Avignon

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We had a big day yesterday so we sleep in. Breakfast is a bread stick and some croissants delivered to our room in a basket, and we again feel very French. I'm not sure why; based on last night's experience we can't even speak enough of the language to order basic food and drinks.

We decide that today we'll go to Avignon. I decide to trust my sense of direction, so we leave the GPS turned off. Within a few minutes we turn into a side road and come to a dead end, so we decide to give it a second chance. It tells us to turn left, which we do, but it then tells us to turn around because we've gone the wrong way. That hammer that Issy mentioned yesterday would have come in handy about now.

We go through a gate in Avignon's old city walls and look for somewhere to park. This proves a bit challenging. We drive down streets that seem to get progressively narrower, before reaching a fork. One of the two streets leading off it is scarcely wide enough for a bike, so we take the other option which is still very narrow. A shop owner kindly moves her sign board out of the way so we can squeeze the car past, and as we advance further we're confronted by a man sitting comfortably at a table at a street cafe, munching away on a bread stick, drinking coffee and reading the paper. There's not enough room for us to get past him unless he moves his ensemble, which he does despite looking very annoyed. We inch forward. Several hundred metres and a long time later, we reach a dead end. We can't go forward and there isn’t enough room to turn around. I'm not happy. We back up to a slightly wider section of the alleyway and after lots more inching backwards and forwards we find ourselves pointing back the way we came. The man on the chair at the cafe sees us coming. I fear that we may be about to be assaulted with a bread stick; I hope it's not too hard and crusty. Issy decides to institute a rule that we never drive into any towns or villages that have walls around them.

We walk through the very busy and attractive main square, the Place de l'Horloge, which is full of very tall trees and surrounded by outdoor restaurants. First stop is the Pope's Palace, which we've read is the most famous building in Avignon. It was the papal residence for about 70 years during the fourteenth century, and nine popes lived here. The first pope came because of violent chaos in Rome at the time, and the last pope to live here was eventually convinced to move back to Rome in the late fourteenth century. The Palace then fell into disrepair, and after the French Revolution it became a military barracks and then a prison. It's been under restoration almost continuously for the past 100 years. It's very large and impressive, and one of its larger courtyards is apparently used for concerts.

We have lunch at a small cafe at the top of one of the Palace towers. The staircase leading to it is short, but it's narrow and we need to duck to avoid bumping our heads. Issy says that she thinks it's too dangerous to be the entrance to a cafe. I'm glad she didn't see the stairs to some of the towers I climbed in Italy. She tells me that despite the short staircase she will let me count this as a tower that I've climbed. If this is right, then it also counts as the first tower that she's climbed. I'm proud of her; maybe she doesn't have such an aversion to towers after all, and I have renewed hope that we'll be able to dine up the Eiffel Tower. We order sandwiches. I assume that these will be the same lame thin bread offerings that we get at home, but they're instead long fat crispy sticks packed with ham, cheese and salad. I like French sandwiches.

We move down to the Rhone River and its famous Pont d'Avignon. I remember learning a song about this when I did French at school. It seems that it's a French icon, and it's playing in the background as we walk onto the bridge. The Pont was originally almost a kilometre long but only about a quarter of it remains. It was built in the late twelfth century, and was destroyed and rebuilt a number of times until it was finally abandoned in the 17th century. It's also known as the Pont Saint Benezet after a local shepherd boy. Legend has it that Jesus appeared to him, and told him to build a bridge, but when he told the townspeople about this they thought he was mad. Their tone soon changed when they found that he was able to miraculously lift a huge boulder that no one else had ever come close to being able to shift. His remains are interred in a chapel on the remaining part of the bridge.

We walk back towards the car and stop at the Angladon Museum which houses a small private art collection in the former home of the original collection's owners. It includes works by a number of famous artists including Van Gogh.

We walk back into Lourmarin village for dinner. On the way we pass a large field full of creepy sunflowers. They're all facing the same way with their heads slightly bowed, and they look suspiciously like they might be planning an ambush. I think I can feel a sleepless night coming on.

After our problems with the language last night, we chose a different restaurant for dinner. We quickly realise that this is a mistake. This time the menu's all in French, the waitress doesn't speak any English, we've both left our phones at the guest house so we don't have any way of translating, and the waitress is grumpy. Issy sees pate on the menu, and says that this is the only thing we can understand that she wants. She tries to order it by pointing to it, but the waitress repeats "non, non, non", and a few other grumpy sounding phrases that we don't understand, and we're left in little doubt that the tasty sounding spread that she was salivating over won't be forthcoming. She's not happy and says that in that case she won't have any food. I order a beer. The waitress repeats the word "beer", and then returns with a glass of wine. Issy suggests that we try ordering using a brand name instead. We see an ad for "Stella Artois" hanging on the wall, so I order this, but the waitress grumpily repeats the same "non, non, non" words from before. This is not going well. A random beer eventually appears, and I order something from what looks like might be the grill section of the menu, without having any real idea what it is.

Issy tells me that she really thought I spoke French. I'm not sure why. I say "bonjour" occasionally at home, but that doesn't mean I know enough of the language to read menus or order food. I'm now dreading dinner tomorrow night, and the night after.

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