Paris, Nîmes and the Cévennes

Spending three weeks in France might seem an ambitious trip to undertake on one's own but I had planned it to test everything about travelling to see how I'd actually cope on a holiday without Sarah. 

The first week was to be spent in Paris, a city I love but any sightseeing trip there has to be carefully planned, mostly, with tickets needing to be bought in advance, routes planned and itinerary arranged, so there should be very little scope for ad hoc activities that might have required a discussion were I not alone. The next week I was to travel south, down to Nîmes. This part of the trip was to be all about relaxing, more obviously relying on my own company, and taking in a few sights of this very Roman city, and then the antidote to that; the last few days spent in the countryside of the Cévennes was about meeting up with friends for a few days before coming home.

Day One

Having decided to catch a slightly earlier train than initially planned, I left home at 10am and trundled my case down to the station, pausing only for a quick chat with Sharon on the way. Once the train pulled in and I alighted I found myself in the Quiet Zone of the 10:41 train to Waterloo which turned out not to be quiet at all; one woman moved three times to get away from overly chatty people. The onward trip to St Pancras was as straightforward as ever; Bakerloo to Oxford Circus, Picadilly on to St Pancras which was quite crowded for a Wednesday lunchtime. While I got myself some refreshment it became increasingly clear there was a problem, confirmed by announcements every so often that the French passport control system had developed a fault and so they couldn't process anyone until it was fixed. Mild panic took over sections of the station, the queues for earlier trains got longer and the crowd edging around the entrance got larger. Too many people still don't realise that these days they will have a set check-in time for their train so, despite only two trains being open (and queueing because of the fault) it was staggering the number of people trying to check in for later trains who then gathered round, getting in the way and being a real nuisance instead of just wandering off for a while or getting another coffee. I was happy to wait and watch; it was still an hour before my train would be called anyway. By now it was obvious that the queue consisted of two trains worth of passengers waiting for the French to get their act together. Finally the queues snaked forward and eventually our train was invited to join it. After an unseemly rush our line snaked around what felt like the whole station, with people doing that fast walk that's just short of running to get in the queue as quickly as possible even though everyone has a ticket and a dedicated seat so there's no need to rush at all.

As it turned out, thanks I think to being boarded almost as soon as getting through security, our train left only five minutes late and arrived bang on time in Paris. The journey was as smooth as ever and especially comfortable in Eurostar Plus where I also had the pleasure of a half decent meal and glass of wine. I might need to rethink my seat next time as carriage 1 is furthest from the exit at Gare du Nord so it was quite a walk to the station hall and on to Metro line 5, through the barrier where I wrenched my arm last time here. However, it's thankfully not far, albeit on a packed train, to République where I emerge, not into the forecast thunderstorm but to a bright, if cloudy, sky and a noisy pro-Palestine demo.

My Hotel, the Meslay République, was easy enough to find and the receptionist very friendly. My room is clean and tidy, and the décor though clearly new was still a little stylistically dated. Both twin beds still in situ meant the room seemed smaller than perhaps it was. What wasn't an illusion was the smallest bathtub I've ever used.

Dinner was at "Mon Coco" across the Place de la République. Busy, noisy and quite a young clientele, I had a large beer and eventually a fairly good steak before strolling around the square back to the hotel and the football on iPlayer.

Day Two

Today was all about walking, over five miles in the end - no wonder my feet hurt. 

I got up really early, for me, and had a nice simple breakfast. Not €12 worth, but there will be other days. I wandered vaguely in the direction of the Pompidou Centre but it wasn't going to be open for hours so I kept going, visiting Tour Saint-Jacques and the Rue de Rivoli before turning back into the Marais and an hour later finding myself at the entrance to the Musée National Picasso Paris. Entry was €16 and worth it for the fairly extensive collection, most of which had remained in the artist's possession until he died. After leaving there, I stumbled across a very different museum nearby; that of the Musée Cognacq-Jay, the private collection of the 19th century owner of one of Paris's premier department stores that was left to the nation upon his death - lots of Boucher style, very French, paintings in a reconstruction of a suitable house of the time. Free, and very worth seeing.

I grabbed a quick café allongé and Linzertorte at the traditional Jewish deli - Florence Kahn - before seeking out the Carnavalet Museum nearby. This is the Museum of Paris and is very extensive in both scope and content - possibly the best free museum in the city, and probably in the top five of all museums here. I learnt a lot more about the French Revolution than I knew and even more about Paris (and by extension, France) in the Nineteenth Century. Before leaving, I indulged in lunch of croque mademoiselle in the museum café and some time resting my now very sore feet. My slight calf strain not helping either, but I did manage to avoid a very sharp downpour while solving the day's Wordle.

Next, a return visit to Place des Vosges and the Maison Victor Hugo. Some commercial art galleries line the otherwise lovely square but most of these were a bit brash and tawdry, aimed perhaps at the well-off tourist in reality. Maison Victor Hugo is worth visiting and not very big so it doesn't take much out of your day. I was going to have a wander around the Place de Bastille but another shower found me ducking into the metro for a round trip home.

The eastern end of Metro Line 5 terminates at Place d'Italie from where you can catch Line 6 back to the centre. Much of this line is above ground, which is interesting in itself and also gives you one of the best views of the Eiffel Tower (sit on the right) as it passes. A change a Trocadero to Line 9 takes me back to République and "home". It's been quite a day, I'm tired and frankly parched  so a very large beer in the bar around the corner is most welcome before a late afternoon snooze back in my room. After which, maybe two hours later, I eventually dragged myself out for food and here's a confession; I settled on a Macdonald's but (mitigation) purely because they were advertising MacPoutine (I'm not sure they called it that) and I was intrigued. I'm sure it's a pale imitation of the real thing but O, Canada! If the real thing is even slightly better than this corporate behemoth can offer then it is truly a dish to be proud of. Also, the Big Mac was significantly better than those on offer in the UK. By the time I get back to the hotel I can only muster enough energy for a dip in the tiny bath before bed.

Day Three

I don't know what it is about holidays but I'm up very early again. Sadly today I awake to the news that my friend Rachael has succumbed to her cancer which puts a damper on the day. However, the morning is scheduled to be spent at the Musée d'Orsay which will be a very suitable place to lift the spirits for a while. I catch the metro down to Concorde and cut through the Tuileries to the footbridge across the Seine to the Quai d'Orsay and the museum. I'm early, of course, so waste some time sitting on the steps doing 'my games' including failing at Wordle - GOFER ffs! I join the short queue at 10.15 - no-one seems to care that it's 45 minutes earlier than my ticket is for. It's not overly crowded inside until you get to the impressionists' section and especially the Van Gogh room, where everyone seems to have rushed to. There is so much more to the gallery but most people only seem interested in the "hits".

I have a light lunch there but as I'm leaving I manage to give my dodgy calf a good (i.e. bad) tweak so the rest of the day is all about hobbling. Invalides, the now very appropriate venue for the afternoon, is not far under normal circumstances but it takes an age to limp there. It also means I only have the energy to visit the tomb of Napoleon rather than the whole Musée de l'Armée which might have been interesting. Invalides itself is massive and quite a distance from the river, even further to the entrance to the spectacular mausoleum housing Bonaparte's remains. By the time I've seen it I'm very tired and very sore.

