Twenty-three Miles with Knowledge the Sea is Above

The last time I took the train to the continent, it left from my old patch of London around Waterloo. The incongruity of The Cut being linked to central Paris always helped counter any special sense of occasion when travelling. That the Eurostar terminal itself seemed a minor afterthought, a last minute amendment to the daily bustle of the station, only heightened the feeling of it being nothing other than a standard commute.

A decade on, the train departs from St. Pancras. Everything is different. St. Pancras is glorious. Somewhat unfinished, ridiculously vulnerable to terrorism, but glorious. Albionic soil sanctified by the myth of Boudica’s blood provides the perfect site for one of the land’s most amazing Victorian architectural temples. With its gigantic bronze lovers and the statue of Betjeman, it even has its own embracing gods and English saint. Just being there feels momentous. You cannot help but be awed by the manipulation of glass, steel and stone to create practical beauty.

In the old days the train rolled lazily through London and Kent with little sense of urgency. Now we push out of St. Pancras, pause for a second to glimpse the canal beside us and then sprint. Accelerate through tunnels and wide concrete valleys with disorientating speed. When we emerge to recognisable landmarks, we are already hurtling passed the back of Fords and the A13. Moments later the train powers under the QE2 bridge having shed both London and Essex for Kent in less than eight minutes.

The garden if England becomes a dull grey smudge of daylight experienced before entering the Channel tunnel darkness. I travel for twenty-two miles with knowledge the sea is above me and nothing to see from the window except my own reflection staring back. At this point, I recognise the most altered thing about this trip is me. From the cellular level up, I am a changed man from the last time I passed through this analogue of the underworld. Weigh my soul, forgive all hurts. Let me leave the night and set my face to the ecstasy of the sun.

Shooting out of the other end, at first France looks little different to Kent. A countryside of concrete scars, dull brown ploughed fields and bleached vegetation – withered and ragged in its obvious retreat from winter – offers an exercise in Northern European commonality. We move too fast to see any signage where the world is rerendered by the French language. The only early, obvious visual clue of being outside England comes from the over elaborate latticework of electricity transmission towers.

Compared to the standard English tower with its iconic, elegant simplicity, the horned, broad-shouldered French versions look like metal devils. Angled demons emanating the hum of 110 kV. An altered design for something so standard my brain usually tunes it out, serves to reignite my awareness of the intricate power line network spanning the land. Electricity as the thin crust modern civilization is built on.

When we hit Lille-Europe, I jump cut the watch forward an hour. My iPod providing coincidence with The Diodes’ Time Damage. ‘I lost three hours when I blinked today …’

Les Arcenaulx

Dining in good restaurants in France can be tricky. There are rituals to be observed, menus littered with untranslatable phrases to navigate. On top of this, there is the food.

Much modern French cuisine is ruined by one extra ingredient syndrome. Think of a plate of great food, perfectly balanced and deep with flavour and then overload it to point of collapse with one more thing. Even worse, like a vast raft of food served at English dining establishments, French fare is often burdened by more pretension than is even seen in an aspiring poet haunting the Left Bank.

However, tonight at Les Arcenaulx, I enjoyed one best meals of my life. The food was delicious, the setting joyous. A former 16th Century arsenal, restored to make the most of its high stone ceilings and beams. Good linen, candles, elegant leather chairs. Gilt mirrors and just the right amount of greenery. A smattering of antique artefacts. An air of luxury without descending towards ostentation.

The exposed stone walls are backdrop to more bookcases than you would find in the average small town library. One of the pleasure of Les Arcenaulx is there are books everywhere you look. Shelves heave with battered, resilient hardbacks that share space alongside graceful paperbacks and leather-bound tomes. Harmonic collections in each case mix the new and old, obscure and commonplace – just as you want a great menu to do. As an author I have never felt more at home in a restaurant. The fact it is called ‘The Arsenal’ just added an extra layer of delightful personal appropriateness.

To honour one of my grandfather’s last wishes, we have Dubonnet as an apéritif. Then the food starts. It is triumphant. Artichokes cooked with white wine and bacon, fish soup. The most perfect beefsteak. Every dish delivers fantastic taste by starting with good seasonal, local ingredients, cooked with flair and bone-deep skill. By the time my Essex accent mangled the phrase ‘L’addition, s’il vous plaît’, both my body and soul felt nourished.

We left Les Arcenaulx before its usual cast of actors, academics and politicians arrived. Drifting in Vieux Port as sunset approached, there was no problem more pressing than what flavour gelato to buy. If there is one lesson, one reflection for the fading week it is this: you celebrate your ancestors best not by trying to remember them, but by living your life well. Tonight, I feel as if I did that.