French Letter: The Little Train That Can helps hold Callac together

It is better to arrive than to travel hopefully. Those who think otherwise are doomed to disappointment. 

I thought of this on Thursday evening while standing on platform three of Callac station, the midway point of what remains of the once extensive regional rail network known as the Reseau Breton. 

In days past, it was possible to travel by local trains throughout Brittany, a territory larger than the entire West Country of England. There was hardly anywhere that couldn’t be accessed by steam or diesel power. Today, all that remains of the reseau is a line from the port of Paimpol in the far north to Carhaix, on the eastern fringe of Finistere, by way of Guingamp … and Callac. The trains that serve it are single units, about twice the length of a bus, that scurry back and forward seven times a day, stopping at halts strung out along a route that is a series of never-ending S-bends. 

But for how much longer? SNCF, the state-owned company that runs the railways in France, would love to get rid of the service, but support for the service from those who use it and the entire community has so far ensured that the number-crunchers have failed to get their way. The loss of the railway would be a bitter blow.  

The reason I was stood on platform three on Thursday night was that my wife’s cousin and his partner were due to spend a night with us before setting off on Friday morning, on their bicycles, for Roscoff, where they planned to catch the afternoon ferry to Plymouth. They had spent the previous ten days cycling through the Loire Valley but had made their way to us by way of no fewer than five separate trains, starting in Saumur before changing at Nantes, Rennes and Saint Brieuc. The Guingamp-Callac lap was the last stage of an exhausting day’s journey, made doubly complicated by having to books trains that permitted bikes onboard. 

As it happens, I had turned up at the station just as an empty, out-of-service train from Carhaix drew up on its way north to Guingamp. Because the line is single-track, the incoming service heading south, with my pals hopefully onboard, had to be switched manually to a passing loop, doing duty as platform three. The young stationmaster, who holds a degree in agriculture from Edinburgh University, takes pride in his new vocation, which he says has become a passion. Having prepared the way for the 20.18 to Carhaix, he could now release the train to Guingamp so that it could continue north. On platform one, meanwhile, just to further complicate proceedings, another unit stood ready to take children to school in Plougonver, the next village along, on Friday morning as well as passengers bound either for Brest, Rennes or Paris who would change to the TGV in Guingamp. 

There are no bus services in our part of Brittany. The little train is the only means of getting around for those who don’t have a car. The station and its adjacent yard used to echo to the sounds of what were literally cattle trains serving the busy Callac market as well as travellers of every condition, rich and poor, on their way to somewhere else. Today, the station looks on to the crumbling edifice of the one-time Hotel de la Gare, where farmers used to pass the night, usually the worse for wear, after selling off their beasts to the highest bidder. Tanneries in those days were another feature of the town, as were suppliers of every kind, including a long-shut luggage emporium through the greasy window of which can still be viewed a range of forgotten suitcases. Perfect vision in the hollowed-out 2020s is defined as a ring of big-box stores, each one with its own car park, encircling a core of retail and entrepreneurial dereliction. Only the bars and the boulangeries remain, and the breadmaker in one of the latter is said to be dangerously ill and likely to shut up shop. 

But it’s not all bad news. When the 20.18 from Guingamp finally drew in and the doors opened with a hiss, out stepped the brother-in-law and his partner, Jo, bikes in tow. “I thought we’d never get here,” Kevin, the b-in-l, said, mopping his brow. He looked shattered. He is a sophisticated fellow but constructed rather like a steam locomotive. He builds cob houses in Devon, one of which featured a couple of years back on the Channel 4 series, Grand Designs. Jo, by contrast, is a slim but formidably fit physiotherapist, taking time off after three difficult years helping patients with mobility issues during Covid. They had cycled 500 miles in the Pays de la Loire, spending their nights in B&Bs, and were ready for a home-cooked meal before setting off on the final 55-mile leg from our home to Roscoff. 

By now, the light was fading and I wanted to be sure they knew the way to our all-too-humble abode, which is made of breeze blocks, not cob, and is unlikely to trouble the scorers on Grand Designs. “Just give us a head-start,” Jo said, as I unlocked my car, parked just outside the station door. And I did. Ten minutes later, as I drew up, they were already there, parking their bikes in our basement. Where they get their energy from is a mystery, at least to me.. 

Our kitchen is small, dominated by a disused chimney breast that now serves as a wine store. If we could only get rid of the chimney, the room would be transformed. Over a glass of wine, I asked Kevin if he thought the house would remain standing if we allowed our friend Bill, an ex-boxer-turned-plumber, to go at it with a sledge hammer. He peered up at the area where the chimney breast disappears through the ceiling and into our bedroom upstairs. “Should be all right,” he said … so long as he knows what he’s doing. 

Hmm.