Thankfully the nearest metro goes directly back to République without changing. Sadly the Paris metro is almost entirely lacking in escalators so it's several flights of steps to hobble up and down before reaching République where I seek out a pharmacy for some support bandage and, at the suggestion of my daughter, some orthotic insoles which they have. Then, while having a beer and a club sandwich at a nearby café I spy a sports shop across the square where I decide to buy some proper walking trainers and some tiger balm. Not feeling like finding a restaurant I get a snack tea from the supermarket and retire to my room for the night.

Day Four

Day four is Louvre Day and I don't need to be up too early but when I am awake I realise I haven't been sent my ticket. A couple of texts later and it arrives over breakfast. It's not far to the Louvre really, just one change of metro, but my calf is still not great and Bastille metro station is massive so it's a long way between platforms. I finally get to the Louvre in good time, passing the queues for tickets in the shade of the building and joining the queue with 11am tickets in the open sunshine by  the pyramid. It's only about half an hour in the end before I can enjoy a good hobble around the art. Once away from the crowds milling to see 'you know who' I had a great couple of hours in the so-called minor areas on the upper floors before finding myself in Nineteenth Century French art and the crowds around the Gericault and Delacroix. I then took a deep breath and braced my self, for it also had to be done, to brave the Italian Renaissance wing and see all the great works on the way to and from La Joconde. I've calmed down a lot from all the texts I was sending the family at this time, but really! I then went to pay my respects to the Venus de Milo, whose shear beauty can still make me shed a tear or two. In a side gallery on the way, there was the finest Attic Red Figure vase I'd ever seen - I don't think any of the crowd streaming past for the Venus noticed it at all; their loss.

I was by now really tired of standing and walking and needed desperately to sit in the  park with a drink and something sweet. Before leaving (via a surprising underground shopping centre I swear wasn't there last time), I bought a stupidly heavy book from the gift shop before heading out into the Tuileries in search of that refreshment; it was mid afternoon by now and my lunch in the gallery a distant memory. I found a shady table in one of the cafés and after being moved from that table for four (that no-one sat at in the hour I was there) to a more appropriate (in their eyes) table for two, enjoyed an apple clafouti and Breton cider. I did think about visiting the Orangerie for a Monet fix but the queue was halfway to Concorde so I wandered off, through the fairground to the Rue de Rivoli and then up towards Vendôme, which has to be THE most exclusive square for shopping anywhere. I hopped on the metro at Opéra and back to the hotel. Dinner later was at Bouillion around the corner; a decent terrine and OK veal, but a nice restaurant.

Day five

Le Tour finishes in Paris today; a fact I was unaware of when booking this trip and only became aware of after having my Louvre booking moved and noticing a Facebook post about how the race was climbing Montmartre for the first time in years. Even so, I wasn't sure I was going to make the effort to watch the race, especially with my leg the was it was. The stage itself was not due to start until 4pm and wouldn't reach Paris for a couple of hours after that, meaning there would be plenty of time beforehand to other things before I'd have to decide.

First up I decided to visit Pére Lachaise cemetery today instead of Tuesday as planned, leaving Tuesday to Montmartre if I fancied it. It wasn't too sunny but it was close. Once I arrived, instead of studying  the map, I just meandered around the graves and tombs getting a feel for the place but soon enough came to another map and decided to properly get my bearings. The grave of Oscar Wilde seemed to be about the furthest from where I started so I headed off up the hill with the idea of working my way back down via some of the other famous graves. It was quite a climb to the other side and Oscar but I made it and after waiting for a tour group to finish, paid my respects. Google maps turned out to be a great help once I'd zoomed right in - many of the famous graves were clearly marked - and, after passing large memorials for all the murdered of each Nazi death camp, I soon found myself at the grave of Edith Piaf. Working my way around past Modigliani, Balzac, Sarah Bernhardt, Pissarro, Jim Morrison and many others I ended up at the tomb of Eloise and Abelard by which time I was back at the gate. The nearest Metro station was on the same line as that nearest to the Pompidou so it seemed a good idea to go back there now it would be  open. Sadly, however, when I arrived and after going through the rigmarole of security I discovered, after depositing my stuff in a locker and only peripherally noticing the apparent emptiness, that because of a refurbishment program, the only part of the whole place that was open was a Tilmans photo exhibition which at €17 was a lot to ask so I left.

Mimi had put me onto an exhibit at the Borse de Commerce on the other side of Les Halles to where I was, so not too far away. I purchased a timed ticket from the machine and joined the short queue. It wasn't long before I could go in. The main attraction was a large round pool in the middle of this rotunda upon which  were floating a large number of different sized porcelain bowls being gently propelled around by a slight current and chiming as they collided. It was mesmerising. There was quite a bit else to see but I needed some lunch first. The gallery "café" turned out to be among the poshest I've ever visited and I had a wonderful meal for a pretty reasonable price.

Ultimately I decided I would go and see if watching Le Tour was feasible and after a long walk down the Rue de Rivoli and a small shower I eventually found a space near the Madelaine right by a corner where I would get a good view. Eventually the race reached us - every time you see them you forget how fast they go - huge cheers as they sped past towards Montmartre and again as they sped back in more and smaller groups. As they came back the second time it started to rain properly so I left but it took ages to find an open metro. Crossing the road had to be achieved via an underground car park without which I'd have been walking for hours soaked to the skin.

Day six

Today I'm  booked in to see Sainte Chappelle (and the Concierge - it's a joint ticket) but have been unable to get a timed entry ticket to Notre Dame (which has only recently reopened). After the usual breakfast, I'm off down to Chatelet on the metro which is one of the biggest stations going. After what seems like miles of tunnels and countless stairs I'm eventually spat out on Rivoli and make my way to the Isle de la Cité and join the queue about 40 minutes ahead of my entrance time. It's well worth the wait; the stained glass is really as impressive as all the photos suggest. The Concierge is less impressive but has a rich history which became more interesting as it got to the revolution and the imprisonment of Marie Antoinette. Her cell is now a chapel, unused again, and it tells her story and that of other women affected by and involved in the revolution (e.g. Charlotte Corday) very nicely.

The queues outside Notre Dame are off-puttingly long so I continue with my plan to explore the two Seine islands for the day.

First I head to the furthest end of Cité and the Pont Neuf and find myself in the delightful Place de la Dauphin where I enjoy a lovely early lunch of beef carpaccio and a well-earned Pastis to the soundtrack of a couple of petanque matches going on at the fat end of this triangular square. Then hobbling (still) the length of both the Isle de la Cité and Isle St Louis before resting a while in the small park at the other end. It really is worth taking the time, even with a dodgy leg, there's lots to see, plenty of interesting shops and bars and, if you're lucky, you might see a man walking his cat. Passing the former residence of Charles Baudelaire and its extravagant down pipes I cross back to the right bank and wander along looking at the green box book shops - the Bouquinistes - that were open, buying a couple of small gifts before I got back to the Louvre.

