“Why do you go away? So that you can come back. So that you can see the place you came from with new eyes and extra colours. And the people there see you differently, too. Coming back to where you started is not the same as never leaving.”
– Terry Pratchett, ‘A Hat Full of Sky’
You know those places that you sort of know and have a strong opinion about, but you don’t actually know them? Well, Rouen has always been one of those for me. I’ve driven past it on the motorway a million times as we’ve headed down to Uzès. I’ve been irretrievably (and inexplicably) lost in it a couple of times*, I’ve driven through it in a van on the verge of breaking down, having a huge argument with my ex**, and I’ve driven through a bit of it while completely unable to either a) see properly or b) find anywhere to stop***. So I had opinions about it. They weren’t particularly good opinions, if I’m honest.
* Rouen has, all all cities do, a range of different suburbs on it’s outer edges, each of which has its own character, and each of which I’m sure is completely lovely. Apart from Sotteville. Sotteville has cult status within our family. Because Sotteville is incredibly easy to enter, sometimes even accidentally. But, once you’ve passed over its threshold, there is no exit. It’s entirely possible that my body is still circling Sotteville in some never ending loop and all of the stories I’ve told you about places I’ve been and things I’ve seen are just figments of my imagination, dreams of a world outside of the eternal hell that is Sotteville.
** I once hired a transit van to move my ex parents-in-law out to Spain, where they decided to live for a couple of years. We did this three days before my first year exams at Uni were due to begin. We got off to a bad start when I discovered three days before we were due to leave that my passport had expired … I had to drive over to Peterborough and stand in line for about four hours before paying an extortionate amount for express processing. The van we hired was from a local firm who shall remain nameless, mostly because I’m a true believer in the phrase “if you can’t say anything nice, try not to say anything at all”. We discovered, having loaded the van to the gunnels with furniture and driven about fifty miles down the road, that the heater (and the associated fan) in the van was stuck on full. Which would probably have been fine if we were only driving locally, but we were trying to move a van full of belongings out to Alicante, a location that had been chosen because of its year-round heat. It was a fun trip. On top of the jungle-like temperatures, the van’s alternator also failed us on the way through the Cevennes on the way home. We dutifully stopped and phoned our breakdown company, only to be informed that, because we had the audacity to break down on the motorway, we had to phone the French police and deal with the garage that they sent out. I did. They dispatched a mechanic to pick us up who was particularly French, and who would only communicate with my ex, despite the fact that I was the only one of us who spoke French. He kept the van overnight, we collected it in the morning and all was (I thought) well. Later that day, we managed to get caught up in and stopped in a random customs operation in the middle of the country. The policemen would also only speak to my ex, who (weirdly enough) had not magically learned any French overnight. They stripped the very large van, including the plywood panels bolted to its interior and were slightly confused that the only things we had were two small suitcases, a crate of oranges picked from the in-laws new garden and a five litre bottle of olive oil (back in the days when it was considerably cheaper on the continent). They would have been considerably less confused had they listened to my explanation about moving furniture out to Spain, but they wouldn’t, so they remained confused. When we finally got moving again, we discovered that the previous night’s mechanic had not, as he promised (and as he’d charged us for), replaced the alternator, he had merely charged the battery. So, with dusk falling rapidly, and Rouen approaching, the alternator was yet again dying on us. I was determined that we would not be breaking down in the city centre so we were unable to switch on anything electric (apart from the heater that was still pumping out superheated air), including headlights. It was only dusk, we were pushing it, but it wasn’t illegal yet! One very large city and its associated one-way system later, my ex and I were no longer speaking to each other, the alternator was still not working and we had re-joined the motorway. When it finally got too dark, I insisted that we pulled off the motorway to break down in a part of the world where the breakdown insurance would be allowed. We did, the van duly broke down and the ex rang the breakdown people. Who said they would organise a local garage and we would have to stay overnight while they fixed it. At which point, I lost the plot. I rang the breakdown people back and explained (very calmly) that I had exams the next day and they needed to send a tow truck. They claimed that was not their policy. I explained that I had had a very bad couple of days and that I would not be getting off the phone until they organised a tow truck to get us all the way home … AND IF THAT MEANT I WAS ON THE PHONE FOR MULTIPLE DAYS, THAT WAS ABSOLUTELY OK WITH ME. They sent a tow truck.
