Our day started reasonably calmly with time for breakfast before we took our farewell from Callum, our friendly hotel manager from Norfolk, and went out to look for a taxi. Callum has told us the day before there was no need to book one as there were always loads on the rank just a couple of steps away on the main road …but there weren’t. Only one on the other side of the road dropping off a fare and turning round for his next one ..which wasn’t going to be us. Local son had told us the direction of the station and that it was only a short walk.

So that’s what we did. It was dry and sunny albeit a bit nippy but good exercise after all the weekend food not to mention Dublin! At the station the lifts were working again so we managed to cross to our platform with the minimum of effort.

A direct train to St Pancras International and we were soon threading our way through the morning crowd up the escalators to the main concourse. Finding the Eurostar check-in was easy, just follow the crowd which became hordes by the desks. Spotting the walking stick a member of staff lifted a tape and we had jumped our first queue of the day. The signs said 10.31 to Paris. Please note the departure time!

Then there was the pressurised rigmarole of automatic passport control. Yet again I got through easily but Mr McGregor had two cracks at it. The baggage check went better and he could take his stick through the scanner. But trying to empty the trays of our stuff while a mechanised voice repeated ‘stack up your trays,please, stack up your trays please…’ I wanted to shout ‘I’m doing my best here’ as I heaved both our cases off the conveyor belt and made sure himself had all his bits back.

The departure space beyond was absolutely rammed with people so no chance for a quiet coffee and sit down. We began watching the board for the platform number to come up. Finally, number 9, 10.31 Paris.

There was a mass movement towards the moving walkway and I went in front, bad idea. The suitcase of the lady ahead of me began to slide backwards as the walkway rose. I twisted mine to stop it doing the same and turned to warn Lou. Too late, he was gently falling back into the people and luggage behind him. Not a complete spill fortunately.

Then we hoofed up the platform for coach 13 (note the number, unlucky for some). The usual wait to get on and then wrestle the bags into place. Our seats were at the far end of the carriage.. and two people were in them. I opened my ticket as did the chap nearest to me did. I am on the right train, he said, 10.31, yours is 11.31. Oh, bum! And it was almost that time! So back up the carriage apologising to passengers coming the other way with a confused husband behind me, grabbing the suitcases and getting off the train as quickly as we could.

Then we sauntered nonchalantly (!) back along the platform. A very kind guard asked what the problem was, schoolgirl error, I replied. It happens a lot, he said reassuringly and led us to a lift (that stick!) that slowly took us back down to the departure area, I hesitate to call it a lounge!

It wasn’t quite so crowded now as two trains had left together, ours (sic) and Amsterdam. I found us some priority seats decorated with a wheelchair logo, man with stick and pregnant lady. I sat down too. I needed it!

Mr McGregor asked how come I got it wrong, ignoring the fact that he had his ticket with the same information on it as mine. I can only think I got check-in time (an hour before) stuck in my brain. Hey ho. Now we had time to buy sandwiches for our lunch and I could try and calm down.

A repeat of what had gone before but platform 7 this time and we both clung to the handrail and our cases on the moving walkway. No one in our seats and a speedy journey to Paris (21 minutes in the dark of the tunnel!).

At Gare du Nord we trundled towards the taxi rank when suddenly a tall man pointed at me, asked if we wanted a taxi and walked away from the rank towards the road outside. I felt uncomfy and Lou was asking what was going on. The chap turned to me and said I look worried, what was wrong. In turn I asked why we weren’t over by the rank. There’s a queue, he said, there’s my car just there, only 65 euros. Stuff that, I thought, turning round and walking away. Scam or potential mugger?

There was a very long queue snaking around the waiting area by the rank with two big guys sporting security on their uniform shoulder pads and a smaller SNCF chap. He saw us walking towards him and told me to come to him and then pointed to the third taxi on the rank and said it was ours! Must have been that stick again! We had a young driver who chatted cheerfully as we crossed Paris to Austerlitz and only charged us 18.30 euros. He got 25! 😊