GBR Match Race Girls

Tale of an Olympic sailor’s journey from Palma to Hyeres — amidst air travel chaos due to volcanic ash and French rail strikes!

PART 1: Palma Exit strategy…

Whilst enjoying a week of maxi racing in Mallorca for The Palma Vela Regatta, on-board the 82ft Swan ‘Nikata‘, I started to realise by the Friday that I might struggle to get home.  Initially I was not too concerned, assuming things would clear up fast and too absorbed by the spectacle of maxi class racing, Mediterranean sunshine and the post race beers! My Easyjet flight booked for Monday still seemed a long way off, hence I was confident I would be Gatwick bound, ready for our training session in Weymouth come Monday afternoon.  Meanwhile, my pro-active father, holidaying in the South of Spain with his family for Easter was less optimistic and messaged me every few hours with exit strategies that involved one way hire cars, buying a car, and number of other crazy schemes.

By the penultimate day of Palma Vela it became apparent that my dad was perhaps correct (it is rare I admit this).   All Northern European airports remained closed and the stories of overbooked ferries, hire cars, trains and even taxis were worsening.  The fear of never getting off the island of Mallorca started to sweep through the other British race crews who are always keen to exit regattas quickly, (staying just long enough to enjoy the free beer at the after party, but not long enough to help with the pack up).  The Owners were also starting to fear that they would not be able to ‘jet’ back to their businesses ASAP after the final race.  On-board Nikata there was a divide between the optimists (who did not consider being marooned in sunny Palma a particularly terrible prospect) and those whose wives were threatening divorce if they didn’t hurry home, (or not to marry at all as was the case with one of our crew, due to be getting married on the Wednesday… in England!).

By Sunday morning as we headed out to the start line in a building sea breeze, the main topic of conversation on-board was not the usual debate about which jib we should use in 11 knots (our crossover), or which way we should go up the beat, but instead the discussion was centred on how we should get home. Phone calls were being made to anyone with a car, boat or plane in Europe, and prices over the 1,000 euro mark being shouted out as more and more elaborate plans were hatched.  Our exit strategies in order of preference were:

a. Fly home on our scheduled flights (looking very unlikely).

b. Fly on a private flight (looking less likely by the second).

c. Take the ferry to Barcelona, then hire a car to Cherbourg and catch the ferry to Poole (not looking good as no availability for any of these routes).

d. Hire a rib to Barcelona, take a taxi to Cherbourg and board another rib, bought over by a friend from Lymington.

e. Sail the Swan to Barcelona…. and then…. ???

One thing was becoming clear; the chances of getting home in time for a few days training in Weymouth, before returning to Hyeres by Thursday for our next Olympic Classes Regatta at Semaine Olympique Française Hyères was looking unlikely.  After some deliberation I decided to just try to get to Hyeres as quickly as possible otherwise I could end up stranded back in the UK, with Lucy and Ally already across the channel, driving towards Hyeres.

Sunday post racing:

Plan A, B, & C were no go.   There were reports of 300+ person queues at the Palma ferry port to get off the island.  There were also reports that all trains going anywhere north from the mainland were full.  Still no flights, Madrid had opened but it was impossible to buy a ticket.  We couldn’t find a rib ride off of the island, so after a swift loading of our bags from the hotel via tender (and my road bike), and a fuelling stop, we set sail for Barcelona aboard the Swan.

During our night crossing, using our navigator’s charts, I assessed the distance to Hyeres from Barcelona.  In straight lines it almost seemed possible to ride it if I couldn’t purchase a train ticket (450km in three days).  However in reality, along winding mountain roads it was unlikely I’d be able to make it and still race effectively in Hyeres!  Either way I decided the bike may come in use, so I ditched my wheelie bag and a lot of my kit, to be collected at some later date, and settled down to our night sail to Barcelona.

PART 2: The journey begins

Monday:

After a slightly anxious entrance into Barcelona’s Olympic Marina with only 0.1 under the keel, our Captain successfully delivered all home-bound crew to Spanish shores.  I waved goodbye to the rest of the crew, now boarding a taxi to Cherbourg!  Kit bag on back, cycling through my all time favourite European city in the sun I felt quite optimistic about my forthcoming adventure.

