"Catastrofique"

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We drive nervously out of Lourmarin. The petrol tank hasn't miraculously filled itself since last night; the gauge is still on empty and we're very keen to get to the petrol station that we found on Google Maps as soon as possible. We reach it and breathe a sigh of relief. This is very shortlived. There's evidence that there may have been a petrol station here many years ago, but all that remains is a rusty canopy covered in weeds and spider webs. I tell Issy that now would be an appropriate time to panic. She panics very effectively. She uses bad words, lots of them. I do too. The Google machine informs us that the next nearest petrol is in the next town which is nearly 20 kilometres away. I don't think we've got any chance of making it that far. It's also not on the way to Marseille, so there's a good chance now that we'll miss our train even if we don't run out of petrol. We make it. I'd heard it said that the "E" on a petrol gauge doesn't mean "Empty", it means "Enough", and I'm now starting to believe it. We've definitely just dodged a big and very fast moving bullet.

We arrive in Marseille just in time. We return the rental car and I tell Issy that she should break out the champagne. We're still alive, we're not in jail, and we don't have to drive any more until we get home.

We look for our train on the departures board. It's only a few minutes until it leaves and it still hasn't been allocated a platform. I wonder why railway stations do this. Don't they think that travellers have enough excitement in their lives. Our train is so long that we can't see one end of it from the other. Our tickets tell us that we've been allocated seats in carriage number eight, which is good to know, but none of the carriages seem to have numbers on them. An official tells us that our carriage is at the far end of the platform, but when we get there another official tells us that it's right back at the start where we've just come from. I'm not very happy. The train's about to leave, so we jump on the random carriage that happens to be in front of us just as it starts to move off. We try to walk through the inside with our 100 kilograms of luggage. We know from previous experience that this tends to be a bit hazardous to the other passengers. Our luggage only barely fits between the seats and we spend a lot of time saying "excusez moi" and asking people to move bags, toys, and miscellaneous body parts out of the way. An official stops us and tells us that we can't continue, as he says that to do so would be "catastrofique". I think that this might be a slight exaggeration, although the passengers whose limbs we've just run over might beg to differ. He tells us that we must get off at the next station and walk along the outside of the train to our allocated carriage. I mutter bad words under my breath. I mutter lots of them, and Issy tells me that not all of them are under my breath. I'm not quite sure what the French equivalent of "losing it" is, but whatever it is I think both Issy and rail official can sense that that's what I'm about to do. Issy tries to calm the situation. She thanks the rail official repeatedly for all his help, while I'm left scratching my head wondering exactly what "help" she's referring to.

We get off at the next station as instructed. I sprint along the platform to carriage number eight, which is at the very end of the train. I wonder in what universe the very last carriage on a train that has about 30 carriages can be carriage number eight. I wonder about this a lot. The train tries to leave. Issy hasn't reached me yet, so I stand in the doorway so that the doors can't close. I hope the doors can't close. I wouldn't want it all to end with me being crushed by a train door on the station of a random place in France that wasn't on our itinerary and that I've never heard of. Issy arrives, we throw our luggage in, and the train moves off. It isn't lunchtime yet and I think we've already had way more than our fair share of excitement for the day.

Our Lyon hotel has a special rate for having your dog in your room with you, and it also has a room service menu for dogs. I think that dog-loving Emma will want to move to France when she reads about this. The French certainly seem to be very accommodating of their dogs.

We get into conversation with a man from Ballarat in the hotel lift. He tells us that he's here for the Masters Athletics, and we ask him how he'll go running in the heat. He says that Australians have an advantage because they're used to hot weather. This might be true if you came from anywhere other than Ballarat, which must be just about the coldest place in the whole of our beloved homeland. I now fear for his safety.

We go out for a wander. It feels much hotter than it's been anywhere else we've been to in France, and it's forecast to be 38 degrees for the next couple of days. We cross the large main square, Place Bellecour, and continue across the Saone River into the very cute old town with its narrow streets and restaurant lined squares. The Basilica Notre-Dame de Fourviere sits high on the hill and dominates the skyline in much the same way as the Basilica in Marseille. We choose a dinner restaurant in a small square. I have Liffe beer, which I've never heard of before, and which is apparently made by monks in an abbey in Belgium. It's very good, so Issy peels the label off the bottle so that we can remember the name. The waiter gives her a strange look. Issy has pate and I have scallops, both of which are magnificent. Lyon is supposedly famous for its cuisine, and deservedly so based on what we've just eaten.

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Comments

[sam]

I wonder if the man you met from Ballarat was one of my relatives- Collis Burmingham?? My dad and Collis's mum are first cousins I think.He is a long distance runner.