Speed reading on a speedy train (France)

Colette’s always trying to make sure I’m well looked after.  On one of my trips to the farm, she suggested I go via Toulouse (instead of Agen), stay the night with her mother’s godma so that I could see a bit of the city, then she’d fly in the following evening after work, and we could go to the farm together the next day.

I was going by train, and precise meeting arrangements were made and very clear instructions given:  there were two different exits, and I was to walk across to the farther one where Jeanette’s godma and her husband would be waiting for me, dressed in British colours (dark blue and red), holding a British magazine in their hand.

I’d had a quick glance at my ticket when checking the train number and time of departure, so only had a fleeting glimpse of the name of the train station in Toulouse, which I saw started with M.  (For those who don't already know and are curious, it is Matabiau.)

After something like five hours on the TGV, comfortable though the journey had been and much as I love train journeys, I was ready for Toulouse, so when the train pulled into a station with a name that started with M, I grabbed my bag and leapt off, even though a quick check of my watch told me that it was about 20 minutes earlier than the scheduled arrival time.  Something at the back of my mind told me that the TGV might be fast but they’re not supposed to be that fast and arrive that early.  I should’ve listened to that warning bell.

Within five seconds of stepping off the train, I realised my mistake because the train station did not look anything like the description given by Monsieur Bernard, the godma’s husband.  I turned round to jump back on, but it was already pulling out of the station.

OK, first thing to do: ring Monsieur Bernard to let them know I won’t be on that train.  Wrong coins.  I have the old French franc ones, but a very kind bloke at the station (eastern European, I felt he was) gives me some of his own.  I get Monsieur Bernard’s answering machine.  Ah, they’ll have left for the train station.  Oh dear.  Oh well, can’t do anything about it now. 

Left the message, then thought, “Maybe I could try and make my own way there by another means, since the next train isn’t for another hour.”

At the entrance was a young couple, in their 20s.  When I asked them if I could get a taxi to Toulouse, their sharp intake of breath told me it wouldn’t be a wise move.  Then the pieces started to fall more into place:  a TGV distance of 20 minutes would be a very long way.  A taxi would cost the earth.  So I sat in the station bar and sampled some French bottled beer for an hour until the next train.

To this day, any mention of the name Montauban would bring back vivid memories of that careless hasty move.