No wonder the train to my lost village is called "Le petit déraillard" "The little get-off-the-track." And so I say, it might all have come packed in excelsior in a neat box, complete, with instructions, for the sum of four francs sixty-five centimes, had it not been otherwise destined to run twice daily, rain or shine, to Pont du Sable, and beyond. Poor little train!
"Eh, my little lady, you should have gotten out of bed earlier!" laughs the conductor as he pulls her aboard. "Toot! Toot!" And off goes the little get-off-the-track again, rocking and rumbling along past desert stretches of sand dunes screening the blue sea; past modern villas, isolated horrors in brick, pink, and baby blue, carefully planted away from the trees.
And the little get-off-the-track goes rumbling on through the village, past the homes of the fishermen a straggling line of low stone houses with quaint gabled roofs, and still quainter chimneys, and old doorways giving glimpses of dark interiors and dirt floors.