter-brained Auntie and a “know it all Kid”, plodding along a now busy motorway.  Yikes!!  Le walkway had somehow transformed itself into Le drag race, with speeding cars whizzing along the thoroughfare, an unsettling welcome to the outskirts of Calais, kilometres away from our desired destination.




You would think that I (yes, me), a seasoned traveller of more than 30 years of traipsing the globe and then some, would have figured out a quicker route from ferry terminal to town.  But then, the best of us inevitably trip up and either neglect to read signs properly or completely miss viewing the tell-tale indicators of easy transport, via the conveniently located shuttle-bus into town, situated a mere footsteps away from the Calais Maritime terminal.

Perhaps I’ll just chalk that momentary lapse in judgement to having imbibed in one too many flutes of bubbly on the ferry crossing across the channel.  Yes, a perfectly plausible and highly believable excuse, n’est-ce pas?  Yikes!!

Fatigued, cranky beyond belief, having now traipsed hundreds of footsteps along the concrete pavement into a mirage of a town, Le Kid close to bawling uncontrollably that her delusional pink-sneakered Auntie had led her down a path of “no return” to routes unknown, miles from the comfy hominess of Hotel Meurice, a destination we were unsure of ever hoping to reach anytime soon.




Hopping in a cab was no longer an option as it would be foolhardy for such a vehicle to abruptly screech to a halt and pick up two stranded passengers without incurring a multi-car pile-up in the process.  Definitely not the desired welcome to the sandy beached fishing port, a stay in the local hospital not our first choice of five star accommodation.  No, just best to trudge on and hope for the best.

Placing one pink sneaker ahead of the other, we finally made our way towards the outskirts of town, where we happened to spy a police cruiser snaking its way along the deserted avenues, perhaps on the lookout for morons like us, traipsing into Calais on foot, unaware that shuttle buses and taxis were a quicker form of transport into le centre ville. 




This is primarily one of the motivating factors of why I write this blog, in order to give other slightly clue-less globe-trotters a few helpful tidbits of information in the hope of enlightening them to not make the same unbelievably moronic choices on their travel sojourns as I have.

And, on that note, today’s Wednesday “helpful advice column for clue-less wanderers” signs off, as I dig in the archives for even more examples of aimless meandering, which I will certainly share with you in next week’s blog post.

Come travel with the Kid and I as we forgo the comfort and convenience of air-conditioned buses, choosing instead to hike along the edge of the motorway, cumbersome baggage in tow…..come travel with us to adventures unknown…

Next week – Leaving my pink-sneakered footprints all over Calais.  Stay tuned!!

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Planes, trains or ferries - what next? A rubber dinghy?

Posted by Nora K ,
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Planes, trains and automobiles are all forms of transport that get you from point A to Z, oftentimes involving turbulent skies, subterranean tunnels and screeching brakes, so I was eagerly looking forward to crossing the Channel - no, not by swimming  - but by ferry.  My transit choices for journeying from Britain to France were limited - either crossing in a claustrophobic metal tube jetting through the blue skies, snaking underground in yet another form of enclosed tin can entrapment  or choosing instead to feel the wind on my cheeks, splish splashing along on a rubber dinghy.


Carrying my extra large circular life-preserver, inflatable boat and water wings, I was quite the sight indeed, as I made my way towards the ferry docks, eager to jump on board and sail away to the next leg of my journey.  Hey, I’m kidding now, as it wasn’t quite like that, but you get my drift, if you know what I mean?

The Kid and I were scheduled to take the ferry from Dover to Calais, roughly a 90 minute journey on P & O Ferries.  Sailing from the Eastern Docks in the white-cliffed town of Dover, the ferry accommodates both vehicles and foot passengers.  The price was reasonable enough, costing £59 for the two of us, with an extra £24 to upgrade to Club Lounge. The ferry terminal was located 1.5 miles from the railway station and is accessible via the shuttle bus service at an economical £2 per person.  Weighed down with enough baggage to outfit a small army and then some, we hopped on, grateful for the short 5 minute ride, thus spared the burden of schlepping over-stuffed luggage on a cumbersome trudge to the terminal.



A liberating release from the forced confinement of claustrophobic planes and trains, the ferry ride exceeded all expectations and was “the highlight of her trip” as Le Kid enthusiastically blabbered.  My impromptu decision to upgrade to luxurious Club Lounge was a brilliant move on my part, if I must say so myself – one that was perhaps somewhat inspired by the one too many Cabernet Sauvignons I had been intoxicatingly indulging in the previous evening whilst searching the P & O Ferry website, having foolishly waited until the very last minute to book our passage.  Who says that “don’t shop and Merlot” is not the wisest of ideas?