As I walked along, the idea of an afternoon on the river began to appeal. Sarah would have loved it. There's much to choose from but the 'Batibus' is as good as any if you don't need a running commentary. It's a hop on / hop off boat that goes to all the major sites on the river - €23 for 24 hours - and as I  didn't fancy one of the much more crowded Bateaux Mouches, it seemed ideal. Approaching two hours later I got off at the stop marked Concorde which in reality was right by the Grand Palais and a good 250m from the Place de la Concorde itself. Still, my leg is starting to benefit from walking in my new shoes so it's back to Concorde, back to République, back to the hotel.

Day seven

The last time Sarah and I were in Paris we stayed in Montmartre in a quaint little hotel built in what appeared to once have been the garden of Theo van Gogh. We must have passed the Café des Deux Moulins as featured in the marvellous film "Amelie" several times without noticing. Today I had breakfast there.

It was a very poignant day all round but also one that  was more relaxed than the others. I spent the day. wandering around the Butte taking  it all in again. After breakfast passing the shop of M. Collignon and down to the funicular up to Sacré Coeur (of course), following the footsteps of Amelie Poulin as well as our own. I was saddened to see the people selling locks for the  fences around the basilica and then saw the very long queue to get into Sacré Coeur itself in the now hot sunny late morning so I wandered on, past the pharmacy who cured my cold last time and stopping for a pastis at a very busy bar before taking a turn around the main 'artistic' square where the tourists are fleeced of their hard earned by some of the most ordinary, indeed often just bad, art on offer.

Turning another corner I led myself to the Montmartre museum which  is a delightful oasis in all the chaos of tourist season, even with a noisy school party. The standing exhibit was as remembered but the other part held an extensive and fascinating exhibit of the work of Maximilien Luce as well as the studio of Suzanne Valodon. Just as I turned into the final room there was a crashing noise as the shade of one of the lights had fallen off, missing all the displays and the woman in the room ahead of me, thankfully. After letting the staff know of the incident I had lunch in the attached café of a lovely smoked salmon bagel with lentil salad and very reasonable glass of rosé.

The rest of the afternoon was spent wandering, no particular purpose, finding new sights, remembering old ones, until my calf hurt more than it had all day and I headed back down Rue Le Pic to Blanche and home. Once refreshed and hungry I popped across the road to the Italian restaurant opposite which turned out to be excellent fare before returning to pack my bags for the journey south in the morning.
Paris has once again delighted, even on my own, but I did feel it would have been nicer to share it with another. Maybe next time.

Day eight

Travel day.

Settled up at the hotel handing over another €150 for six breakfasts and the city tax. Decided in the end to take the metro to Gare de Lyon and regretted booking such a late train but found a seat by the piano as a young woman went through almost her entire repertoire so at least I was entertained. The call for the train to Avignon came eventually and after a trek down the platform I found my single seat in first class (because why not?), amusing those around me by failing to link my earpods to my phone so they had to listen to two minutes of "I'm Sorry I Haven't a Clue" before they said anything. I listened to the rest of the programme and another podcast before spending  the rest of the time looking out of the window - it's a pretty interesting landscape around that line past Lyon.

At Avignon I disembarked, grabbed a sandwich from the Relay shop and got on the local train to the main station in good time to make my connection to Nîmes. I was probably half way there before I realised that my ticket only took me as far as Nîmes Pont du Gard - a considerable distance from Nîmes Centre. I assumed I'd have to catch a local train into town but the train I was on did stop there making me wonder why my ticket only went so far. Probably my fault in booking. I decided that as my ticket had already been checked and the train was pretty full, I'd risk just staying on to the right stop and plead ignorance if someone checked. They didn't and I walked out of the station into the full glare of the afternoon sun and 30º+ of heat. The flat I had rented was a full fifteen minute walk from the station and despite a fair amount of shade, it was a real slog dragging my now much heavier case (remember the book from the Louvre?) with my improving but still sore calf.

Romain, the owner, had sent me a phone number for Nicolas; the guy managing the flat and who lives on the top floor of the block, but it was a digit too short so it took a couple of calls to Romain to sort it out before Nicolas bounded down the stairs and carried my heavy case up three floors to a very smart apartment. He thought I was arriving an hour later so while I went to a nearby Carrefour City for basic supplies, he finished cleaning the floors. I made myself a very passable pasta dish and collapsed in for an early night.

Day nine

Aside from a shopping trip to the very good market at Les Halles, the highlight of today was doing the laundry and lounging about. I deliberately put today aside as a do nothing day after my Parisian exertions but I roused myself enough to make a nice salad niçoise while listening to the cricket commentary. Back to the tourism tomorrow!

Day ten

A proper tourist day. First stop the tourist office who were very helpful and where, despite many things being free on the first Sunday of the month, I bought a four day city pass because of the flexibility it would provide. The proximity of Arles begs a visit and the lovely people at the office found me a bus to take me there so I will be going tomorrow.

The pass was well used today - firstly the excellent Roman museum which is spacious and well laid out allowing the visitor to follow the story of Roman Nîmes with a clarity seldom  seen elsewhere. It also has a nice garden. There was some building work around the area and  I couldn't find the bullfighting museum so ended up at the Musée des Beaux Arts. This is your standard city art gallery, nothing exceptional and not very big but it is nicely curated and it's worth the short time it takes to visit.

The building that dominates the centre of Nîmes is the Arena or amphitheatre, one of the most complete such structures still standing. The day was heating up but a lot of the Arena is obviously out of the direct sunlight so as I was right there (enjoying a beer in a bar opposite) I thought it was an opportune moment to visit. The corridors around the arena are somewhat labyrinthine and the signposting is not always as helpful as it might be, I think some of the directional signs must have been missing, but it's still a very impressive building, still used for occasional events. By now the earlier beer was becoming an issue but on finding the lavatory shut I had to hold on a bit longer! After buying a little glass crocodile for the souvenir shelf, I got some lunch of Caesar salad followed by ice cream doused in the local liqueur before moving on, back to the area around the flat.

The Carré d'Art is a really good looking modern art museum, designed to reflect the next door Maison Carré; the most intact Roman temple. The Carré d'Art is light and airy and has some interesting displays which I think are not permanent but the main focus does appear to be something the French are very keen on; a multi-purpose modern art building for studying art with lots of very well used library and study areas as well as excellent exhibition spaces. Had to follow the footsteps of Alice Roberts up to the terrace café for a Badout Red and a great view.

The Maison Carré itself is most impressive from the outside, but the inside is entirely bare and given over to an exhibition of its history. I'm not sure the entry would have been justified if not part of the City Card. By now I'm more than tired so a quick visit to the the Carrefour again before going home for the evening.

Day eleven

Arles. Got to the bus station early and found the stand easily enough and waited. Handed over my €2 coin on embarkation and it wasn't long before we were in the busy market day Arles' traffic. To be fair, it is a huge market, in the middle of which is the tourist office where I was given a QR code for a self guided walk following the sites associated with van Gogh which I sort of followed, not in the right order as it turned out but hey.

Arles is pretty shabby, especially compared to Nîmes, but I think some of the time it's a studied shabbiness. The places Vincent painted are marked with information "easels" showing the appropriate painting alongside the text including where the Yellow House isn't (see picture), the Rhone for one of the starry night paintings, and the hospital he stayed for a while which is now a chic little square. One of the squares he painted is now full of restaurants and cafés where I persuaded the waitress to allow me a table and one of the last servings of oysters for lunch. After thoroughly enjoying the local and Carmargue oysters, I wandered a bit further, found the Musée Reattu a very interesting art gallery for a hour or so, before arriving back where the market was no more.

