Bayeux, France

Squinting at French Teletext at 7am this morning I learned that the train situation had greatly improved, with one out of three regional services now running. Hooray! I bolted down to the train station to check my options.

There was a single train to Paris leaving within the next ten minutes. I considered jumping on it; the capital would surely take away les bleus from which I was suffering. But the plan was to reach Bayeux. Heading to Paris would have required me to double back, and so I reluctantly held on for the train to Coutances, further north and from which I could pick up a connection to Bayeux.

As time ticked on to my train to Coutances, the platforms seemed surprisingly devoid of people - and more critically, trains. With five minutes to go until its scheduled departure, I concernedly approached the sole station employee to ask where it was. I was horrified to hear the “train” was a replacement bus waiting outside the station. The departure board had given no indication of this.

I legged it outside and asked the driver whether it was OK to stow Ron on the bus. If it wasn’t, I was buggered, and committed to another night in the French equivalent of Calne. Luckily he didn’t seem fazed by my request, so I wedged Ron in the hold under the coach, and soon I was speeding to Coutances, an inch closer to Bayeux (er, on the map, that is).

I had an hour to kill at Coutances, so I wandered into town to take a look at the imposing  Norman Cathedral that had dominated the skyline from the train. The architecture was a unique style that we call Norman but the French call Roman. Anyway, it was very attractive, and only slightly spoiled by a snarling French dog taking a dislike to me in the grounds. Luckily, the owner called it off before I had to aim a kick at its knackers.

My connection was another bus to Lison, where I had two hours to kill with nothing to do except be barked at by dogs whilst I sat on a bench outside the station. When I finally boarded the train to Bayeux, relief swept through me.

Here at last! I followed the signs for the Youth Hostel to find a sign at reception asking to “Wait 2 Minutes”. I waited ten, and there was still no sign of life. I even roamed inside through a surprisingly plush dining room and kitchen, yelling “Hello?”, but the place was a ghost hostel, so begrudgingly I cycled back to the station, at which my backup accommodation - yet another budget hotel - was situated. I followed a “Reception. Open this way!” sign to a door… which was firmly locked. What was with this country?

Starting to lose my rag, I cycled to the Tourist Information to explain the ludicrous hostel situation and asked if the lady would call the hostel to see if anyone was home. They were; I was told that if I went there immediately, someone would be waiting for me.

Nine minutes later I arrived at the hostel reception again. A further ten minutes of waiting saw my patience decrease to nothing and my desire to remove a pretty reproduction embroidery of a scene from the Bayeux Tapestry from the wall and into my possession increase tenfold. Instead, I went round to the side door and banged on it as hard as I could in frustration.

It’s not over until the fat lady sings. She didn’t on this occasion, but she did emerge slowly from a door down the corridor, not unlike the Blue Peter tortoise waking from hiberation. She silently sorted me out with a room and then sloped off back to her pit, presumably to wipe her eyes off with cotton wool and eat some lettuce.

I settled for a crap pizza and an early night after discovering Bayeux also subscribed to the 9pm Normandy Curfew, having called on two pubs “open all year round!”, according to the Tourist Information’s own guide, and finding them both shut.

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