Iberian return, day nine: Donostia - Périgueux

As Sundays are best spent without stress, I planned my return trip last night, so when I woke up at eight o'clock – or thereabouts – this morning I knew I had plenty of time before the 10:45 Euskotren to Hendaye.

I pettily let my alarm sound a little longer than absolutely necessary, just in case my new roomy BFF fancied a kebab.

Knowing from last time that the café in the Euskotren station is closed on Sundays, I made a beeline for Geltoki, the lovely bakery just a short onward waddle from Donostia Amara. While I was queueing, elderly ladies who came in after me put their things down where I was going to sit before queuing at the counter to order – rude – but I just moved their things out of the way and sat there anyway to consume my slice of toasted baguette with jam, and a chocolate croissant so obscenely decadent that I felt exponentially filthier with every ganachey faceful.

At the end of my intemperance, I licked an index finger to mop up the remaining chocolate sprinkles that had tried to escape then downed my Americano, vainly hoping it'd mitigate the impending sugar coma, which I managed to stave off until I boarded the Euskotren. Not that there was any chance of falling asleep, as I'd somehow had the misfortune to chose a seat next to a party of loud persons of the North American affliction, who – determined to be heard over the sound of literally nobody else talking – shouted their observations about incorrectly-pronounced viennoiseries at each other in a croaky valley drawl that had the rest of us rolling our eyes and grinding our teeth as if we'd just downed a whole bottle of amphetamines each.

Thankfully, they appeared to get lost in Hendaye and were never heard (of) again.

It was nice to communicate with someone in a language I speak in the station at Hendaye, where I bought a newspaper and a ticket for the 12:10 TER to Bordeaux, which was delayed by about ten minutes. Once it was announced, everyone made their way to platform A to find the graffiti-covered train locked, whereupon it almost immediately started raining. I actually quite enjoyed the graffiti as I moistened, as it was done well and not just daubs of rubbish. If they could think of a way of allowing people to decorate trains without obscuring the view from the window, I think it'd be great to have them all looking pretty. And have them open when they're announced.

Since May, the SNCF has been running a special bike service which ends tomorrow, in which the front compartment of sixteen seats has been altered to accommodate more bikes. At each stop along the way, the bike people jumped out and quickly planted a flag, but only one person came with a bike, which was too big to fit anyway. They attributed this dearth of cyclists to the weather.

In Bordeaux, I had hoped to have another stab at the Bouillon, but it was raining very heavily by this point, and the glamorous dining experience I'd envisioned for the time between trains was now quickly magicked into a mozzarella and pesto sandwich and a coffee from a machine. I got on the next available train to Libourne, where I broke my journey to see friends.

It is what the French call la rentrée, essentially the French word for September, or back to school, and not just for children. It's when everyone who's just had around six weeks of holidays is presented with the drizzly grey truth of reality bearing down upon them. The onward journey home was therefore literally and figuratively bleak and uneventful, with most people of a disposition that suggested our hearts were not really in it.

Deposited at the bus stop, I had an onion fougasse in the boulangerie and then walked home.

The sun came out.

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