I ask myself why is that carraige leaving at precisely the same time
As my next connection's due
I'm on the wrong side of the tracks; it's too much of a coincidence
Because it's leaving right on cue
I know the consequences if i've blown one more arrival
There won't be a welcoming party there,
I'm in st nicolas-de-redon, trying to get to st nazaire.
I make some enquiries in the best french that i can muster
Mais elle dit "je ne comprend pas"
I guess she smells the alcohol, thinks i'm english, shuts the hatch
C'est le dimanche, eh bah.
She disappears but i think i understand enough to catch the phrase
Je reviens a toute a l'heure,
In st. nicolas-de-redon, trying to get to st. nazaire.
Have you ever spent a sunday afternoon in france, in a station
That's barely made it onto the map
I can tell you that you'll have time enough to write the novel
Write the second, and the third and do the first redraft
The natives disappear into the ether, with their grannies and their children
For an afternoons' fruit-de mer.
In st. nicolas-de-redon, trying to get to st. nazaire.
I'm two hours into a four-hour wait, half my stash is gone, there's
A crackling on the gravel and a saint appears
She reads the 'ferme'sign, turns around to look at me, with a smile
That says she's not as wet as me around the ears
She's catherine from scandinavia, and she's on her way to see an irish guy in
Concert, elle dit "ce'st en plein air",
I tell her i'm her man, and i'm trying to get to st. nazaire.
It's rarely that i get drunk enough to miss the boat or as in this case
Miss the second train, but i'm about to do just that
I've sunken into the eyes of catherine, her broken english and everything
Beneath her brown felt hat
I ask her to be my manager, my mistress, tell her not to worry
Swear hand on heart that i'll get her there
In st nicolas de redon, trying to get to st. nazaire.
There's a moment when you realise, that something that once was
Within your grasp has suddenly passed you by
And in alcohol, it's compounded by the fact that you're reduced to
Working with the aid of just one good eye
I take my guitar from my case try to break a leg or two
While the natives look elsewhere
In st. nicholas-de-redon, trying to get to st nazaire.
She gets me to the gig somehow, what a manager, what a stroke
But i'm not the only one that's having one
Il's sont fou les irlandais, quest que on fait, there's consternation
So they put me in a caravan
When i wake up i realise that my body has arrived but my mind is
Still way back there
In st.nicholas-de-redon, trying to get to st. nazaire.
I'll spare you the rest of the gory details, but t'was catherine who took the
Bullets, while i got out alive
We had a relationship of sorts; we shared sardines from a can, some
Broken bread, but it failed to thrive
Today i check the map just to see how many miles it is from a semblance of hope to blank despair
It's forty miles, maybe less,
From st nicholas-de-redon,
But it might as well be a million when you're in your cups
And you're trying to get to st. nazaire.