A complimentary glass of champagne was included in the cost of our first-class journey and as luck would have it, the Kid was not yet old enough to imbibe, forcing (seriously?) me to down (oops…meant to say elegantly sip) two flutes of bubbly, hers and mine.  Hic.

Ordering several more of the bubbling concoctions, staring at the mesmerizing views of the chalk white cliffs, and perched high above the water in what felt like my very own spacious quarters, I wondered whether this was how royalty traversed the seas.  Letting our imaginations soar and sail away on our magical ferry ride to Calais, the short one hour and a half sojourn came to an end far too soon, as both the Kid and I would have been content to spend the remainder of our lives aboard said ferry.




Come enjoy some bubbly and cliff-hanging National Geographic moments as you float along the deep blue seas….come sail away to adventures beyond…

Next week….where do my pink-sneakered footprints take us?  Stay tuned!!

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The light at the end of the tunnel – my near-Chunnel “below the Thames” railway journey

Posted by Nora K ,
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Speeding through one of the pitch black tunnels connecting St. Pancras International railway station to ventures beyond, my inner claustrophobic was starting to panic, as the gap between the stops was beginning to feel more like an eternity than the short journey it in reality actually was.  Really uncertain of whether we were underground or in an above ground lengthy tunnel, all that I knew was that the walls were closing in on me and I was surrounded on all sides by an uncomfortable enveloping darkness.  No matter then, that the lights were brightly lit in the wagon car, jovial conversations taking place, the rational non-claustrophobic passengers oblivious to the mounting terror that was snaking its way throughout my entire body, unable to comprehend my irrational fear of entrapment in any type of enclosed space.  Where were the trees?  Where was the light? Absolutely nothing but the unsettling blackness which greeted me upon glancing out of the window panes! 

Seeking to appease my fraying nerves, I nonchalantly attempted to strike up random conversations with a few of the passengers, in my inquisitive intent to gather a bit of info about the excruciatingly long journey time between stations.  Sporting my Hudson’s Bay purchased 2012 Olympic jean jacket, emblazoned with a plethora of Maple Leafs and hockey badges, I was quite the sight indeed, a somewhat frazzled middle-aged crazy Canuck somewhat freaking out on a crowded train tearing along the “yet unseen” apparently lush English countryside.

Not knowing what to make of such a sight, a borderline freak-a-zoid trapped on an hour long rail journey to the white cliffs of Dover, the local Brits were beyond perplexed at having to appease the curious antics of a Canadian foreigner sequestered in a wagon car on a routinely scheduled railway sojourn to the outskirts of somewhere.

Eventually the murkiness gave way to light, the high speed bullet at long last emerging from the tunnel of darkness, the streaming rays of sunshine dancing on the glass panes, a welcoming beacon of hope to my now permanently jagged and frazzled nerves.

Vowing to remember NOT to travel by train the next time I traverse from London to Dover Priory, my mind was busily finagling other forms of non-claustrophobic transport that didn’t entail the remote possibilities of entrapment underground.  This is why the Kid and I were travelling by rail in the first place, as we were planning on taking the ferry across the Channel to Calais and continue by rail to Bruges and then onwards to Paris.  It would have been a lot quicker to cross the English Channel via the Chunnel, but there was no way that I would ever consider setting my pink-sneakered foot in such a confining space, enclosed in a speeding train, travelling at the sound of light several km below the water.  No matter then, that the entire journey underground would be a mere 20 minutes, enough time in which to completely unhinge my raw-edged nerves, sending my wildly over-active imagination into a downward tailspin of no-return.


 
 It’s a very good thing then that I hadn’t an inkling of a clue that the rail journey from St Pancras to Dover Priory, with stops at Ebbsfleet and Ashford International, would also involve several kilometres of deep underground tunnels, one of which snaked 1.5 miles under the river Thames!  Did I mention the 20 km long tunnel, which had me in quite the freaked out state indeed, resulting in my frenetic darting up and down the aisle, tapping each unsuspecting passenger on the shoulder, my quivering voice anxiously inquiring as to how much longer this subterranean portion of the journey would be?  Yes, sad but true.

No wonder then, that not one person on that excruciatingly elongated sub-terrestrial journey dared to inform me that, yes, we were indeed several kilometers deep, burrowing through the recesses of the English countryside at 140 miles per hour. Most likely they were petrified as to what that glint of knowledge would entail, unwilling to be witness to a middle-aged pink-sneaker clad Canadian screaming for the light, sobbing hysterically that she was trapped miles below the river Thames, counting down the minutes until the speeding “Javelin” emerged from the other end of the tunnel. No, just best to plead ignorance, placate the distraught and panic-stricken foreigner and change the subject by asking about life in Canada and whether or not they also have subterranean tunnels linking distant boroughs?  Yikes!!