Having not visited Barcelona for a while I stopped by a group of European travellers on the roadside to enquire how to get to the train station.  Here the lead traveller, a German businessman, told me that if I was trying to get a train north it was impossible.  He’d been waiting in Barcelona for three days and couldn’t get a ticket to France.  The group were in fact waiting for a mini van to take them to Prague.  Unperturbed I cycled on towards Barcelona North Station thinking that I’d happily wait a day or two in Barcelona to get a ticket.  Perhaps I could go and visit La Sagrada Familia, do some shopping or go for a bike ride into the mountains.  The news at Barcelona North Station however halted these illusions.  I could book a TGV ticket to Marseille, but not until a week on Wednesday.   In particularly broken Spanish I did however manage to ascertain that it was possible to do the same journey using local, coastal trains.  So I set off on the bike again, this time in the direction of Barcelona Sants Station, to purchase train tickets for the scenic route to France.

If you’ve ever experienced Terminal 3 at Heathrow airport amidst plane delays during it’s busiest period, then this was the sight I encountered at Barcelona Sants.  Large signs hung all over the station saying that due to striking action there were NO TRAINS RUNNING IN FRANCE.  As a result tourists scrabbled everywhere to find an alternative route home whilst Spanish rail assistants shook their heads. There were none.  I went to join the Eurolines coach queue but after half an hour of the queue not moving and having listened to the stories of Irish, Russians, Swiss, Germans, Brits and many others who’d been stuck in Barcelona for days, I decided to opt for plan B.  I went and got a map from the tourist office, boarded a train for Figueres (35 km south of the French border) and started planning my ride along the south coast of France.

France:

I arrived at Figueres at 2pm, swiftly changed into my biking gear and headed north.  My plan was to reach Perpignan that evening (approximately 70km).  At least that way I’d be, in France, in a major town with hotels, and from there I might be able to get a bus or coach further along the coast.   What I hadn’t considered was that whilst it is a fair distance to ride, it’s a significantly longer journey when combined with near-vertical mountains.   The view was stunning but shortly after the French border I was wondering why I’d considered all of the 17kg of kit I’d loaded into my bag as essential.  As I had to stand up on my pedals, on the lowest gear, on my smallest cog, I considered ditching all toiletries, PJ’s and in fact everything except my laptop.  Eventually after riding up and down through small fishing towns I spoke to a policeman about the best route for the rest of my journey to Perpignan.  He laughed saying there was no way I would get there, pointing at the climb ahead.  I assured him it was my only option and therefore I could, but then he warned that I would need to get a bus for the last part, as it was only motorway.  I continued riding until the final small town with a bus stop, bought a coffee and waited for my 1 euro bus ride to Perpignan, due to arrive 40min later.

Two hours later I was still waiting for the 1-euro bus.  Now accompanied by a couple of old French guys that worked in the fishing town and were waiting for the bus home, and a few other locals.  The sun started to set, as did my optimism for getting to Hyeres, Perpignan, home, anywhere in fact.  My mood was darkened when I heard that flights were now taking off from Palma, and Nice airport was open, according to some friends still in Palma enjoying a Rosé with dinner!

At 7.00 pm the local tourist train came past (the miniature electric kind).  A couple of locals thought this might be their best way home and jumped on.  The old French man enquired if the driver would like to take us all and my bike to Perpignan!  Unfortunately he would not.  Things were looking bad, the town I was now stuck in did not have a hotel, nor did I recall had the others I’d passed through.  There was no sign of a bus or much life at all, other than a couple of hire cars, full with smug looking tourists who’d sped past an hour earlier (presumably some of the only tourists in Europe to have actually managed to find a hire car).

The old French guy remained optimistic that a bus would arrive, even though the last scheduled bus was at 5.25pm (it was now 7.30pm). He kept reassuring the group; another old French guy, a young, French speaking Romanian and myself, that the buses came ‘toujours, toujours’.  Another 20 minutes went past when we saw a bus coming the other way.  With a burst of enthusiasm driven by desperation the old French man jumped in front of the bus and demanded the driver to take us all to Perpignan once he’d finished his rounds.  Reluctantly the driver agreed, the Romanian (who’d spent the last hour admiring my bike), helped quickly load it into the boot and we were on our way…. Back towards Spain, back along the same route I’d just cycled!