By now it was late afternoon but the bus back to Nîmes wasn't for another couple of hours so I decided to go to the station where, if there wasn't a train, the buses also ran from. Thankfully there was a train which saved me an hour of waiting but cost €9.50 more so swings and roundabouts.

Day twelve

Up reasonably early and after what has become my usual breakfast here I'm out before the sun bakes the day too hard for I'm going to climb up to the Tour Magna- a big old Roman tower on top of a hill to the north end of town. It's approached through parks and gardens, attractive with water features and colonnades, statues and grotto-like features and rising through a combination of steps and slopes. I've remembered my water bottle this time.

The climb is fairly arduous for an unfit old git like me but I stop and drink frequently and come across the tower sooner than I thought. Another quick sit on a nearby bench watching a dachshund beg for the ball from the mouth of a much larger dog to no avail. After a while I approach the tower, show the attendant my city card, answer the 'where are you from?' question and read the information boards . It turns out that someone having read the predictions of Nostradamus managed to persuade the mayor of the time that the tower was filled with gold and that he should therefore be allowed to excavate and basically gut the building. Thankfully he was stopped before it fell down but it does mean that it is now an empty shell with a modern staircase thrusting up the middle.

Looking up, this internal staircase wraps itself around a large central column. There's nothing to hold onto on the inside of the spiral and the outer handrail has a flimsy look about it. I'm nervously about a quarter of the way up when I decide that I really don't like the trauma involved in obtaining a slightly better view of the city. I'm also very concerned about what will happen when someone wants to come down past me! I turn gingerly trying to simultaneously stick to the  smooth column and hold tight to the worryingly insubstantial handrail. I wimped out.

Not much to be said for the rest of the day except that I made the mistake of not visiting a couple of remaining museums, which would have been free, instead thinking that I'll do them on Monday when, as I discover, they're all closed.

Day thirteen

With the museums closed and much else besides, I got a pastry for breakfast and wandered about taking in some of the Roman sites dotted around the city as well as much later attractions. When I found myself near the station again I briefly thought about going out to the famous Pont du Gard but I couldn't be sure of the right bus and the right stop and soon got put off by my own nature. So, I popped into the tourist centre, bought a gift and a bag before doing some shopping and going home.

Day fourteen

Quietly got up and breakfasted on granola and milk, waited till after 10am and made my way downstairs and across to the antiques shop that has been closed since Saturday (when  I was in Arles). On Friday evening (today is Tuesday) I had seen the most marvellous beaded, red and yellow leopard figure in the window. The shop had a 40% off sale which made this much more affordable and very tempting. I had been thinking about it all weekend and Monday when it was also shut. So today I went in and bought it. My faltering French (Franglais to be honest) seemed to be enough to get my message across as the Proprietor couldn't or wouldn't speak any English - and why should she?

I brought my bounty back up to the flat and headed off to the Musée de Vieux Nîmes, which is mostly about the famous serge de Nîmes or as we know it; denim. It's not a huge place but nicely curated and well worth the €5 I had to pay because my city card had run out. After a pleasant while here I left for the centre of the old town and discovered that the cathedral, contrarily, was shut on Tuesdays. Ended up having a very nice lunch in the top floor balcony of the Carré d'Art before coming home to sort out the laundry and start packing after a game of "guess what Dad bought" on WhatsApp, then arranged for Steve to pick me up at noon tomorrow for my last few days here, chilling in the Cévennes.

Days fifteen to nineteen

I had established that there was a bus service I could use should it be necessary but as we drove deeper into the countryside and, after lunch, arrived at my accommodation, I was glad it hadn't been. The place was on the side of something of a gorge and, while not far from the bus stop, it would have been quite a drag getting my case down there. It also seemed a lot further than it looked on the map so the journey could have been long and arduous.

Anyway, I had been picked up in the narrow street outside the flat in good time and we headed out of the city towards Anduze. It was good to see a familiar face again. After showing me the local wine cooperative that we'd be visiting in a couple of days we stopped for lunch at La Madeleine, which was very pleasant. So much so that we lunched there again before the winery visit.

After stopping for supplies, we paused at my accommodation long enough for me to find my room and drop my case before driving up to the campsite for the rest of the day. It was so hot by now that I almost wished I enjoyed the water and had brought some 'togs' but alas I would have to make do with a cold beer or two. Once I'd been shown around and we'd had those drinks and the nice repast we'd picked up at the supermarché, I set off back down the hill to the charming converted mill that was my home for the next few days.

The following day, after a lovely breakfast, I climbed back up the hill and we set off for the petit Train à Vapeur des Cévennes at Anduze for a trip that would take us to Saint Jean du Gard. It's a busy attraction so it's a long train with mostly open carriages puffing up the valley, past the Bambouseraie en Cévennes - a somewhat incongruous (to me) bamboo plantation and visitor attraction where the train stops - to its destination. The river weaves in and out of sight and is sometimes very low but what water there is is often full of bathers. Arriving at Saint Jean du Gard we head off to explore the small town and eventually fetch up at the Maison Rouge - Musée des Vallées Cévenoles, housed in a spanking new building and displaying beautifully curated artefacts charting the history of the area, its peoples and way of life including a large section on the silk weaving industry that was once the lifeblood of the area.

We found lunch at La Porte Ouverte where I was finally able to try Andouille Guémené which topped a crêpe complèt. It's surprisingly meaty for what is in reality a sausage made entirely of pig's colon and very delicious. 

Back to the station for the return journey and we found that people were able to visit the cab of the train which was lovely but even hotter.

These few days were designed to be convivial and relaxing and they're turning out exactly as planned. The day after the train ride is the scheduled visit to the local wine co-operative where we get the full tour, much of which is in the blessed relief of the cool of the vat buildings and air-conditioned shop. The wine is very good and Steve will bring some back for me so, mindful of the new allowances in place thanks to idiocy of you know what, I buy half a dozen bottles to enjoy at home.

The next day is a road trip into the heart of the Cévennes. We take the main road, twisting high up the valley to the plateau and stopping to take in the views and refreshment before driving back down the other side which is smaller and twistier, passing through tiny hamlets and villages and ending up at the village Steve first stayed in years ago where we have a nostalgic wander before going back to the campsite. Attached to my B&B is a bar area where rum is king so we walk down the hill to spend the evening there. They also offer a charcuterie plate so we enjoy a cocktail and a beer or two alongside the meat and cheese before it's Steve's turn to walk home.

Day twenty and twenty-one

The homeward trip begins with another lovely breakfast before checking out and waiting for Steve to give me a lift back to Nîmes for the train to Paris. When booking I was over cautious when it came to making sure I could get to the station even if a lift was not available for any reason, so my train wasn't due until nearly 3pm. In the event of course, I could easily have caught a much earlier train and even made it home the same day at a push but I had a hotel near Gare du Nord and a morning Eurostar booked so being in no hurry was nice despite the wait. The train to Paris, unlike the one from there was a direct TGV into Gare de Lyon and arrived on time and without stress. 

