Wilfred De’ath

There is a ‘social’ restaurant in Tours where you can get a good meal with a drink for about ten euros. I have often eaten there. Unfortunately, on this occasion, I had no money on me. But a kind old lady standing just outside, putting out a cigarette, gave me three euros. For that, I was able to eat a plate of spaghetti and mixed vegetables (mainly cauliflower). Quite nourishing, in its way.

That was about the only thing that happened to me during a night on the streets of Tours, which is an incredibly quiet, respectable French city. I spent lots of the time sitting outside a late-night café, chatting to the young waiter and waitress. They didn’t seem to mind that I didn’t order anything to eat or drink, and they kept me well supplied with glasses of water.

The station opened at 4.30am, and I watched the smartly dressed commuters pouring out of their trains – Tours is a big, affluent city – until my own train left for Caen at 9am.

Cherbourg was altogether a more raffish experience. I had only just been released by the French police, for not paying a small hotel bill (65 euros), and felt quite tired. I had no money on me.

A very big man eating outside a kebab bar, to whom I wished, ‘Bon appétit’, bought me a black coffee in return. He turned out to be a lorry driver on the Cherbourg-poole route. He said he was Irish, but he didn’t look or sound Irish.

Next door, there was a lively café/bar with a very loud, attractive Cuban band, and the waiter said he liked the English. So he, too, gave me a free coffee. A big black bouncer gave me a posh cigarette; so did somebody else. Really, this was turning into the ‘street life’ I have always imagined and craved.

Then something unpleasant happened. I had left my bags at the station, awaiting the first Paris express, and, when I went for a pee, a girl slipped out of the shadows and made off with them. I chased her down the street, shouting, ‘ Ils sont à moi’, at the top of my voice. She finally turned round and gave them back to me. She also apologised quite profusely. I think she was frightened that I might call the police, but I had had quite enough of the French police for one day.

A nice Englishman on the Paris train gave me two euros for the bus fair to Ouistreham (the port for Caen), from where I am writing this.

Absolutely nothing ever happens in Ouistreham; it is a tiny Normandy fishing village, still overwhelmed by having been selected by Brittany Ferries as their Caen port. I spent two nights on its streets – fortunately it was mild weather – and saw not a single soul. I found a small park, lay down on a bench, looked up at the stars, and opened my eyes and heart to what Camus called ‘the benign indifference of the universe’.