Planning for failure in order to succeed, 2

 The phrase "it seemed like a good idea at the time" seems to have no obvious source, but it is widely known. Britons regard it as a catch phrase of the Royal Marines, in north America, it is something heard from rednecks after a non-fatal attempt at breaking into the Darwin Awards. In Australia, it is known colloquially as "the streaker's defence", but streaking was far from my mind when I used the phrase on a street corner in Le Havre, one wet, miserable, cold and windy Thursday morning in early May. April in Paris may be grand, but May in Le Havre can lack a certain something.

It wasn't my fault we were there. Knowing the train timetable, and that the target museum would not open until 2.30, we had headed in a leisurely manner for the Gare Saint Lazare to get the train from Paris. We wandered around, deciding where we would go for a coffee and a paper, as our train was still two hours away, and then I made my mistake. I asked one of the staff in my best French where to get the train to Le Havre.

Never tell me the French lack efficiency. With a speed that amazed me, she rushed us along the open area and onto a train that was about to depart, assuring me in fluent English that we could buy tickets on the train, as indeed we could. We felt powerless to resist, and so we arrived, coffeeless and paperless in Le Havre, at the mouth of the Seine, some three hours before the town's natural history museum opened.

Le Havre is shabby and unattractive at that time of year. Brave, wet-suited souls sail little yachts in a basin, mother-henned away from the tidal outfall by three young men in inflatable runabouts, but most of the shops are closed, and workers are busy cleaning off the winter accumulation of seagull guano from the buildings that will, come summer, welcome the hordes of British tourists who land there from ferries. In early May, the streets of Le Havre are slippery with washed-down fish-rancid guano, and water dripping from buildings should never be trusted.

And we had three hours to kill in this unprepossessing and dingy town in unprepossessing and dingy weather. We stood on the corner as I spoke the standard phrase of mild regret, and then I looked up and saw with delight that we were on the corner of Rue La Pérouse and Rue Lesueur, outside a small bar that would be an ideal location for a soapish sitcom about the travails of tourists in a foreign land, or a remake of Irma La Douce. I was as much taken by the street names as I was by the prospect of warmth, though the thought of a coffee and a beer attracted me as well.

We entered, were made welcome, and quizzed by our host and his customers as to where we were from. I have just recently learned that the bar is in the centre of the town's small red light district, which may explain why we were slightly exotic specimens to them and why they seemed slightly raffish to us, but no matter. I explained that we were Australians, seeking two navigateurs français who had once left Le Havre and sailed to Australia. They were, I said gesturing dramatically at the street signs outside, La Pérouse and Lesueur. I was, I told them, researching some background for a historical account of the people who mapped Australia.

I like the French. They all reassure me that they speak English, just as soon as I speak French to them. Perhaps this is because, while we speak that accursed English tongue, we are from a small and interesting country that is neither Britain nor the USA. Perhaps they are just nice people. Working in relays we exchanged franglais comments on sundry matters, while we refuelled on coffee, tea and beer. 

If they knew that Lapérouse had actually departed on his last voyage from Brest, not Le Havre, they were too polite to say so, and I had to discover it later. In the end they directed us to a cheerful eatery and bade us fond adieus, though I am still uncertain why one of them said "auf wiedersehen" as we left. Perhaps he was confusing Austrians and Australians. Or maybe he was testing us.

We ate at the recommended place, found the Natural History Museum, admired Lesueur's specimens, but found little trace of Laperouse, then we walked back along his chilly damp street (which was at least guano-free), and caught a train back up the Seine valley. It was only later, as I dug further into the lives of my two navigateurs that I realised that each of them might, at various times in his life, have said "it seemed like a good idea at the time." Then it struck me that most pioneers would probably say that when they looked back on their actions.