The bus ride:

We ended up driving all the way back into Spain to the border at Portbou.  As we passed through the small coastal villages on the buses regular route we found more and more tourists stranded, standing in the street with all their luggage.  The driver took pity and allowed everyone onboard for free.  As we approached each group of lost travellers the old French man would jump out and collect all their luggage, ushering them towards the bus with great bravado.  Being the only English speaker I’d follow and explain where we were going and invite them onboard.  The driver, who despite having meant to finish work 2 hours earlier now put on a smiley face and joined in the act, standing at the front and presenting himself and his crew (us) through the microphone after each stop.

Some three hours later, having completely filled and emptied the bus twice with families and groups from all over the UK and Northern Europe – once heading south with travellers for Spain, and then back again with people trying to get north – we arrived in Perpignan.  The old man made a collection for the bus driver, now turned hero, and we all parted ways.  Again the Romanian helping me with the bike and the other old French man showing me the way to the hotel I’d luckily booked via my mum a few hours earlier. (I’d called her to book a hotel in Perpignan, worried by the number of tourists heading that way whilst on the bus.  Being a French speaker and resident in France she soon became the travel agent for other groups of English speaking travellers needing hotels on the bus!).  By midnight I was showered and in a comfy bed in old town Perpignan, now pleased that I’d decided not to ditch my PJ’s and toiletries on the ride!

Tuesday:

Despite the long journey the day before, I woke up early still anxious to get to Hyeres.  My investigation via the Internet on arrival to Perpignan had suggested that some trains were running again to Marseille.  The SNCF site (or so I could make out, bearing in mind the limitations of my French reading skills) said that Marseille station had re-opened, so I’d booked a ticket before going to bed, in hope.

After breakfast with more stranded travellers, Swiss this time, I set off on the bike towards Perpignan Station.  The sight was similar to Barcelona, just on a smaller scale, but there were some departures posted on the board, a good sign.  After 2 hours queuing and some distress as the rail assistant insisted I left my bike outside whilst I got my ticket (now my most treasured possession), I managed to board a train. Prematurely I called Lucy and Ally who were having a meeting with our coach in Weymouth (where I was meant to be), to say that all was well and I was on my way to Marseille. Half an hour later the train stopped… for good.

The display at the platform of the small station we’d arrived in (certainly not Marseille, in fact some 250 Km from it) indicated that the train would be delayed for at least 3 hours.  Following the lead of the French passengers who were quick to exit the station I realised it was unlikely there would be another train from there that day.  So back on the bike I cycled towards the next major town.

Conscious that I was missing an important meeting with the team I eventually managed to locate a café with an Internet connection (of course no wifi or ability to connect with your own computer, but all the same a computer of sorts).  I convinced the owner to let me load Skype onto the machine, and eventually joined in the team meeting via Skype… a wondrous thing!  Another town along and I found a station expecting the arrival of a stopping train service to Marseille.  The train filled quickly with everybody and anybody heading East, and an old French lady sat next to me and kindly detailed the cause of the train strike and the history of the towns we passed, in very quick French, for the entire duration of the 4 hour journey!

On arrival to Marseille Station I had no plan other than to locate food and water fast, and peel away from the old lady as I no longer had enough energy to converse or even be polite in my inadequate French.  I glanced up at the departures board, which looked bare for a major station with services still diminished extensively due to the strikes.  Like magic HYERES suddenly flashed up on the bottom of the screen, departing in twenty minutes.  I had thought I’d have to stay in Marseille and ride the 50km or so to Hyeres the next day.   It was 6.30 pm and suddenly it looked like there was every chance I could be with the rest of the British Sailing  Team in our accommodation, in Hyeres that night.  Another one and a half hour train journey later and half an hour on the bike and I was settling down to fajitas, kindly saved for me by the British Paralympic sailors from their supper.

PART 3: Hyeres:

Today Lucy and Ally arrived by van from the UK.  A little weary but unscathed, we are all well and have made it (and very economically), unlike many of the unfortunate families I met on my travels. On the bus ride alone I heard many tales of travelling nightmares.  There was the large family of Liverpuddlians travelling home from Morocco, who’d already bought 3 flights, all cancelled and were still only in southern France having spent 4 days travelling and thousands of Euros.  There was a Cornish family holidaying in Istanbul, who’d left five days ago with elaborate plans to get home via Holland.  A group of teenage Canadians had boarded the bus in Spain, with no money left and no idea as yet how to get home, and another British group who were waiting for one of their relatives to drive from Manchester to collect them in Northern Spain. I hope somehow they’ve all made it home.  For us, now the real challenge begins… Winning some races!

Wish us luck, and watch the space….. we’ll keep you updated!

Annie x