Paris on that Friday at the end of June had dawned to a fierce heat. It was my fifth day there, visiting with friends who live in a very gorgeous apartment in a very sophisticated area of that sumptuous city.

The previous days, as I’d sashayed about in my favourite places, the heat had been kind and the breezes balmy but on this fateful Friday I dragged myself along the boulevards to the local SNCF (French national railway) office to purchase the already internet-booked tickets for our planned journey to Pontalier.

We were to travel first class due to a complicated mixture of special offers, special class passengers and off-peak travel which rendered such a thing affordable. I queued up (sitting on a seat, the office was more like our travel agencies), and when my turn arrived I stated my case to the ticket vendor, trusted all was well, signed the cheque and strolled out into the horrendous heat.

We departed some hours later close to mid day (you know that time when mad dogs and Englishmen etc.). First, we walked along the heat-crazed pavements to the nearby metro and from there to the railway station.

French metro and train stations are notorious for their lack of escalators. After all those stairs up and stairs down through the sizzling heat I was feeling very madly disoriented even before I found myself crouching on the ground in the Gare de Lyon gaping down into the empty place in my voluminous bag where I just knew the tickets had once been.

I could feel my two friends’ gaze boring holes in me as I groped around in the overflowing bag desperately snatching time to sort through the bottomless pit of my sluggish brain for some plausible story. I stood up and not looking at anyone in particular (in truth I remember seeing the lovely arcaded shape of the lofty glass roofing of that magnificent station and the clock above waving the rapid onwards march of time) I declared, “They’re not there.” This bombshell fell 20 minutes to train take-off.

“Look again,” said one, “I asked you if you were sure you had them,” said the other. I bobbed down once again, sticking my hand into the now-hated bag giving the impression, I suppose, that there was some hope. Then something clicked and I stood up and said “Look, I know they are not there, please phone Jack and tell him they are in the poubelle (rubbish bin).”

They were the best, those dear friends. He just took out his mobile and began to address the situation. My friend, she told me that if we did not have the tickets before train take off we would lose all the ‘special’ bits about the affordability of the ticket and I gathered that it would all be quite a sensation of fuss and costliness.

Jack picked up on the third try and yes, there the three packets were, sitting on the top of the rubbish in the kitchen bin. Don’t ask, you really do not need to know how I’d manufactured that scenario. Could Jack make it?

One minute to take off he arrived bathed in sweat, to our yells of triumph. His timely arrival was an amazing feat of speed and determination and for me anyhow, even surpassed the speed achievements of the TGV itself.

We sank gratefully into the plush seats of the air-conditioned train car and settled in for three and a half hours of non-stop Vitesse to Pontalier, a wee town at the foothills of the Jura Mountains. The train gently rocked as it swept through the varying scenes of pasture, vine and faraway mountains.

My schooldays’ friends and I slipped away to perch on high stools in the Bar café and drink terrifyingly black strong coffee while we caught up on our life experiences.

We had a wonderful few days in farming countryside and the journey back by TGV was smooth. Paris was in the grip of a ferocious heat wave. I was very glad to catch the bus for the Ryan Air flight. I arrived back to an Ireland which was just about to start its own heat wave but to me it was like a gentle balm in contrast to its French cousin.

The TGV or Train a Grande Vitesse (high speed train) is the pride and joy of French transport. Its top speed can be 300 km/h and under special test conditions has reached 513 km/h.
It might sound dangerous but statistics suggest that travel by TGV is safer than airplane.

Mostly made of steel, some newer models may have aluminium body shells and magnesium seat frames. Powered by electricity, a front power car pulls whilst a rear power car pushes to achieve these travel speeds. The whole is usually manned by a staff of four, two conductors in the passenger areas collecting fares and ensuring safety, one driver and one food service worker in the Bar car.