By Any Means: His Brand New Adventure From Wicklow to Wollongong (6 page)

I sat there revving the engine and thinking that it was a pity we’d not figured it out earlier because the car was beautiful to drive. The suspension was so good that production companies used to strip these Citroëns to the chassis and use them for filming platforms.

Still, all was not lost. We had petrol now and we still had some time. I was really keen to drive into the city and brave the Arc de Triomphe as originally planned, so after backing the car off the trailer we set off again.

Paris was manic, worse than I’d ever known it. I remembered the first time I drove in the city, almost crapping myself with fright. At least this time I knew my way around. We were heading for my mum’s flat in the Rue Saint Honoré where we’d meet Daphne, my sister Telsche’s daughter. Telsche died from cancer when Daphne was only six and I always think of her when I’m travelling. She was on the bike with me on Long Way Round and again when we rode through Africa.

Daphne, who works as a translator, lives in my mum’s flat: it’s a great spot, very central, just behind the Louvre. My favourite museum, the spectacular Musée d’Orsay, isn’t far away. It used to be a station and amongst many other amazing works it houses sculptures by Rodin and Camille Claudel. Camille was Rodin’s model and then his lover. There was something about their tempestuous relationship - and the fact that she was a brilliant sculptress herself - that has always inspired me.

We made it to the apartment, met up with Daphne and grabbed a crêpe from the patisserie across the road. It was exciting to be in Paris again, soaking up the atmosphere. Time was getting on, though, so Russ and I grabbed a couple of bicycles from one of the many stands dotted around the city. It’s a great idea; you put your credit card in the slot and take a bike, and you can then cycle to any of the other stands around the city and park it up again. It’s quick and easy and of course there’s no pollution. Weaving in and out of the traffic we made our way to the Gare de l’Est.

It’s a beautiful station with its fine cobbled concourse and pillared façade. The fabulous domed entrance hall is the perfect, decadent setting for the
Orient Express
. After the motorbikes, the challenges of the Channel crossing and the car breaking down all the way to Paris, I was looking forward to a bit of rest and luxury.

The only problem was - I’d forgotten to bring any shoes. You have to dress for dinner on the
Orient Express
and I’d carefully packed my suit and black tie, but had nothing to wear on my feet except my chunky old bike boots. I couldn’t believe it. I was so unprepared for this section of the trip it was ridiculous. I’d just have to hope I wouldn’t get kicked out of the dining car.

The cars themselves are blue with white roofs, and polished till they gleam. The wood panelling in the corridors and cabins is varnished to the point where you can see your reflection. Our cabins were in car 3309, one of the two oldest and most beautifully decorated, with beautiful murals lining the walls. Built in 1926, the other of the two oldest cars had been used by King Carol of Romania. More alarmingly, some other parts of the train had been used as a brothel for occupying German officers in World War Two.

The stewards wore blue uniforms and kepi-style hats - round, flat-topped caps with a visor. The bartenders and waiters, a cosmopolitan mix of French, Italian, Serb and even Australian, worked quietly and unobtrusively, seemingly oblivious to the roll of the carriages.

My cabin was small but beautifully formed, the bed folding out ingeniously from the seat. My case was stored on a luggage rack above a panel of polished wooden cupboards, and there was a small table fitted up against the window. I felt a tingle of excitement - I couldn’t believe I was about to set off on one of the most famous and historic trips in the world. I pulled down on the window’s ancient lever and poked my head out, sucking up the sights, smells and sounds as we left Paris. Tomorrow morning I would be able to lie back and gaze at the Alps as we rolled through the countryside on our way to Venice.

Wandering along the corridor I discovered a bucket of wood and coal under a shelf just along from my cabin. A little bit of investigation revealed a cupboard housing a pot-bellied stove. I realised that the water must be heated now as it always was, by a solid fuel boiler in each sleeping car.

