La Rochelle - Nantes - Brest

The occasional meowing had piqued my interest all the way to Nantes and when I saw Lucie getting off, with her cat on a lead I felt i had to get an interview, which Mustek, the cat, very kindly contributed to as well. On the train I had been speaking to Mohammed, a Syrian who is now studying in France. I was uncomfortable for most of the journey, not because of anything that he was saying, but because my bum was still sore from the 60km on the bike the day before.

In Nantes I was looking, at my grandfather's behest, for a boat called Phantom that proved to be as elusive as the name suggests. Near the tourist office though I did find an amazing old camera shop, staffed by two eccentric French guys who acted like a sophiscated and subtle comedy double act. I'd left my handle for my recorder on the seat next to Mohammed, but this new tripod, which springs out like some kind of medieval torture implement when you flick it and looks a little like a light saber, is a worthy replacement.

I do get time to see the castle, an impressively solid fortification that looks as though it were almost dropped in the middle of town, complete with moat and ducks. Inside it is rather more ornate, with shining spires atop brilliant white, window filled walls. The rucksack is something of a strain, up and down all the steps of the battlements and I am sorely tempted to leave it in the parking area for prams. My train leaves soon and I am slightly disappointed to see, as I walk back towards the station, that I have missed the flower garden, less disappointed that I have not been exposed to the differently seedy delights of the various "live shows" that line the station road.

Solene and Jerome have just returned from Camden, their shopping piled beside them on another slick French train. Solene is very complimentary about London, to the extent that I feel she is being deliberately over nice to avoid offence. However, they do make an interesting point about the way in which flamboyance is better tolerated in England than over here, saying that while her pink tinted hair and piercings do not raise a single (similarly pierced) eyebrow in Camden, they mark her out as a trouble maker in France. To be honest, I am ashamed to admit that they were perhaps more reserved than I was expecting/hoping, having very much judged them by their covers so to speak. It is difficult to do otherwise, though, when one is trying to single out the stories of interest that will be willingly told.

There is certainly an odd story behind the boxer shorts and other clothes strewn across the seats in this single carriage. It does not even have a seperate engine, it is a whole train in one, very new and exciting. However, my attention is somewhat distracted by the owner of the aforementioned underwear, who is as worse for wear as I have seen someone, including dutiful efforts at university to reinforce student stereotypes. The conductor clearly wants an excuse to eject him, yet at the same time seems terrified to do so. He spends the entire journey pacing up and down, staring pointedly at the antics but saying nothing and neglecting all other duties, such as announcing where we are or checking tickets. The guy gets up and slowly makes his way to the toilet, his hoodie on upside down and back to front. After about ten minutes he makes an attempt to reemerge, but after extensive grunts, bangs and swearing he relapses into silence. A second attempt several minutes later results in him successfully bursting forth then returning to his seat to begin the extensive clearing operation required to return all his clothes to his bag. After an enthralling struggle with his hoodie I realise I must try to interview someone, perhaps cowardly feeling that the blonde haired disaster is not the best candidate. Instead I talk with Pierre, a young and idealistic French economics student, who's conversation I enjoy immensely, not least because of its uplifting optomism and desire for change. I am interested to hear the views of himself and his peers on Sarko, increasingly amazed by the French president's audaciously irresponsible behaviour.