Poole, Dorset

It was midnight last night before we retired to bed. Glad to have the comfort of our little cabin. However once again we had noisy French neighbours who despite John shouting out to them, we had an early start sat, at a nearby table drinking and talking loudly well into the early hours. At six Angela's alarm went off. We were both tired and even though neither of us said, concerned about what may have happened back at home during the night. Zombie like we switched to automatic pilot. Much to John's annoyance Angela likes to arrive in good time, which means we left at seven-fifteen for the station and were first on the platform for the Paris train.

By the time it arrived at just before eight-twenty-five we were lost in a sea of travellers. Where was the bicycle carriage? An unhelpful official said, look for the sign. That'll be the sign about three inches wide and two inches high of a miniature bicycle. John struggled to lift the bikes up the two steps into the carriage the automatic door self-closing at every opportunity, Angela stood by to bring on our bags. Allez allez. We were holding the train, the guard stood by with no intention of helping and blew his whistle. Three bags were still on the platform. Like scolded cats we threw them and ourselves on just as the train pulled away. Please. Give us some slack. 

Was this how the day would continue? Yes, it was. As we cycled out of Bercy station in Paris with an hour to cycle across the city to Saint Lazare Station, which should take around forty minutes John's gears seized up. Someone hated us. All this bad luck! Soon rectified we set off only to find we couldn't cycle along the path that ran beside the river Seine. Sorry closed. So, we launched ourselves into the throngs of pedestrians and vehicles. Weaving between people, cars, vans and jumping red lights. The clock was ticking. Angela not one to miss the sights looked out for the Eiffel tower, excited when she spotted the top section. We cycled past Notre Dame, the Louvre and the seventy-five-foot-high ancient Egyptian Luxor monument in the Place de Concorde. Road closures squeezed traffic into narrow back streets and we were forced to demount and walk daring not to check our watches knowing the train to Cherbourg was due to depart shortly. Eventually the station came into view. We couldn't find our train on the departures board. Fortunately we saw a sign for Normandy trains and broke into a fast walk. Platform 25. Upstairs. You're having a laugh! Luckily, we were right by the lift. With just two minutes to spare we bundled our bikes, luggage and ourselves onto the train. The bicycle area already full. Room for two more? A young couple with a ten-week-old baby welcomed us. They had a trailer, which we know are not allowed on trains. That hadn't stopped them They couldn't leave the baby behind, could they? We'd made it, god knows how. Just the car ferry to go and we'd be home. We were both upset that some people thought it O.K. to violate our space. The neighbours had bought a new lock for our back gate and no message had arrived to say there had been any developments during the night, but we were still unnerved. The train travelled at speed; the half-timbered houses common to the Normandy landscape a blur lost amongst fruit trees and fields of cows.

Cherbourg. At last. The car ferry was due to depart at six-fifteen. It left at five past seven. Of course, it did! The sailing was full and there had been a problem with the loading of the vehicles.

We were left on the dockside with the motorcyclists, cold from the strong wind that blew offshore whilst they moved cars around. Tired, worried but relieved to be nearly home we ate expensive not very good Brittany ferry fare whilst talking to two motorcyclists from Poole. The time passed quickly. Now just to exit the port. We edged our way forward cutting in front of the cars. We just needed to get home. A sigh of relieve. The intruders had not broken our back door lock, they'd obviously given up on it. The sliding lock on the gate they'd cut with bolt cutters to release the padlock. We felt nervous though. Particularly Angela. One o'clock, (two 0' clock to us, we were still on French time) we went to bed. Angela left nearly all the house lighst on, read until nearly four and was jumpy at every little noise. Thanks people. You've ruined our trip and now knocked our confidence. Someone was trying to tell us something when so many things went wrong for us whilst we were away. Perhaps we should have come home? But then we may have been in the house when someone tried to break in. Who knows? Tomorrow we will take measures to secure our garden and property a little better. It had taken us seventeen hours to arrive home. We were exhausted. So much had happened to us in the last four weeks. The tag line for this series of blogs should be. 'Virus and Ventolin'. 'Pizza and Paracetamol' or 'Baguettes and Bonjours'. On a humorous note, when we met the Australian couple a few days ago, we told them one of the reasons for our blog was so we could look back if our memories began to fade as we bacame older They joked you'll be able to say, 'who are these people?' when looking at photographs of ourselves. Let's hope it doesn't come to that!