Along the Southern coast of France and into Italy, train tracks hug the water as they wend their way from town to town. The rail line through Bandol, according to the Google was built in the 1850s as part of the Marseille – Ventimiglia (Italy) line.

Over time some new sections have been built via further tunneling, but most of the original line remains well used.  In Sanremo (Italy) on the 1870s built Genoa – Ventimiglia line, when a new tunneled section was built in the early 2000s, it allowed the old rail line along the sea  to become a wonderful and very much enjoyed 24 km long multi use trail. Its name is a mouthful – Pista Ciclabile del Ponente Ligure – and offers a great experience to cycle through the original (and lit) tunnels enjoying the cool air. A number of these tunnels reach over one kilometer in length. Janny and I rented bikes earlier this summer and had a great time.

Now B2B – Back to Bandol.  To me, when I think of the location of any place in town, I think in terms of where it is relative to the tracks that bisect the town. And given the topography (for nothing is flat), I think in terms as being either “below the tracks” or “above the tracks”. If it was any closer, our Shack By the Sea in Bandol would be ON the tracks.  When we get into bed, our heads are probably not more than 15 meters from and 5 meters below the tracks. But do not get a picture in your mind of young Alvy Singer (Woody Allen) in Annie Hall living under the roller coaster at Coney Island. And that is the point of this little story.

There is something actually quite soothing to Janny and I as we go about our life and hearing the trains approach in the distance. When on our terrace if we crick our necks, we can see the train out of the corner of our eyes through the trees and shrubs behind us. And there are probably 80 or so trains travelling the tracks every day. But remember, like most of the train lines in France  ( and Italy), the Bandol  line is electrified. And that makes a huge difference for sure. As my sister, who visited us earlier this summer says, it is just a “woosh”. We are so used to it that when one day I noted to Janny, “There is the train”, she said, “What train?”  Of all those trains day in and day out, over the years I have heard a train horn maybe a handful of times. Once, I do admit that it woke with a jump from a nice schluff I was having on the terrace.

At dusk and at night, I can see the cabin lights in the cars as they pass. I sometimes wonder what the passengers are doing, and where they are going and why.  Are they themselves having a schluff? Are they looking out their window over the sea? Do they know that I am watching them pass, not that I can actually see them given the speed. Do they see me? Similarly, I quite doubt that. And the life of lives passes by the hour on tracks above our heads hearing their own sounds of the train.

When my parents for many years lived in their Toronto condo overlooking the Don Valley and the rail lines snaking within.  I remember with fondness that when my father would hear or see a train, he would  look at his watch and say out loud, whether to himself or anyone that may have been listening, something along the lines of, “The 427 seems to be two minutes late” or “Yup, the 934 is right on time.”

I guess Paul Simon was right.  Everyone really does love the sound of a train in the distance.