Saturday was going to be my toughest day of the World Cup. After the Kiwi’s victory over France, I headed back to my hotel. To get back home, I’d got to get the 5:50 train from Lyon to Paris. The TGV didn’t leave Avignon early enough to get me back to Paris for my onward flight to England.
As part of the World Cup planning, Google had told me it would take 2 hours 15 minutes to drive from Avignon to Lyon, so the plan had been to get back to the hotel, grab a couple of hours’ kip and then be on the road by 3am. Arrive Lyon at 5:15am, get my train tickets and be on my way.
In Avignon, I set up my sat nav, which was telling me that it would take 4 hours to get to Lyon. I was getting twitchy. I knew then that I wouldn’t sleep. What if I overslept? The alarm didn’t go off? What if I hit traffic? Couldn’t get my train ticket in Lyon?
I’d decided then that after the Avignon match, I’d pack my bags and head off to Lyon. Better to have a couple of dull hours there, train ticket safely in my sticky palms, than to risk missing the train.
So off I set at 11:30pm. The sat nav was giving an estimated time of arrival as 3:06am. Not bad, bit of slack in the system, that’d do nicely. I found my way through town and hit the highway, as the town disappeared, so too did the street lights and I realised that I’d need full beam. Having been up since about 8am that morning, after an hour or so, it became obvious that I wouldn’t be able to drive on dipped lights for the next two or three hours. Unfortunately I’d not looked to see how I got full beam.
Pulling over on the side of the road, I fumbled in the glove box for the car manual. It struck me that I also didn’t know how to put the interior light on, so by the light of my i-pad, I just about managed to work my way through the manual and to my relief, put the lights on full beam. Simple when you know how, isn’t it?
So off I set again following my trusty sat nav. She got confused by a bit of new road, which she obviously wasn’t aware of, and then shortly after, she kept on insisting that I turn right, when the signs to Lyon clearly said go straight on. And the advice kept coming. Sat nav saying go one way, road signs clearly saying going another. My time to destination was extending. Now half three, soon four and then quarter past.
To say I was getting anxious, is something of an understatement. Finally I got to a roundabout, where she was trying to get me to do a u-turn and the signs to Lyon simply disappeared. I decided I’d better follow the sat nav lady, and turned back. At the next junction, I saw the error of my ways. A big yellow sign was pointing to Lyon one way, and a big blue one the other. I chose blue. Sat nav lady was pleased. ETA dropped back to 3:30am.
How could I possibly have doubted the sat nav lady? I was back on track and safe in her hands, until a few miles down the road, where a big, and I mean BIG sign said Lyon, right, but she wanted me to go left. I was pretty certain she was wrong, and I told her as much. I followed my nose, and was relieved to see I’d entered the toll road. Lyon was just over 80 miles away.
The motorway was empty, it was dark, it had now started to rain, and I was beyond tired. I’d got the air conditioning at full blast in the car, hoping the cold air would help to keep me awake, and I was repeatedly sticking my freezing hands down the back of my neck to make sure I didn’t nod off.
French radio was up loud and I kept shouting encouragement to myself. “Come on, just 40 minutes to go. You can do it.” My eyes were red raw from all the rubbing, but as the bright lights of Lyon came into view, driving became easier and the monotony of mile after mile of Tarmac gave way to traffic lights and roundabouts. I’d arrived in Lyon and it was half past three.
Now to top up with petrol, find the Hertz car park, drop the car off, and maybe get a coffee.
No chance!
Lyon is built on a one way system, and the main street was shut. Sat nav lady wouldn’t have it, no matter how many times I screamed at her “I can’t chuffin turn right. Rue Garibaldi is shut.”
It was now five o’clock. I’d spent an hour and a half driving round and round Lyon, looking for a petrol station to re-fill the car “You must return it with a full tank”, the guy in Avignon had told me. The address on the booking form wasn’t anything my sat nav lady could find. I knew it was in the Gare Part Dieu station car park, and having driven past a sign to the Part Dieu carpark for the fifth time, I thought I’d give it a go.
It was in a big underpass in the city centre, and I pulled off to the right to follow the signs to the car park. It was a single lane, with a big concrete wall to either side. As I got to the bottom of the road, I saw it. The shutters were down and I was at a dead end. This is where my reversing practice from when I picked the car up came into its own.
Gingerly I reversed the car up this narrow road, concrete wall on either side, and mindful of the €1000 excess waiver I’d previously declined. Eventually I reversed the car back onto the three lane highway and continued on my fruitless search. Finally I abandoned the car in a back street and walked in search of the car park. I’d found it. I’d also found the entrance, but heaven knows how I was going to get the car from where I’d left it, to here. Fortunately Henri, the concierge in the Mercure Hotel also knew. He produced a map for me and showed me how to navigate the one-way system to first find a petrol station to fill the car, and then to get to the car park.
The search for petrol was fruitless. I eventually found the station he had shown me, but it was shut, and was one I’d driven past several times already. I had to abandon that part of the deal, and stomach the bill for them refilling the car at three quid a litre.
