Because I’m insane, I decided to take the train from northern England to Spain. Long hours of sitting punctuated by moments of sweaty panic. Here’s the story.
This was a bad idea.
With that thought pulsing through my addled brain, I stand staring at the wrought-iron structure of the Victorian-era Newcastle station at 6:30 in the morning. I’ve been awake for an hour or so. Sometime tonight, barring any surprises, I’ll be in Spain. Between here and there, over 1,000 miles, three high-speed trains, a subway, and a bus. Adding in time waiting or transferring between stations, and the next 14 hours are spoken for.
Why do I keep doing this to myself? The simple answer is that I’d spent the weekend with a friend in Newcastle, in northeast England (really, to eat at the incredible Allard’s, but let’s say it was to see my friend). I’d planned on heading to northern Spain afterward, but it turned out to be more difficult than I expected. The flight options were either expensive, terrible or a perfect blend of expensive and terrible.
Staring down the barrel of spending the better part of a day on planes and in airports anyway, I had the crazy idea to take the train instead. And write an article about it.
After losing £2 per second for 3 years, Virgin Trains East Coast had its franchise contract terminated by the British government, nationalizing the East Coast Main Line route for the third time in 12 years. The resulting government-owned London North Eastern Railway, barely a week old, still use Virgin’s InterCity 225s. These aging-but-comfortable high-speed electrics cruise at around 125mph. The « Flying Scotsman » route, southbound to London King’s Cross station, arrives on time. I step aboard with a bevvy of Geordie commuters and Southerners gannin yem.
I settle into my window seat. Delightfully, no one sits beside me. With no stops between here and London, I relax, write these words, and enjoy the passing of the early morning English countryside.
Thirteeen and a half hours to go…
We arrive at King’s Cross in London at 09:40, just 10 minutes late, or « on time » by National Rail standards. King’s Cross has 11 platforms, but no 9 ¾. There is a tourist trap in the waiting area where you can get a photo with a luggage trolley half-embedded in a wall and hey, if that’s your thing, go for it. I did it once at 4:30 in the morning. I’d been with friends since 7 p.m. and we had, shall we say, imbibed with significant enthusiasm. No, you can’t see the photo.
My next train leaves in a little over an hour and half from St. Pancras station, conveniently, right next door. If you make a list of the most beautiful train stations in the world, St. Pancras has got to be at the top. Soaring glass ceilings, intricate and grand designs inside and out. It imparts beauty with a sense of the grand adventure train travel once held. Public space architecture at its finest. It’s a look and feel the designers of New York’s Penn Station must have studied in the ’60s and said « we like the zoom-zoom trainy bits, but for the rest, how about the opposite? »
The Eurostar is the high-speed train line connecting, among other places, London and Paris, via the Channel Tunnel. If you’d told someone 200 years ago there’d be a 2-hour connection between these two cities, they’d have called you crazy. Also, probably, tall and having a weird accent.
Being international, the Eurostar is like a train station within a train station, completely separate from the other platforms and ticket counters. Unlike most train journeys, you have to have your baggage x-rayed, then clear UK immigration. Take a few steps, and then clear EU immigration.
The British Rail Class 374, also called the Eurostar e320, is a serious piece of tech. Over 1,300 feet or 400 meters long, and capable of transporting over 900 people at 200 mph/320 kph, they’re an updated version of the original Eurostar trains, which in turn were based on the French TGV. While other high-speed trains have surpassed these for speed, the e320s are still among the best in the world.
The seats, however, are crap. Barely any cushion, and the kind of legroom that makes my tall friends murderous.
The journey out of England goes smoothly, and after a few unceremonious minutes in darkness, we emerge in France. So far so good.
Then we stop northeast of Amiens, and I start to get nervous. This is the only section I can’t afford a delay. I’ve got only one hour to get across Paris to make my next train. Every minute counts. And we waste 15 of them sitting in the farmland north of Paris. Tick, tock. Tick…
This is going to be tricky.
I’m already sweating as I bolt from the Eurostar, literally the first one onto the platform. I pack light, but with two cameras, four lenses, laptop, batteries, all my hair products, plus clothes and stuff, my backpack weighs 37 pounds. Running is not an option, but I do a sort of awkward jog down the platform into the station proper.
The Paris subway from above resembles cooked spaghetti dropped on an Art Nouveau floor. It’s one of the largest and densest metro systems in the world. It’s also, inconveniently, in Paris. Now I’ve spent a lot of time in France, and in every corner that I’ve visited, the people are lovely. Parisians, even to other French people, are… let’s say impatient. Since my French barely goes beyond the » Je m’appele, Robert » I remember from high school, that goes double for me. Not least because my name isn’t Robert.
Fortunately, the signs are easy to read: « M » for Metro. I get a ticket from the closest machine and hoof it down the corridor to the platform.
Line 4 connects the two stations I need: Gare de Nord (literally « North Station, » where I am) and Montparnasse (Parnasse Mountain? Hey, this French stuff isn’t too hard. Tres bon, Robert). Only a handful of metro lines in the world have what this one does: rubber tires. With the car’s windows open, it’s eerily quiet. Instead of the usual metal-on-metal squeal, there’s just a high-pitched whir. Rubber train tires offer several other benefits, including faster acceleration and deceleration, which is quite noticeable as standing occupants jostle to and fro, grasping for the nearest handle. It’s the Corvette of the subway world. Except they cost millions of euros each, so maybe Bugatti Veyron of the subway world is more accurate. The downside is dust. Black rubber dust, which gives the Paris Metro its distinct odor and grime.
Checking the time every 30 seconds doesn’t seem to help. I’m telling myself it will be fine. It will be fine. It will be fine. Shockingly, that’s not helping either.
Google says Montparnasse is 20 minutes from Gare du Nord, but this is adorably misleading. That’s platform to platform. You need to get to the platform, then from the platform. It’s several minutes’ walk from the main Gare du Nord Eurostar arrivals, so I don’t get on the subway until 15:08. Sure enough, 20 minutes later I eject myself into Montparnasse-Bienvenüe station and do my waddle-jog, dodging Parisians and tourists who seem intent on walking as slow as possible, eight abreast.
Then there’s a flight of stairs. And an escalator. And — oh come on — a moving walkway at least 1,000 meters long, then another flight of stars and three more escalators. By this time, I’m pretty sure I’m going to blow out another artery. Why not? — I seem to have them to spare. I stare longingly at the passing pâtisseries, but I only have enough time to glance at the board to find of course my train is at the other end of the station. Finally getting there, I pause for some photos at the rear of the train, and then start walking. And walking. And walking. My train is actually two TGVs coupled together, and my car is second from the last. Of the other half.
Sweating, wheezing, and cursing my ridiculous ideas, I arrive in my seat with less than 4 minutes to spare.