I took the Metro towards the hotel and emerged into an unfamiliar area of the city and took a wrong turn before eventually finding my accommodation. It looked nice online and the outside was promising but I was tired and going through the door I genuinely wondered if rooms were available by the hour. The woman behind the desk was charming and helpful though and even let me off 40c of the city tax because her card machine wasn't working and I couldn't find enough cash. She said she'd got me a nice room on the 5th floor with a balcony but once I'd taken the tiny lift up there and negotiated the narrow, slightly grubby, corridor and saw the room, my heart sank, The bed was great but everything else was anything but. The balcony was barely a foot wide and so high up I couldn't even countenance climbing out onto it. By now, stupidly as it turned out, I was thoroughly spooked so I had a tepid shower and a cup of tea and turned in to bed.

In the morning I packed and went down to breakfast to be greeted by the most friendly and cheery man who decided that despite ordering a pain au raisin as part of my petit dejeuner, a croissant was such an essential part of the repast that he'd given me, and the woman who wanted pain au chocolat, a complementary croissant alongside everything else. It was a very good breakfast and I was totally embarrassed by my fears the previous night. I strode out into the Paris daylight much cheered and made my way the short distance to my Eurostar home.

The trip back from Waterloo was anything but straightforward. I'd booked first class and was sitting comfortably awaiting departure when nothing happened. I don't know how trains start but this one didn't. An engineer was called. A lot of people got off and caught a different train south. I waited until the train was officially cancelled and walked over to the given alternative which turned out to be half the length with only eight first class seats which I managed to get the last of. At least I wasn't standing and there was the bonus of a can of gin and tonic proffered by one of my table companions. So, once again South West Trains surpass their usual awfulness as the last leg of the journey and I drag my case back home from Fratton station a couple of hours later than I'd hoped but pleased and content that I'd had a successful trip, that I could travel on my own quite happily but would obviously prefer company in the future.

0.21 tonnes CO₂ saved

Recollections of Lyon

September 2015

We were looking for a suitable destination for a city break in September and settled on Lyon ahead of Ghent. There's a new Eurostar service that goes directly to Lyon and beyond to Marseilles, but timings and prices meant we ended up booking the regular 'via Paris' option. 

It was to be our first journey through the Gare de Lyon and our taxi from Nord dropped us about as far from the platform we needed as possible - obviously not his fault, it's the regular drop-off point - but the station is very big with two upper halls serving about 25 platforms. The traffic had been pretty bad, so we only really had time to grab a quick snack from a concession stand before boarding the TGV south.

Lyon itself lies at the confluence of the Rhône and the Saône, is known as France's second city and for centuries home of the silk industry. I had booked an apartment near the Opera, down a pedestrianised street, and it was early evening before we arrived. It looked unpromising at first and, owing to confusion on my part about picking up the key, we found ourselves standing outside a large wooden door with no indication how we were to get in. A quick phone call and the owner texted us the entry codes and told us where to find the key to the apartment which turned out to be on the third floor in a building without a lift. Half an hour's grumbling melted away when we saw the very comfortable interior. Having settled in we went out to look for dinner and eventually found a nice looking café bar doing organic burgers and the like which we wolfed down with a bottle of local wine.

The following morning we set of for the tourist office at the Place Bellacour, a massive square at the heart of the city, to pick up our OnlyLyon City cards. Suitably equipped we hopped on the metro up to Croix-Rousse for the market.

We spent a marvellous morning browsing every imaginable stall and snacking on calf's foot salad - surprisingly delicious. We had noticed a promising looking café, Le Clos Jouve, and headed back there for what turned out to be a delightful lunch before taking the trolley-bus back down to the centre.

We're suckers for a funicular and Lyon has two. One ferries people up to Fourviére, the steep hill of Vieux Lyon, overlooking the modern city and where the imposing Basilique de Notre Dame sits. There's a lovely square with cafés and a stunning view where we sat a while with the peaceful atmosphere being complemented by the old accordion player at the gate, before visiting the cathedral itself followed by the nearby museum of religious art, which is much smaller than it makes out.

Back down near the riverside the narrow streets of the old town have many attractions, including the small but fascinating puppet museum, telling (among others) the story of Guignol, the local alternative to the Commedia dell'arte's Pulchinelle (Punch in England), created by an out of work silk weaver in 1808. After this we sat for a coffee and cake outside a particularly good patisserie. We enjoyed the local sweet delicacy; a praline tart, very pink and very sweet. And a major attraction for the local sparrows!

We jumped on a bus back home before setting out for dinner at the exquisite Restaurant La Cuisine just round the corner.

Day two in Lyon started with a trip to what turned out to be a gourmet food market at Les Halles - Paul Bocuse. Quite intimidating at first, we stopped for a beer before heading forth to buy ingredients for a magnificent birthday dinner; charcuterie, paté de fois gras, chicken, truffles, hand-made pasta and some local cheeses followed by some delightful little cakes.

Detail of the fountain at Place des Terreaux

The rest of the day was a museum day, starting with the Musée des Beaux Arts which fronts the Place des Terreaux with its magnificent fountain by Frédéric Bartholdi. The museum itself surrounds a cool garden courtyard and is full of antiquities and fine art. This happy couple of hours was followed by the even more brilliant Musée de l'Imprimerie. I'm fascinated by printmaking and indulge in some of the practices myself, so this was especially interesting for me but is worth anyone's while visiting, covering as it does the history of printmaking around the world as well as its special focus on Lyon.

Our dinner was as fabulous as it promised and we collapsed, bloated, into bed.

Our last day in Lyon was again a day of museums, topped off with the perfect end to a few days in the culinary capital of France.
First stop was the Musée des Tissus - textiles - not usually my cup of tea but very well curated with some exquisite fabrics and costumes. The attached decorative arts museum is in the manner of a furnished house through the ages, which we both loved despite the not so subtle attentions of the security guard following us around the upper floors. After lunch at the very friendly Café Marmot we grabbed a tram down to the Musée des Confluences.

This is just brilliant. A modern combination of history, science and natural history museums with gallery and performance spaces thrown in, in an ultra modern, statement building right on the confluence of the two rivers. This is a "must see" for anyone visiting Lyon.

Unfortunately, we were by now too tired to visit the currently difficult to get to La Sucrière, a modern art space created in an old sugar warehouse - part of the ongoing regeneration of the former industrial heart of the city. It was also the start of the Lyon Biennale so it was a double pity to miss it but neither of us could face the mile or so walk from the nearest transport stop and it was also getting late.

Dinner that night was at the Bouchon Le Jura, a hyper traditional restaurant offering Lyonnaise classics beautifully cooked. Luckily we got there early enough to secure a table, as we watched many others turned away, and had a lovely evening.



The next day we were up early to catch the bus back to the station, which we found eventually, hidden behind a building site. Otherwise, Lyon's transport system cannot be faulted - everything links up and one ticket covers all metro, trams, buses (regular and trolley), and funiculars. A couple of hours later we traversed Paris using the RER this time and found it much more convenient than getting a taxi. We were home by teatime.

Lyon is a lovely city and we're hopeful we will visit again, perhaps as part of a wider holiday to the Swiss Alps or en route to the Riviera, but we will go back if we can.