At least I could get the car back in time. I pulled up at the car park barrier, but it didn’t lift. It was then that I realised I’d driven up the exit instead of the entrance. Again reversing back up, I soon rectified that error. This time I approach the correct barrier and still nothing. It was twenty past five now. I got out, and could see the key pad, but I had no key code. Panic. Finally I saw a help button. I was desperate, so worth a go. “Oui?”, came the voice in reply. “Oh. Bonjour. J’ai voiture a retourner for Hertz”. Not my finest moment, considering I got ‘A’ level French, but to my huge relief, the barrier rose.
I shot through, and successfully returned my car. All I got to do now, was get my train tickets. Again, I had no idea how to retrieve them, and I was starting to lose it. “Grip self, then grip the situation”, they said on my training course. I did. I saw a couple of blokes in suits, with badges. Oh joy. Couple of SNCR guys coming on shift.
Over I went, pointing at the ticket confirmation email on my i-pad, and mumbling “billet” over and over again, I implored them to provide assistance. “Oh, you want some help in printing out your tickets? No problem, we just need to find a machine. Ah there’s one over here.”
Boy oh boy, was I surprised. Turns out they weren’t train workers starting their day, but a couple of Mormons. I never thought I’d be so pleased to see a couple of them, I don’t mind admitting.
Ticket printed, and hearty handshake of thanks. Have a nice day? I will now.
The TGV from Lyon to Paris was a pleasure. It was fast, no nonsense and I managed to get a bit of shut eye. I woke with a start, the station and ten minutes before Charles de Gaulle airport. Two and a half hours after leaving Lyon, I was sat in the airport lounge waiting for my flight to Leeds-Bradford airport. I had three and a half hours to wait, but the relief I felt to be here, ready and waiting to go, was something I was more than happy to spend some time savouring.
It was a quick flight back to England, where the pilot informed us, it was misty with light rain. Quelle surprise! With the time difference, it was half 11 in England, and 13 hours after setting off from Avignon, I was back in God’s own county, and Mrs Davies was there to meet me.
In the car, after a bit of a cock up with the parking ticket. This time Mrs D was reversing back up the road. “I think you should have validated this ticket love, before we got to the barrier”, was my considered advice. Still, we were soon on our way to Huddersfield. The traffic on the approach was horrendous. I’m not the best passenger, I’ll admit, and it might be possible that I get a touch grouchy when I’m stuck in traffic on the way to the match. Finally we got parked and as the heavens opened we headed for the ground. Mrs Davies knew from experience that suggesting we might wait five minutes for it to blow over, was not a sensible suggestion. Any other time or place and I’d have agreed. But match day? Running late? Don’t think so.
I was confident that our boys could do the job, and if didn’t take long before Ryan Hall put us on our way. We had a little bit of defending to do, but by and large we had it all our own way. I could sit back and relax and enjoy the 42-0 rout of the Irish. Job done. In Avignon, the Kiwis had moved up a gear from game one and so had we.
Back in the car and over the hill to St Helens. We booked ourselves into our hotel in Widnes first. We’d be back quite late after the match, so perhaps a couple of beers from Tesco to accompany the take away we’d got planned would be in order. Pulling into Tesco, I dropped Mrs Davies off. “You go, get something, and I’ll programme the sat nav for St Helens”. The plan was for a few beers and some snacks. “Sweet or savoury?”, she asked. Eh? I’d got a four pack and a bag of peanuts in mind.
Twenty minutes later I’m racing into Tesco to find the wife. There she is, with a selection of ales that would do a beer festival proud, and enough snacks for a small buffet. “Come on! We’re gonna be late.” That tetchy side again!
There are quite a lot of bends between Widnes and St Helens, and if you don’t secure your shopping properly, there is a tendency for bottles to roll around in the boot of the car, so I’ve now discovered. Back and forth we could hear them roll. Neither of us dare speak of what we could hear. Eventually as we arrived at Langtree Park, where there is a ruddy great big Tesco store, we heard the crash. The smell confirmed our worst fears. Yep, one of those bottles of Speckled Hen had smashed. Still, there have been worse smells on this trip!
Langtree Park is a stadium I’ve only been to once. It was for the Exiles match in 2012. It lashed down, and even at the back of the stand we got soaked. For this World Cup match, it lashed down, and even at the back of the stand we got soaked. The storm was of biblical proportions. I thought I was back at the 2000 World Cup, until I realised there was a crowd in the stadium. I didn’t see many of those 13 years ago.
There was never any doubt about who the crowd were going to cheer for. “Let’s go Fiji, let’s go!”, sang the crowd. Ultimately, the Kangaroo machine, despite several changes, simply got on with the job in hand and ran out 34-2 winners. Fiji did lead at one point though, and at least they scored. More than they did when they met the Aussies in the 2008 World Cup.
So the Kiwis had stepped up, then England stepped up and now the Aussies followed them both in moving up another gear. In atrocious weather, they showed real class to control the game.
And for me? At the end of a very long day, 25 hours, all of which I’d been awake, I finally hit the sack 38 hours after I’d woken to a lovely day in Avignon.
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The Rugby League World Cup 