I dressed for dinner. I reckoned I looked all right - apart from my boots of course, which were battered and clumpy and completely at odds with the image of sartorial elegance I was hoping for. Oh well, it couldn’t be helped and I wasn’t going to let it spoil the evening. Ready to go at last, I looked for the key and couldn’t find it anywhere. I began rummaging through my clothes, the cushions, my suitcase, getting increasingly annoyed with myself. Just when I thought I’d never find the bloody thing I saw it hanging where I’d left it on a hook designed for a gentleman’s pocket watch. I sighed to myself and grabbed it. Sometimes I’m more organised than I think.

I found Russ and Mungo in the bar, already well into a bottle of champagne. I relaxed and soaked up the atmosphere, enjoying a few drinks before a fabulous dinner. That said, we didn’t actually sit down to eat until almost midnight - passengers from Paris have to wait until those who started in London have finished their meal.

When I finally got back to my cabin at two-thirty I was delighted to see that the stewards had prepared the bed while I’d been eating dinner - all I had to do was fall into it. I fell asleep to the train’s gentle swaying motion, thinking I could definitely get used to this . . .

 

I woke the next morning to find we were in Switzerland, snow settled on the ground about us. The steward brought breakfast: croissants, jams and cheese, fruit cocktail and a thermos of hot coffee. I ate leisurely, watching the world go by and thinking how lucky I was.

We stopped in Innsbruck to change engines: each train has an engine front and back and they’re changed at the border crossings. The engine is the only bit of the train that looks modern. I watched as it was uncoupled; the platform overlooked by the ski jump from the Winter Olympics. Once the new engine was in place we had a new driver: a local man from Innsbruck who’d been driving for sixteen years. He invited me onto the footplate to have a look.

I’d driven a steam train once - a sister engine to the
Mallard -
at the Watercress Line in Hampshire. It had been built in the 1930s and was powered by steam. The only resemblance here was the button the driver had to push every time he saw an orange light ahead. It was a track security system: if he didn’t hit the button within a few seconds the train would automatically shut down. He had to drive with his feet on two pedals and there was another pedal by the window. If his feet came off the pedals the train would stop. It was all to avoid disaster if he blacked out, had a heart attack or fell asleep. The train is a quarter of a mile long and driving it carries huge responsibility.

Not far out of Innsbruck we stopped and he jumped down and walked up the track. I took the opportunity to steal his seat, the fascia a mass of dials and switches, nothing like the old steam engine with its gauges and levers, its blazing hot fire-box. Moments later the driver was back. He explained that this track system had different electronics from the one we’d just been on - he had to throw a relay switch before we could continue.

He took us through lush green meadows that drifted into the snow-clad mountains, over bridges and through tunnels, past pretty little ski-towns. We rode on through the Brenner Pass to the Italian border; the same pass used by German tribes when they invaded Italy in the fifth century. At the station in Brenner our driver said goodbye, jumped down and made his way to the back of the train where he would drive the other engine back to Innsbruck.

I took some time out in my cabin to think about Venice. I’d only been there once - Olly and I had taken the kids - but it had been one of the most moving and emotional experiences of my life. One night we’d eaten dinner at a restaurant by the canal. The kids were messing about on the terrace. Looking over at my wife I saw she had a tear in her eye.

‘What is it?’ I asked her.

‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘It’s just this place. You know, Charley, today has been one of the most perfect days of my life.’

I decided to call her from the train. I told her where I was and how I wished she was with me. But Olly had other things on her mind. She’d just had some awful news - Françoise, one of our friends, had been ill for some time. The doctors had thought it was pneumonia but in fact she was suffering from a form of skin cancer. She’d just been told it was terminal. And there I was rolling into the city of canals and bridges aboard the
Orient Express
. God, it put things into perspective. Life is such a leveller; no matter what you’re doing, it never quite allows you to get carried away with yourself. Arriving at the station I was still thinking about Françoise, her husband Steve and their two children. There was nothing I could do and a sense of helplessness flooded through me.

At the Stazione Santa Lucia we said goodbye to the stewards and headed for a water taxi to transport us through this magical city, where there are no cars and everything is delivered by boat. Venice covers a hundred or so little islands dotted around a salt lagoon at the northern end of the Adriatic. We passed under bridges, gliding by some truly spectacular buildings. One house in particular stood out: an orange and white building with a tiled roof and sun terrace, twin porticos on either side built right over the water. It was a chilly day, the sky overcast and the water grey and murky; but that couldn’t dampen the spirit of old world adventure.