Carbon saved: 100kg

Casablanca part two: "...and back"

Casablanca is a huge, sprawling city of seven million souls. It's very busy and a bit grubby and there are really only two reasons for the tourist to visit; if you have an abiding interest in mosques, or to pay homage to the film (as I said at the start, the greatest film ever made, no argument). Another planning oversight means we've arrived on a Friday so the mosque is out - not open for tours on the holy day - which is a shame for us but we're only really here for Rick's anyway.

Here's looking at you, kid

Our hotel was on the edge of the old medina, but this is not Tangier and it's not that attractive. We find our way through it and along the main road to Rick's but we're the best part of an hour early. There's a square nearby with a park at its centre and a few cafés and we wander over an take a seat. It's not the usual tourist area, just an everyday café and we drink mint tea and watch the world go by. All sorts of people pass, all sorts of garb and modes of transport. Three young lads on a single moped nearly get taken out by a woman driving and texting but they make the gap before it closes.
Next door is a carpenter's shop and he arrives on scooter with the panels for a set of doors he's making. It's a lovely interlude and quite an interesting insight into life in Morocco's second city but Rick's is about to open and we need to be there on time.




Rick's Café Americain, the establishment at the heart of the film was obviously not a real place and the Rick's we are standing outside was only opened in 2004. It's heavy wooden doors open and we step in and secure a table for dinner, possibly one of the last available judging by how full it gets later. The interior is designed to be a faithful evocation of the movie version and it looks fantastic. I had feared it would be some awful pastiche but it's wonderful, just as you might imagine it would have evolved into over the intervening years, even in the hands of Señor Ferrari. The food is pretty good and the service is spot on, we have a wonderful evening.

Day 5: Casablanca to Algeciras

Back to Tangier

We have a fairly relaxed morning, the train back to Tangier isn't until after 11am so we can have a leisurely breakfast before checking out and getting another rickety red cab back to the station. Our driver this time is quite chatty and we discuss Morocco, the king, society and all the building work going on before he drops us off. Our train's already at the platform but we have time to get a sandwich to have later for lunch from a small concession stand before boarding. This time our co-occupants are an uptight looking French woman and a trio of young men who have the air of being 'up to something'. They spend half the journey to-ing and fro-ing and have a large wad of cash but they're no trouble and the journey is otherwise uneventful and we roll into Tangier 15 minutes late. The walk from the train to the station hasn't got any shorter and we need to go straight to the port to catch the ferry back to Tarifa so another taxi it is.

I can't help thinking that Tangier Port needs to start sorting its act out if it's to attract more cruise ships. Of course, the passport stamping requirements aren't their fault - a yellow form to fill in this time before a passport stamp to confirm we're leaving - but the boarding process could be streamlined and an escalator or two wouldn't hurt. There's a delay boarding as a nervous coach is coaxed on to the ferry and further delay when on board before we get under way at least half an hour behind schedule and, having boarded in daylight, it's now dark. I'm worried by now that we'll get stranded in Tarifa or get to the hotel in Algeciras after midnight, and the passport queue at the arrivals hall doesn't help matters. We also need Euros or we're walking the mile or so to the hotel. In the end, everything is fine; the bus is there, there's plenty of room and we get back to Algeciras in good order, there's an ATM and we get a cab to the hotel where there appears to be a dinner dance happening. Even better, the buffet restaurant is still open and we inhale a meal before turning in. Actually, just because our room has a balcony, we have a quick cuppa outside before bed.

Day 6: Algeciras to Madrid

The "rainforest" at the heart of Madrid's railway station

Up early for breakfast, we check out and get another cab back to the station. Our train is already there but the x-ray machine is not ready and it is ten minutes before we can board. This service takes us back through the Sierra Nevada, this time by a more direct route, and we arrive in good order at Madrid Atocha station which is Massive; there's a rainforest in the hall (with signs saying 'please don't abandon your turtles here'). We finally work out that we need to go up to the third floor to get out and across the car park to the chaotic three-lane taxi rank where we secure a cab, whiz round the ring road to the Puerta Toledo and are dropped outside Hotel Ganivet for our 3-night stay in the capital.

We like to go to a match if we can when visiting foreign cities and this time Atlético Madrid are at home. The stadium isn't far from the hotel so we decide to grab some lunch before wandering down to see if we can get a ticket for the match tonight. There are a couple of likely places around the Puerta Toledo and we sit down outside one, order a beer and a burger and relax. The family at the table next to us turn out to be English, and football fans also going to the match. In regular life they support Norwich City and we have a pleasant chat about football and our respective clubs before we head off to secure our tickets.

Vincente Calderón stadium is quite impressive and when we return the streets around it are thronged with fans from long before kick-off. We buy a packet of dried beans of some sort and some jelly sweets which turn out to be shaped like fingers. I don't know why, but sunflower seeds are de rigeur at a lot of foreign grounds and there are large piles of discarded shells under some of the seats when we leave. The match itself is very entertaining with Atlético running out comfortable winners despite a late and dubious penalty award to Valencia.

Day 7: In Madrid

First order of the day, after breakfast (standard hotel fare) is to get to the Prado before the queues get too long. Unprepossessing from the outside, the Museo Nacional del Prado is a treasure trove of the most wonderful works of art and well worth the €14 entry and more. Incidentally there's a ticket + guide book offer for €23 - take it; the guide book in question is a hefty tome, on sale in the shop for €19.50. It's hard to pick a highlight, Albrecht Durer's famous self-portrait is there, as well as the 'other' Mona Lisa. There's The Garden of Earthly Delights (Bosch), Fra Angelico's Annunciation, Rubens' Three Graces, and countless other brilliant and famous works. But the two that draw the most crowds, and for good reason, are Goya's 3rd May 1808 in Madrid and the famous and brilliant Velasquez portrait of Felipe IV's family; Las Meninas. We do our best and see most of what's on offer before we leave to get some lunch.

We decide to head for the Plaza Mayor, as recommended by our hotel clerk, but there ore no direct buses and the man in the information kiosk suggests it would be easier to walk the half mile or so. Madrid has buses by the thousand but they don't appear to go anywhere useful from any one starting point. We're tired and hungry and the walk is not much fun and we get there only to find it's subject to building work and lots of it. Eventually we choose to sit outside the Museo de Jamon for our lunch; a cold meat platter and pork chop/ham and chips. The building work that we thought was largely on the other side of the square starts in earnest right next to us spoiling any tranquillity we may have been enjoying and forcing us to flee, after paying, back to our hotel for a siesta.

We've booked an evening at a flamenco club, with dinner included, on the other side of town and thankfully the nearest metro line goes straight there, give or take a short walk. Doors don't open until 9:30pm with the show starting half an hour later. Madridians do not seem to eat before 9pm at the earliest and it's difficult to get used to but here we are, eager and hungry at Tablao Flamenco La Quimera and we're shown to a table right by the stage, front and centre. The food is simple but welcome and there's a glass of wine included for good measure. The show itself is extraordinary. This is not some touristy, night club version, but the genuine flamenco experience; three dancers, a guitarist and cantor entertain us for nearly two hours (with a break) with the most fabulous display of flamenco dancing, hot and sweaty. It's over and we're down in a tube station at midnight for the ride home.

