Ruinair. Paul Kilduff
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providing cheap flights to all five corners of France is the last remaining battle yet to be fought. The French countryside is a clichéd patchwork of manicured fields and dense forests but, as widely rumoured, Beauvais airport terminal is a tent. The Departures end has white metal walls and a canvas top which flutters nicely in the soft breeze. This may be the only airport in the world at risk of being closed in the event of high winds, not because aircraft are unable to land, but because the airport blew away. The runway is so basic that the pilot has to execute a u-turn and come back the same way, only to stop as a tiny two-seater Piper aircraft comes across in front. We disembark as the ground staff place a sign saying Dublin on the tarmac for those taking the return trip. It’s unnecessary because there are only two aircraft in the entire airport and all 189 passengers are not going to fit into that Piper. Twenty paces later and we are inside the terminal. Ten more paces and through passport control. Ten more paces to the WC or the baggage carousel, whichever is deemed more urgent. Ten paces to outside. Paris Beauvais airport is closer to the city of Amiens than it is to the French capital, but who would fly to Amiens?
Paris is the world’s top destination for tourists but it ranks as only the world’s 53rd friendliest city. I admit I have never warmed to the Parisians. They are so annoyingly arrogant about everything. Most locals in any European capital will take the chance to speak a few words of English but Parisians wouldn’t lower themselves. If you have dinner in Paris, the locals excel. They instantly recognise the best dishes on the menu and ask the sommelier if he knows which side of the hill the Pinot Noir grapes were grown on. As you dine on the finest food, they will find something to criticise. And all this from a nation who gladly dine on horses, snails and frogs. And every two years we dare to visit them at Stade de France when their brutal rugby team administers a regular thrashing to our brave boys in green (we have won once in 35 years). The only redeeming feature about the French in general is that they cannot manufacture a decent motor car for love or money. P.G. Wodehouse conceded that the French invented the only known cure for dandruff, called the Guillotine.
There is a bus to Paris but the fare costs more than the flight and the duration of the bus journey is longer than the duration of the flight. I could hire a car today but I have seen too much of Parisian driving skills to risk that option. When you buy a new car in Paris you must go out on the first day with a claw hammer and knock lots of dents and holes in the side of the car, because if you don’t, some other lunatic driver will do it for you in a 2CV the next day. I enquire at the airport information desk about taking a local bus into the town.
One of the girls points outside. ‘Voila, ze bus.’
I almost get on the bus but I check first. ‘To Beauvais?’
She shakes her head. ‘Non. A Paris.’
I stand my ground. ‘I want to go to Beauvais.’
She turns to her colleague. ‘Il veut aller a Beauvais.’ Incredulity. They stare as if I’m on day release.
I persevere. ‘The bus?’
Much shaking of heads. ‘No bus. Rien.’
I’m sure there’s a bus. ‘Not on a Sunday?’ I ask.
‘Jamais, jamais. Taxi.’
Beauvais is the capital of the Oise region of Picardy and has 60,000 inhabitants. The Hotel le Chenal is in the town centre. It’s not a three-star hotel, it’s the three-star hotel. I once stayed in a two-star hotel but I broke out into a rash at the lack of stars, and I once stayed in a hotel where the maid did not fold the toilet roll into a nice point daily so I checked out immediately. This hotel offers typical French hospitality. It takes me ten minutes to convince the duty manager I have a reservation, not that I want to make one. He fumes behind the counter and utters his first words of a genuine French welcome. ‘You pay me eighty euro now.’ It’s fairly quiet here. If ten more guests check in, that’ll make eleven in all.
The manager asks me if I want breakfast. I tell him that it’s the most important meal of the day and of course I do, since I have paid for it, but then I realise he’s only determining if he needs to employ a chef. My room overlooks the train station. There are exotic lights outside which change from red to amber to green and back. The bath is diamond-shaped, too big for one. I saw the same bath in a documentary I was forced to watch on a brothel in the Nevada desert. I accidentally stumble upon filth on the TV. Channel 17 features Priscilla upon a chaise longue, who has a compulsion to slowly undress. I am shocked. This sort of stuff should only be shown on pay TV. After her comes Natalia. Then Eva. Olga. Maria. Claudia. Etc.
The history of Beauvais is as potted as shrimps. In 1357 a peasant revolt began here, the Jacquerie. History shows me that the peasants are always revolting: poor dental hygiene, inappropriate dress sense and a lack of proper table manners are endemic. Beauvais’s main products are blankets, carpets, ceramic tiles, brushes, bricks, chemicals, felt and tractors. Beauvais’s only famous citizen is a lady named Jeanne Hachette. In 1472 the Duke of Burgundy laid siege to the town and all was lost until Jeanne killed an enemy soldier with an axe, tore down his Burgundy flag and rallied the troops. Her statue lies in the main town square and she is good-looking and well-built, in a bronze-casting sort of way. Her achievements are celebrated every October with a procession through the town where the women take precedence over the men. This day must be especially difficult for the French male.
The city centre was destroyed by WWII bombardments so the buildings are new but still ugly. I stroll along the main street, Rue Carnot, where there are estate agents who have perfected the pricing of houses to an amazing science, their windows displaying exact prices such as €183,564 and €242,973. I immediately stick out in the streets because I am the only person not carrying a huge baguette as if I plan to mug someone with it. I use my excellent command of French to buy my own baguette for lunch, and also largely for self-protection. A few people stop me to ask me questions. Do I look like I know about metered car parking and the one-way system?
The Cathedral of Saint-Pierre is a spectacular disaster. It was begun in 1225 and was to be the largest cathedral in Europe but its vaults collapsed in 1272. The French builders had another go soon after and built a 128-metre spire but this collapsed in 1284. Today it’s a stub of a cathedral, having a chapel, a choir and a transept, and there’s another church where the nave should be located. The cathedral’s astronomical clock required the co-ordinated assembly in the 1860s of 90,000 different parts, surely a feat only equalled by the average irate IKEA flat-pack customer. If this clock had been assembled in Ireland, we would have many pieces left, surplus to requirements. These would be discarded on the sly as a workman looks at his trusty Casio watch and announces, ‘Sure, it’s keeping good time, like.’ I stare at the clock for some time and realise it’s completely useless. I cannot tell the time by looking at the face.
There is a Son et Lumiére show but there’s quite a crowd here so I buy a ticket in good time. There are 100 chairs with headsets in front of the clock and I get a great seat in the front. The crowds thin as the show starts. No one else bought a ticket. The lights go up and people walk over to gawk but the area is roped off to stop freeloaders. They see me sitting on my own and maybe they can see a corner of the clock. The narrator in my headset begins an explanation, in much detail, of the first of the fifty-two different clock faces. The onlookers start taking photographs, the oldies with cameras and the young with mobile phones. I don’t know whether they photograph me or the clock but they send the photograph back to their mates. ‘This is the one guy who bought the ticket to watch that crap clock show in that half-built church.’ Towards the end of the show various wooden religious figures repeatedly move around the clock on wooden runners but, like BBC chat show hosts, there are few moving parts. The angels wave their arms about a bit and Jesus gives me a nod and a wink a few times. I’m not that impressed. I bet this happens every time.
I am not a huge fan of museums, especially the Imperial War Museum in London, which contains the three worst words in the English language, but the National Tapestry Museum is a top attraction. The huge carpets should be underfoot rather than on walls. Some of the tapestries took five years to make. My mother used to have a Singer like that. I walk the town in the evening