‘Look, there’s the Rialto,’ Russ pointed out as we came out of a smaller channel. The Ponte di Rialto, one of the most famous landmarks in Venice, is one of three bridges that span the Grand Canal. Originally a pontoon, it was replaced by a wooden bridge in 1250. The Rialto itself was completed in 1591. It’s very wide, with covered arches on each side and an open cobbled walkway in the middle.

 

We stayed the night in the Hotel Gritti Palace on the Grand Canal, a last bit of luxury before we headed for Eastern Europe. In the morning we were up early and into another taxi that took us through the smaller channels. Some of them were really narrow with very low bridges, most no more than two metres. Standing on deck we had to duck our heads each time we passed underneath. We were on our way to meet a woman called Chiara, whose brothers run a fruit and vegetable company, supplying restaurants all over the city.

The buildings seemed to crowd the boat; they’re erected on closely spaced wood piles that originally came from Russia. If there’s no oxygen wood doesn’t decay and underwater there’s no oxygen. The piles were driven into layers of sand and clay and because of that the buildings look as though they grow right out of the water. It’s an incredibly dramatic, gothic effect.

Everything is moved via the water; we saw laundry boats, yellow ambulances and the postman; we even saw an undertaker complete with coffin and flowers. Heading down one tight canal we passed a grey-haired fishmonger. He stood up when he saw us and yelled across the water.

‘Hey, Charles Boorman!’

I waved to him, not quite believing I’d been recognised by a man selling fish from his boat in the middle of Venice.

‘I read your book,’ he called out with a grin. ‘I love it. You’re number one, you and Ewan McGregor.’

The taxi dropped us at a small piazza where Chiara was waiting. She led us into a narrow side street where the buildings blocked the sun, and boxes of exotic fruit were stacked against the stone walls. I could smell lemons and strawberries, pomegranates, the finest quality oranges. Chiara introduced us to her brother Alessandro who took us into a hectic-looking shop where a dozen or so men were weighing fruit and shifting boxes. Alessandro told us they start work about three in the morning and finish around noon. They buy the produce from the main market by the station and ship it back to the shop in a big boat. There it’s sorted before being delivered to various parts of the city in smaller boats.

I went out with a driver, criss-crossing the canals; some narrow, some wide. We called at restaurants and shops, dropping off box after box of the kind of fruit that caters to the expensive palates you find here in Venice. I loved it - it was so laid-back, so beautiful: another job I wouldn’t mind doing. We’d motor down tiny canals and unload the boxes. Then we’d be back on the Grand Canal with the sun on our faces and the smell of the city in the air. It was all very different from delivering fruit and veg somewhere like London: no white-van man and no road rage either.

It was still early in the morning and none of the gondolas were out; we were part of the Venice of everyday Venetians. You don’t see many gondolas before ten a.m. Alessandro told us there is an unspoken agreement that goods and services are ferried around the city before the tourists come out. It all seemed very genteel - maybe it’s something about the water that keeps people so calm.

Dad and I had joked about gondoliering back in Ireland. He’d been a champion river punter in his day and I had threatened to fly him to Venice to show me how to do it. Gondolas have an offset keel which allows one oar to keep them going straight, and Dad told me it wasn’t any more difficult than steering a punt. Sadly, there wasn’t time for me to try, however; Mungo reminded me that we had to catch the hydrofoil across the Adriatic to Porec on the Dalmatian coast, where a couple of Croats had a car waiting for us.

It was more of a streamlined hovercraft than a hydrofoil but either way it was bloody fast: flat out on calm seas it could do forty knots. As we left Venice the captain invited us onto the bridge and I noticed he controlled the thing with the same kind of games console joystick as the ferry to Liverpool. It seemed a bit nerve-racking: we were on the canals; this was a big boat and there was a hell of a lot of traffic.