The day was finally here. After two years of being effectively ‘trapped’ in Europe by never-ending Covid restrictions, we were finally able to travel again. The world was slowly opening its doors, borders were creaking back into life, and we were heading to Mexico.

While a number of countries were still closed to visitors (including our native Australia, which had taken border control to an entirely new level and had, for all practical purposes, locked us out and forced us into a rather unexpected European exile — but that is a story for another time), Mexico was open. And we were very happily taking advantage of that.

The French house was ready for the summer holiday season, everything was organised, our bags were packed, and we were ready for a new adventure. Our neighbour was kindly dropping us at the station and, unlike us, seemed genuinely excited about the early morning departure.

Then came the moment every traveller knows too well — that brief window before a trip where everything is going smoothly and you start thinking, “Maybe this time it will all go according to plan.”

It never does.

There we were, standing outside the house waiting for our lift when my phone suddenly dinged.

A text message.

“Your train has been cancelled. All trains on this line have been cancelled today — debris on the track.”

Merde.

Merde indeed.

Although, if I’m honest, it was hardly a complete surprise. We had been watching the once-impressive French rail system slowly decline for years. What was once a marvel of efficiency had become a system where cancelled trains, unexplained delays and vague announcements had somehow become part of the experience. Apparently, travelling by train in France now comes with an added bonus — the excitement of not knowing whether you will actually arrive.

This is exactly why we always build flexibility into our journeys. We have one golden rule:

We never, ever book a flight on the same day we leave the house.

Never.

Ever.

Because experience has taught us that the universe has a wicked sense of humour, and it particularly enjoys ruining travel plans involving tight connections.

Our plan that day was simple enough. We needed to get to Irun on the Spanish border. The journey should have involved a train to Bordeaux and then south towards Irun.

Sounds simple, doesn’t it?

Yes.

It should have been.

But this is travel, and especially travel involving French trains, so naturally it was not.

“Right,” said AP, studying the options. “Let’s get to Souillac and take a train south to Toulouse, then across to Bordeaux that way.”

And that is exactly what we did.

What should have taken two hours ended up taking six as we detoured halfway around southwest France. The route itself was lovely, winding through the rolling countryside that makes this part of France so beautiful. Under different circumstances we would probably have appreciated it a great deal more.

Instead, we spent the journey watching the hours tick by, fully aware that every minute made it less likely we’d catch our booked connection. That’s travel. Sometimes you glide effortlessly from one destination to the next; sometimes you spend the day taking an unexpected tour of rural France simply because a train hit some debris.

By the time we reached Bordeaux, we’d missed our connection and had to settle for a slower train towards the Spanish border. It was frustrating, but after decades on the road we’ve learnt there’s no point getting worked up. The train won’t magically reappear because you’re annoyed. You sigh, mutter “Merde” under your breath, find the next available option and carry on.

So, we found ourselves on a slower train heading towards the Spanish border, watching the clock and wondering exactly how many more surprises the day had in store for us.

The answer was: at least one.

Two stops before the border, the train suddenly stopped. There was an announcement in French, followed by the conductor walking through the carriage telling everyone to get off.

End of the line.

For this train, anyway.

We found ourselves standing in the middle of the suburbs, bags in hand, looking around at the platform and trying to work out what had just happened.

Merde.

Again.

Travel has a funny way of making you feel completely capable one minute and completely incompetent the next. One moment you are confidently navigating countries and continents; the next you are standing on a random suburban platform wondering if you have somehow accidentally taken a wrong turn in life.

“Maybe a bus comes,” I suggested.

So, we wandered off to see if there was a bus stop nearby. We waited.

And waited.

No buses appeared.

No taxis were anywhere to be seen.

The platform remained strangely quiet, as if everyone else knew something we didn’t.

Eventually, a train slowly trundled past.

“Right,” I said. “Let’s go stand back on the platform and see if another one comes.”

Sometimes the best travel strategy is not complicated planning or clever solutions. Sometimes it is simply standing somewhere looking hopeful.

And, amazingly, it worked.

About fifteen minutes later, another train pulled in. We climbed aboard, and thankfully it took us exactly where we needed to go — Hendaye, on the French side of the border.

From there, it was a short tram ride across the border into Spain and onwards to our destination.

At least the final part of the journey behaved itself.

Luckily, we found a hotel close to the station, dumped our bags, and headed out on the most important mission of the day.

Mission one: find food.

Mission two: find wine.

After nearly ten hours of travel instead of the six we had planned, both were considered essential requirements rather than optional extras.

A glass of wine and some delicious tapas were exactly what we needed. The frustrations of the day slowly disappeared, replaced by that familiar feeling of finally being somewhere new.

Tomorrow we would continue onwards to Burgos.

But tonight, after a very long, frustrating and slightly ridiculous travel day, we enjoyed the moment.

Because that is the thing about travel — the disasters often become the stories you remember most.