A NEW SORT OF HOLIDAY

Hokitika Guardian, 10 June 1922, Page 4

A NEW SORT OF HOLIDAY

SEEING FRANCE FROM THE SUD-EXRRESS. PARIS, April 1 10. . “Take a trip in the Suil-Exprcss, a holiday and an education in itself,’’ said niy travelled friend in Paris, when 1 told him T was at a. loose end for Easter. “A holiday in a train?” I said, surprised.. “Why not? A wonderful train, Like seeing P'ranct from your private car. The best hotel in the world on wheels. Twenty-six hours of it .if you go through to Madrid, with all the comforts the salt of the earth who travel! demand; pleasant, cosmopolitan, ideaful company; TOO miles panorama of fair France by day. a.nd when you awake next morning the colour and change of the northern Spanish landscape to refresh your eye. Try it for areal soothing rest.” Rather dubious about the experiment T found myself at the Quni d’Orsny station in Paris the other day, looking a.t a long lino of big, brown coaches, each of which magnificently announced in polished brass fetters, “Compngnie Internationale dos Wngons-Lts et des Grands Express Europeans.” This was niv holiday train, and the romance of the journey was summarised on a little white board on each coach bearing in rod letters the inscription:

SCO-EXPRESS. PA R T S-ROR T)E A UX-TTEXD AYE - MADRID.

Oi'i' soon observed that this train, which daily performs the 000-miles journey linking the French and Spanish enptials. is a train with a “personality.” T watched the passengers arrive, always an interesting study in an international train. Here were wealthy French and English sun-seek-ers, bound for the r .Muring resorts of the Pyrenees; here came busy captains of commerce on hurried .inuni to Madrid, with typists or secretaries; there an opulent-looking Spanish family; one member carrying a canary in a cage; and, as we were about to start, a member of our House of Cords strolled fpiictly up carrying a bundle of French papers and stepped up as the train began to move. A BEAUTIFUL HESSIAN.

At 10.2 J) a.in. sharp we are away, ami soon wo are doing a steady 35 miles an hour along tile lovely valley of tin* Loire. Before we roach Orleans there lias been time to em'arge one’s mental “Who’s Who” of our little coxmopolitan company. A beautifully dressed woman, smoking an Egyptian cigarette and reading a French novel of love is, I find, a Russian on the way to Spain. She talks to me sadly, but enthusiastically of Moscow, which I also know, and hopes Russia will he herself again in ten years. (I learn later that she is refused admission to Spain). On the other side of the ear is the wife of an Indian administrator, oil the way to join her husband at Biarritz, and much cotwerned about her golf handicap. She reads her Times for news id India, and borrows my Continental Daily Mail to see if there is any news of Biarritz. An American hanker peers through In’s horn-rimmed spectacles at a French honeymoon couple on the opposite seat. The Spanish family (and their inliary) are conversing rapidly with a relative from the Argentine, [fi one of the reserved compartments a. business man going to Algeciras is dictating eorresjiondence to his typist. Two girls from Paris with their mother, sit quietly reading novels. There is an English tourist, rather restless with Baedeker and map. He beeps rising to watch the panorama of France at both sides of the train. After Orleans we lake luncheon, I lie while we glide smoothly through the sweetly fascinating land of historic castles towards Tours. An appetising three-course luncheon, with chee-e and fruit added, costs 15 francs (f>s Id). There are flowers oil thedittle tables of the comfortable restaurant. ••which. ; with its rod carpel, while ceiling, and mahogany fittings is a place in which . one would linger were pot other liungrv people waiting. j HISTORIC POITIERS. 1 Already I have learned that my friend was right when lie said this trip was an edmatimi. Here is historic Poitiers with iis frowning fortifications and the English tourist, a scholarly fellow, is dipping deep into its history on my heliolf. Already, too. I have i settled the problem of India with niv couni ry woman who has silent so manv years of exile there; while the American hanker has “put me wise” about the problem of international exchanges. I find another passenger is a well-known motoring man from I.ondon. lie points out to m«* a great broad highway which keeps running up to meet our track. "The T’arisRorilentix road.” lie says, “What a tale it could tell of motoring history!” And he speaks of the famous motor trials it has seen.

Tie is going to Bordeaux, and I askwhy he does not travel by motor-ear. “What?’ he says, “could he better than this:-” waving a hand to indicate the eoinloit and luxury of the Rud-Ex press. “Motoring is all very well for crosscountry journeys; hut I’m for the train all th(> time for long journeys. Some folks say they don't like train travel. Wlmt’s the matter with this? All that’s missing is hrdlrooni and orchestra and they’ll come along vet.” We' conic to Bordeaux, the southern metropolis. JSfifi miles from I’aris, in 8 hours to the minute. What extraordinary good time these trains keep!

MILES OF PINES

Tlie countryside is changing now. We pass on the left of the groat Bordeaux wireless station, which daily sends its messages through the ether to the ends of the world; and then our track becomes an avenue through mile after mile of pine forest, a heavy, silent country recalling Pulaiul. Each tree has attached to its trunk, about, a yard from the ground, a tiny cup into which spills the life sap. “Every tree is earning its living. That’s turpentine” says my motoring friend.

Beyond the pines and between tlioin and till' TJay of Biscay lies the mysterious l.nndos country, wlicro the Landais shepherds walk tie sandy acres on stilts. Darkness is falling now. and the dinner call is heard. For Id francs nonin one gets soup, fish, chicken, ice cream cheese and fruit. With half a hottie of nice white wine the bill comes to I l '-* francs (Os (id). Darkness has arrived as we make Pax a place 1 shall remember for its porter with the loudest voice in the world. Thq clatter of goods trains, the shrieking of whistles, the myriad noises of the station, could not subdue his reverberant tones. There are many partings here. People hound for Pan, or Lourdes, or other lovely spots of the Pyrenees chain leave the Sad-Express. T. too descend, and, with regret watch the train now looking like a rdow-worm with its blaze of electric light, steal away into the Basque country, home of that strange, industrious, long-nos-ed people who remain: a puzzle to the ethnologist. My friend in Paris was 1 right. What a crowded, happy, un»

usual day I have spent—interesting people, interesting talk, interesting places, and av’l' the comforts of a metropolitan hotel. After Biarritz, and' the frontier town of Trim, the Still-Express traveller will retire to their comfortable beds, awakening to find themselves in a new and colourful country, and .no doubt, the famous train will steam into the Nord Station. Madrid, punctually as usual, with all the majesty of achievement.