Nice Work

Because France. The cover photo is Entrevaux; a medieval city in the Alps with a citadel that I did not go to or take a picture of. Sigh.

Because France. A day like that. You know?

Today I scheduled the Train de Merveilles (“train of marvels”) which is a local journey through several alpine villages.  I’d researched it in advance; I knew if you took it Saturday mornings in autumn it offered a free audio guide in English.  And you could hop off at one station, walk or hike, go to another for lunch, etc.  But yesterday I found out the train is on hiatus until “some date” in 2025. 

There is another local train that goes north into the mountains called the Train des Pignes.  It’s not SNCF, it’s a local line, a two carriage commuter on meter gauge that runs, at best, sporadically, and from an independent station.  The blog I used to source it had a note that sometimes they substitute a bus for the train, and if they do it’s a real “buzzkill” but ask at the ticket desk.

 

I was out of the hotel while it was still dark to catch the morning run.  There was patchy cloud, it was dry and mild, with a light breeze.  I walked up Avenue Malaussena dodging vans and vendors where the Saturday Liberation food market (second largest in Nice) was being set up.

 

The ticket desk at the station was closed.  There was no kiosk to buy a ticket or instructions to buy one online.  There was a note on the window, a long explanation in French about being closed, and then, below, in English, “Take ticket on the train.”  All that was missing was “FU English.” The sign said the train would leave from track 1; there were three trains in the station but none on track 1.

 

I met a woman from Montreal with French and Canadian citizenship standing idly on the platform.  She said she didn’t understand why people were friendly in Montreal (!) and so indifferent in France.  And how you never knew if anything was going to work, or not, or run, or be rescheduled, be completely different than what was expected, or what have you.  “Because French,” she said in a lovely Quebecois drawl, and shrugged her shoulders.

 

At one point they moved some trains forwards and backwards and our two carriages rolled into track one and they were ready to board three or four minutes before departure.

 

This route is actually really lovely; although it starts out in the Nice suburbs, which are flat and character free, like Richmond, BC, as you enter the Alps the sights get much more interesting and the train is enveloped by various canyons.  It’s called the “pine” line because in the early 1900s it travelled so slowly you could apparently get off, collect pine cones, and get back on.  The rail line follows the river Var, although a local tourist leaflet said it passed the Mairole river (for which there is no Wikipedia entry…).  As you head into the mountains the terrain—pine and fir forests, rocky outcrops, granite cliffs, stony riverbeds–is deeply reminiscent of following the Fraser river north of Hope, BC.

 

As we left the densely populated coast behind the clouds set in and rain started.  I was kitted out for rain, this didn’t really bother me; I expected it.  About 45 minutes into the journey the conductor came by to sell tickets.  He spoke enough English to tell me the train wouldn’t be going to Entreveaux.  But there was a local bus that could connect at the last stop.  Doh!  But here’s the kicker: The train wasn’t going to any of the last 14 stops.  It would be a local bus.  Because France.

 

So at that point I thought Keep Calm and Carry On.  But a few stops later, as we rode into a higher elevation, fog set in.  What am I going to see and how am I going to see it in fog?  So now there was rain, fog, and the vagaries of a local bus as a connector to and from a sporadic and undependable commuter train on a day trip to a remote part of the Alps.  And that’s when I decided to just relax and take in the view (which, I should point out, what could be seen was exceptionally scenic) and then at the end of the line take the next train back.  Which, of course, was not straightforward, and involved 40 minutes in a one cheval town of Puget-Theniers where the station was boarded up and the only respite from the rain was a meagre bus shelter where one woman had her dog on the bench resulting in three adults standing exposed to the elements.  Because France I guess.  Truly, it was all a bit weird.

 

But then, eventually, we went back.  And after several hours of going north and then going south I was back in Nice.  And it was now raining in Nice.

I wound myself through the detritus of the Liberation market, remnants of cut flowers, cauliflower leaves, bits of lettuce, shaved ice, and back to the hotel where I dropped my gear.  What’s good to do in the rain?  My helpful blog assistant suggested Parc Phoenix.

 

The park is deep west, near the airport.  The gardens are tropically themed with a bird zoo of sorts and in the centre is a large greenhouse, or glass structure, like the pavilions at Toronto Zoo, with various climate zones and birds, reptiles, butterflies and whatnot, over 7,000 square meters.  Modest admission and best part it’s open every day of the year.

 

I hopped on Tram 2 and took it to the park stop.  But then I followed the entry signs and couldn’t find the entrance.  And then I met other tourists trying to find the entrance.  And then I saw a gate open, and asked a man in a suit if he spoke English, and he told me in very broken phrases that there was a wedding going on in the garden but the park staff had closed because of the storm.  He actually called it a blizzard.  I mean it rained today.  And half the park is indoors.  And they closed the venue?  Because France.

But you know what?  The rain had stopped.  And I was at the western end of the promenade, and while neither the Ligne des Pignes or Parc Phoenix were on my to do list, walking the Promenade des Anglais was.  So I did it all; starting at the airport and ending at the Port Limpia; weather was mild and lovely, despite the clouds, such a lovely urban walk.  Crowds were moderate, given it was a Saturday.  And step wise I ended up with almost 22,000; considering the morning was sitting on a train, I felt some pride.

By the time I’d finished walking, and then traipsing back to the hotel, it was early evening.  I picked up a decent selection of dinner from the Monoprix and called it a day.  Or, you know, jour.

https://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/2024/10/11/the-16-telltale-signs-you-are-more-common-than-you-think