Day 8: In Madrid

Last day in Madrid and we decide to take the tourist bus, eventually finding the nearest stop around the corner from the hotel. It's not a bad way to see the city but the weather's changeable so the roof remains closed for the morning, and some of the headphone sockets don't work. The gallery we want to see is closed on Tuesdays so we go back round to the royal palace. We grab a quick beer before going in but it's not as quick as we'd hoped and the day is turning out a lot colder than we'd expected. The palace itself is fronted by a large parade ground with stunning views over the landscape to the south, opposite this is the cathedral (because we wouldn't want the little royal dears to have to go far to church, would we?). Anyway, the palace itself shows off royal wealth and privilege in all it's hideous glory; chock full of sumptuous décor and furnishings in this still "working" palace but no photos allowed. The cathedral opposite is quite nice but nothing special.

There's another art collection in town and we decide to visit, grabbing a quick coffee and apple tart in its café before we start. It's the Museo Thyssen-Bornemisza a once private collection of the most stunning art. We start with the temporary exhibit of Edvard Munch works themed by mood, which is an eye-opener, and then head for the main collection. We're about half way round and have to stop to take stock of what we've seen. The collection is so vibrant, it's astounding the breadth and quality of the work on show from El Greco and Caravaggio through Van Gogh and Degas to Matisse, Chagall, Rodin, Picasso all the way to Rothko and beyond. We are really glad we made the effort.



We go to catch a tour bus back round to the hotel area but it's approaching 6pm and they're scaling back operations so we have to wait about half an hour in the now very cold evening for a bus that's still working. We get back at about 7pm. A quick freshen up before we go out again for dinner. We've got a very early train to catch so we decide to eat early and locally at the Taberna Oliveros. What a joy this was, even though we nearly died of a chick pea overdose. It's a charming place, all tiles and quirky features with an attentive owner who appreciated our willingness to try the hearty local food, nearly killing us with kindness and dessert. A great finale to our time in the Spanish capital.

Day 9: Madrid to Paris

5:10am and the station is virtually deserted. The man at the x-ray machine won't start it up until quarter past so we wait. The train isn't until 6:05 but I'm habitually early, allowing time for every potential setback. Our train gets to Barcelona at 8:40 and it's full of businessmen even though it seems a strange commute, "Pride" is showing again and we're halfway there before the sun pokes its head above the horizon.

Breakfast at Barcelona Sants before we get the TGV back to Paris. This time we travel the coast in daylight and the promised flamingos are duly sighted, standing round in clumps in the Etang de la Palme and other coastal waters. Heading north from Montpellier, the weather turns wetter until we near Paris and much of the journey is spent dozing after such an early start to the day.

Our hotel for the night is 200m from Gare de Lyon and we find it quite easily. It's not a bad room but the whole place could do with a spruce up. We need to find somewhere for dinner and the nearby A La Biche Au Bois looks a likely place and it turns out to be a gem, and a very popular one too. We were very nearly turned away but they managed to find us a table for what was a great meal, topped off with a magnificent cheeseboard; oh, that Brie! Suitably stuffed, we waddle back to the hotel. Thankfully I've had the foresight not to book an early train.

Day 10: Home

Not much more for me to add. A croissant and coffee at a local café, the RER back to the Gare du Nord avoiding the large pile of vomit in the carriage, sitting in the always uncomfortable Eurostar terminal waiting for a slightly delayed train, habitual pasty at Waterloo before a better than usual SWT train to Fratton.
Home from one of our better holidays.


Carbon saved: 270kg

October 2015

Casablanca part one: "There..."

Every so often I'm to be found browsing seat61.com wondering where we can reach by train and how easily it can be done, or perhaps just dreaming of the day we can just take off and travel the world. During one of these reveries I noticed it was quite easy to get to Morocco in a couple of days, especially with the new Paris-Barcelona TGV service. So a plan was hatched to go to Casablanca, just because we could, to pay homage to the greatest film ever made (and I will brook no argument on this). Originally we thought of spending about a week in Morocco but in the end decided that passing Madrid twice without stopping was folly, so the journey was split between the two (as is this account).

October 2015

Day 1: Fratton to Barcelona

We get to Paris almost on autopilot these days; the trundle down the road to Fratton station, join the bleary-eyed commuters into Waterloo, then crowded Bakerloo and Victoria line trains to St Pancras International. Standard class on the Eurostar is actually about the most cramped train we use, but the journey is usually smooth and straightforward. This time it stops at both Ebbsfleet and Ashford, which is new for us, but arrives more or less on time in Paris Nord.

We need to get to Gare de Lyon for the TGV to Barcelona. Last time we were in this situation, going to Lyon, we got a taxi but the Paris traffic rendered it slow and expensive. On the return leg we had discovered the RER ligne D, a direct link between the two stations pausing only at Chatelet Les Halles. So we arrive at the station €15 richer and in plenty of time for lunch before boarding.

The new high speed link between Paris and Barcelona is a joint SNCF/Renfe enterprise and there's a moment's consternation as the guard takes our tickets away with him but he eventually manages to explain he has a French machine and ours are Spanish tickets. We are thus settled in our very comfortable first class seats with a glass of wine, speeding south on what should be a six hour journey to the Catalan capital.

The scenery through France south of Paris can be spectacular, particularly along the coast, but it's October and just past Montpellier the train is delayed so we pass through the region in the evening gloom. After enjoying a spectacular sunset over the distant Pyrenees, we finally arrive at Barcelona Sants over 20 minutes late and in the dark.

This is where I have to admit to a planning oversight. When booking the hotel for our overnight stay I looked at a map, found a large railway station and searched for nearby hotels. What I didn't realise was that the lines going into Barcelona Sants, the main station, are largely underground and thus don't show up clearly on maps, unlike the large and apparently barely used Estacio de Franca near the waterfront and this is where I found our hotel and the restaurant I'd booked in advance.

Luckily there's a suburban train between the two stations.
Unfortunately our TGV was late and we missed it.

So the €15 saved in Paris was spent in Barcelona and we arrived at out hotel just in time to rush to the restaurant next door and beg them to hold our reservation for 5 minutes while we checked in and dumped our cases.

Thankfully the maitre d' was obliging and we collapsed in to our chairs at the table once occupied by Lauren Bacall and enjoyed a fantastic meal of local charcuterie, salt cod salad, proper dark and earthy paella, sausage and beans and a welcome glass or two of cava. I finished off with a grappa sorbet, which was a very interesting experience and set me up nicely for a good night's sleep.

We staggered back to the hotel, all of twenty yards, and collapsed into our spacious bed, not forgetting to set the alarm for 6.30 the following morning.

Day 2: Barcelona to Tangier

If you have an intercity ticket in Spain you get a free suburban train connection if you need it. With this in mind we rock up at Estacio de Franca at 7am ready to catch one of the several trains that will take us back to Barcelona Sants in time for our 8.30 departure. The station is a cavernous shell with ten platforms, no concession stands, and no trains yet either. Ours should be here by now but it's not. Eventually, just as we're wondering whether to get another taxi, just to be on the safe side, a train rolls in to the station and sits at the platform we're expecting ours to be. But there's no announcement and the boards don't change. There are by now about twenty people waiting for this train, half of them decide this must be it and set off to board. We're among those who wait - we can't afford to be wrong and end up in Girona. Finally a guard appears and assures us that this is the train we want and we arrive at Sants with enough time still for breakfast.