*** The last time I ended up in Rouen, I was returning from Uzès with my friend Sal. We’d had a great time despite the heatwave (the temperature was about 42 degrees at this point). Sal doesn’t like driving abroad, so I was behind the wheel. Which was fine, but the French had, in their infinite wisdom, closed a whole section of motorway and hadn’t provided Deviation signs. We ended up in the very centre of Rouen, which has a complicated one-way system, and it was then that my stupid brain decided that what my day needed was a rapid onset migraine. Driving in Rouen is interesting at the best of times. Driving in Rouen with a psychedelic dazzle floating in front of your eyes is …. let’s just say ‘not fun’ and leave it at that! Migraleve is a wonderful thing.
Anyway, back to the present. My sister and I are on a self-imposed mission to watch a hockey match in all of the UK rinks in which NIHL and EIHL teams play. We’ve managed about half of them at the moment and really should be concentrating on crossing a few more off. But somehow, we’ve also managed to instigate a side mission of watching hockey in all of the French rinks, out of which Ligue Magnus teams play. I’m not entirely sure how this happened. But it did. So now we must comply. It’s only reasonable. We support the Ducs D’Angers (because Jonathan Paredes was the Nottingham coach in the year when everything went horribly wrong and he was brilliant), so obviously we wanted to get to Angers first. Unfortunately, the French league only play games on Fridays and Sundays, neither of which are going to make life particularly easy when I have to be at school on Fridays and Mondays. So as there was a pre-season match in Rouen between the Ducs and the Dragons de Rouen last weekend, we decided that we would go. And if we were going, we might as well spend a couple of days there to allow us to really get to now the city. Plans were afoot.
Time off: check (Ali, not me).
Ferry: check.
Airbnb: check.
Euros: check.
Tickets: The Dragons’ website said they would go on sale three weeks prior to the game. Three weeks came and went. Two weeks came and went. Still no tickets. What the hell was going on? Eventually, with a week to go, they finally released the tickets. We wanted to book as away fans and sit with Angers, but there was no clue on the website as to where the away block was, so I just booked.
Getting in to Rouen deliberately was remarkably easy, and the Airbnb was blessedly easy to find. It was nestled under a giant cliff, next to a church, overlooking the river. The rink was situated on an island that was a stone’s throw from our accommodation. Hilariously, it took us about half an hour to walk there because the only bridges at our end of the island were a motorway and a railway, but it was a nice walk so we’re not complaining. As soon as we had checked in, we headed out to explore the city. The first thing that you notice about Rouen is the churches. So. Many. Churches. They’re everywhere. The second thing you notice is the architecture. The centre has half timbered buildings in a myriad of colours. There’s Gothic twiddly bits on almost every wall. If it could be carved, it has been carved. It’s beautiful. We wandered for two days straight, and I took so many pictures (see a selection below). We discovered that the Vikings were here and that Jeanne d’Arc was killed here. We experienced the amazing son et lumière at the Cathedral that takes place every summer. We found markets, restaurants, and shops that ranged from chain stores to boutique jewellers, from curiosity shops to ceramicists.
Suffice it to say, I’ve changed my mind. Rouen isn’t as bad as I thought it was. In fact, I really enjoyed it as a city. I mean, the roads are still chaos, the people are still a bit French (I’m looking at you, hockey fans!), and the opening hours for everything are, as ever, random, weird, and changeable, but the charm of the city means you can overlook these foibles without too much effort.
absolutelynotnormal 