The well-known phrase “the light at the end of the tunnel” thus took on new meaning, becoming my mantra for the remainder of the 65 minute journey, as we barreled through kilometres of underground paths, en route to the white cliffs of Dover.

 
Come discover an underground plethora of tunnels and subterranean paths kilometers below the city of London, linking far-away metropolises and towns.  Come discover the criss-crossing trails of train travel with me.

Next week – where do my pink-sneakered footprints find themselves?  Stay tuned!!

 

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“If only these walls could talk” – Tales of intrigue at the Tower of London

Posted by Nora K ,
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Quite the history buff, I was unable to contain my glee at having the opportunity to amble amongst the footsteps of long-ago generations whilst gallivanting around the British capital.  Meandering along the cobblestoned pathways that Shakespeare himself trod upon, I was giddy at being able to finally immerse myself into the rich literary world of William Blake, Charlotte Bronte and Charles Dickens.  Virtually oozing hundreds of years of history, with sacred churches and gilded palaces regally scattered on every which corner, their crumbling and restored facades seeping with tales of intrigue, privilege and power.


Ever fascinated by the Tudor dynasty, especially with daily life at Hampton Court, the reign of King Henry Vlll and his six wives continued to pique my curiosity about what it was like to reside in the 16th century.  The scandals, the clandestine forbidden liaisons and, of course, the beheadings were topics that continued to enthrall my wildly over-active imagination and send it to places of no return.  I therefore could not wait until I firmly placed my pink-sneakered foot onto London’s famously arresting (literally!!) Tower of London and come face to face with history.  Ravenously poring over hundreds of books that documented the tragic and gruesome events that had transpired over the centuries in this medieval fortress, I was anxious to finally be witness to this unsavoury past.

The Tower of London has quite the ghastly and morbid history, imprisoning and executing a number of tragic souls, the majority of them undeserving of such a dreadful fate.  Locked up on trumped up charges of treason, adultery and espionage, neither paupers nor royals were exempt from imprisonment in the Tower.  Coups and plots of overthrow ruled supreme, as rival family members sought to usurp the other in their blood thirsty desire for prestige and power.  Depending upon the political allegiances of the day, one could literally be a court favourite today yet find himself on the chopping block the next.  From Lady Jane Grey, who was Queen for only 9 days, to Anne Boleyn and Catherine Howard, a parade of Queens have been mercilessly executed at the infamous Tower, all upon royal orders.



“If only these walls could talk” took on an entirely new meaning, as I pondered what hopes, desires and secrets the cold stone slabs held, forever sealed in mystery behind those ancient padlocked prison gates. It is unfortunate then, that I didn’t have the chance to see for myself the inside of this massive medieval fortress, for alas, I had arrived at the World Heritage Site quite late in the afternoon, a couple of minutes before the questionably early 5:00pm closing time.  Yikes!!  Scheduled to depart London the following day for the next leg of my journey to the white cliffs of Dover, I had to content myself with merely traipsing around the grounds of this sprawling edifice and stock up on even more reading material in the Tower of London souvenir bookstore.


Vowing to return to London sometime within the next couple of months and spend a full two days visiting the Tower, I consoled my disappointment and indulged with a few pints of Guinness and jumped feet first into history, eagerly devouring page after page of my newly purchased Tudor history books.




Pink Sneaker Tidbits of Info about the Tower of London:

Legend has it that if the six ravens (there is one to spare) were to fly away from the Tower of London, the city as well as the fortress would ultimately fall.  Why take any chances then? Their wings are therefore clipped in order to prevent such a possibility from coming to fruition.

The black ravens are treated as minor celebrities and are catered to with an impressive menu of delicacies such as only ravens would dare to lunch on - raw meat, biscuits soaked in blood (yuck!!) and furry rabbits (double yuck!!).

The Crown Jewels were almost stolen in 1671 by an appropriately named “Thomas Blood” who brazenly attempted to walk out of the fortress with the priceless gems. Surprisingly though, he was pardoned by the King who must have admired the Colonel’s sheer gall and tenacity in attempting to pull off such an incredulous feat.  I read somewhere that he was also gifted a parcel of land by the monarch, but am unable to verify whether that is either fact or fiction.

Animals of all sorts were also “imprisoned” in the infamous Tower, its menagerie home to a lion, hyena, owls, monkeys and even an elephant! A polar bear gifted by the King of Norway in 1252, frequently swam in the river Thames and caught fish for his supper while tethered to an extremely long leash.

Come walk through the corridors of history as you listen in to the tales and whispers of royal intrigue, treason and drama, carefully guarded secrets of the walls of the Tower of London.

Next week – What adventures lie ahead for the Kid and Miss Pink Sneakers?? Stay tuned!!

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