Since the Madrid bombings, Spanish stations x-ray all baggage for intercity trains, so there's a queue for the machine and another for the ticket check-in desk but we're soon off to Antequera on the Malaga train with what turns out to be the FC Barcelona handball team heading for a match in Cordoba (which they win comfortably). Spanish turista class is more comfortable than second class in the UK, "Pride" is playing on the little tv screens above our heads but we're crossing an unfamiliar landscape and it's fascinating. By the end of the day I must have seen a billion olive trees!

Antequera Sant Ana is a new out of town station, built we suspect as an interchange for the high speed lines. We get off and learn that our connection to Algeciras is delayed so there's not much to do but sit in the pleasant autumn sunshine looking out on yet another massive olive grove and wait out the extra 15 minutes. We left Barcelona 1000km and over five hours ago and it's going to take another three hours to finish the 150km to Algeciras as we spend the next two climbing high into the Sierra Nevada behind an engine whose chugging demeanour would be so much more fitting were it a steam loco. The scenery is breathtaking however and we're loving it.

Arriving in Algeciras, our first concern is to exchange our emailed ferry booking into an actual ticket. It's a short walk to the ferry port and we have no trouble achieving our goal and settle down in the café with a beer and a sandwich to wait for the shuttle bus to Tarifa. We've decided to cross the straits this way because the fast cat from Tarifa goes directly into Tangier, whereas the ferries from Algeciras tend to go to Tangier Med, the commercial port some 50km out of town. It's also supposed to be more romantic but the crossing's not till 9pm and it's still October so it's dark by the time we leave.

Crossing to Morocco is an administrative palaver. X-ray and passport check in the port, police form and passport stamp on the boat, an official checks your passport as you get off the boat see you have indeed got it stamped, another x-ray and passport check in the terminal before you are released into the Moroccan night. There are also young men offering help with every eventuality, for a price not mentioned in advance. We scurry out towards the gate, resolutely refusing all offers of help with our bags, our currency or our transport arrangements. Our hotel is a small riad in the medina, quite close to the port - it looks easily walkable but it's dark and unfamiliar and I can't make out exactly where we are on the map. A taxi pulls up on the off chance and says he will take us for €5 so we give in and go with him. Sadly he approaches the place from the wrong direction and can only drop us around 50m short of our destination. It's now about 10pm. Getting more and more spooked we drag our frighteningly noisy cases up the narrow cobbled street, though strange sounds and smells, till we spy a sign that says "Dar Jameel". Of course, it's not a conventional hotel with a brightly lit porch and a doorman; it's down an alleyway, there's a small sign and a heavy wooden door. We knock. After what seems like an eternity a very friendly young man answers and ushers us in, we confirm who we are and are offered mint tea and a seat on a very comfortable divan.

Our room is on the top floor and there's no lift, so one final effort awaits before we can reach the sanctuary of the bed. But we've made it - Fratton to Tangier overland in two days.

Day 3: In Tangier

Awoken by the call to prayer from the nearby mosque, day three dawns along with the re-realisation that we're on a different continent. Looking out of the window the scene is as benign today as it was scary last night and we're excited to go exploring. The breakfast room is just outside our bedroom and we help ourselves to juice and coffee. I have a yoghurt too. We are then brought rolls, flatbreads, olives and cream cheese along with croissants and jam; a real mix of cuisines.

We need cash and the nearest ATMs are in the Grand Socco (square) which we are assured is not far and easy to find. The route takes us past the mosque and along what turns out to be a fairly major street through the medina. "Mr Haggler" cheerily invites us into his shop but we politely decline and carry on, through the Petit Socco, until we spy an ATM. It turns out to be empty but there's another across the square and we stock up with Dirhams and head towards the Casbah.

We find our way eventually, our map's not great and we end up taking a long way round, there's a lovely looking café and we stop for mint tea under a tree. Various tour parties pass through and there's a small group of young men ever willing to help. They're happy to leave us alone while it looks like we're not going anywhere, but as we start to move off one of them is at our shoulder offering to guide us to the museum. He's not easily put off and he's still with us offering titbits of information as we go along. We give in and Karim takes us on a tour of the sights of the Casbah finishing up at the door to the museum. He's very personable and speaks a number of languages - he has marketable skills - but wants an absurd fee for his efforts. We stand firm and he accepts a more reasonable amount and we part.

The museum is a cool oasis, and although the exhibits are not shown off to their best effect, it's interesting. There's a garden and we sit a while before moving on.

On leaving the Casbah we are approached by another would be guide and it takes quite an effort to shake him off but we are eventually left to wander the streets on our own. Fetching up again at the Petit Socco we stop for mint tea and cake. Sitting outside to watch the world go by leaves us open to approaches from the various hawkers plying their wares but it's all very convivial and they're politely rebuffed and anyway are easily distracted by the groups of tourists that pass regularly from the German cruise ship in port today.

There's a modern art museum not too far away and we head off. The route takes us through a flea market and the stalls get increasingly "jumble-y" as we make our way up the hill. The gallery turns out to be closed though so we decided to head down towards the beach and to lunch. We pass, fascinated, through the more food oriented end of the market and stop at a small restaurant near the beach for cous cous and tagine. It's strangely empty for a place close to the seafront and the waiter is clearly not used to tourists, but the food is tasty and filling. I drop my camera on the floor and it throws a hissy fit, refusing to work until we get home again. Which is as annoying as you can imagine as I'm left with my phone for remaining pictures.

There's massive development going on at the seafront; they're building a new port to attract more cruise ships and it's eaten up half the beach. A lot of the beach-side bars and clubs have also closed and there's a definite 'end of season' feel about the place. Still, we decide to head for the sand anyway and find our way down from the promenade.

And there sat Layla the camel. Terrific excitement as we took turn to ride, chatting with her handler whose brother lives in Rotherham of all places. After which it was high time for a siesta and we strolled back to Dar Jameel.

We had noticed a nice looking restaurant round the corner and decided we'd eat there. A good choice; we had a great meal. Nearby we passed a small workshop three-quarters full of loom and stopped to look. The proprietor, or at least the chap left to watch over it, scurried over and we started chatting. His English was particularly good and we noticed a hint of an unusual accent, not surprising as it turned out he'd spent 19 years in Glasgow! Hand woven scarf duly purchased, we retired to bed for an early start to Casablanca in the morning.

Day 4: Tangier to Casablanca

Tangier station is a curious affair. It's a long way from the building to the platforms past ornamental gardens and the train isn't necessarily parked as near to the end as it could be. First class tickets on ONCF are pretty cheap and they afford you at least the luxury of air-conditioning. The whole system is getting upgraded, there's a high-speed line being built, but the current stock is reminiscent of 1980s British Rail - the lavatory is a toilet bowl over a hole in the floor for instance.

First class in Morocco is routinely the carriage at the back of the train so we find our compartment quite easily and settle in for the long journey south. Travelling through the Moroccan countryside is pretty eye-opening. For a start, it's much greener and more fertile than we imagined, most of the land we travelled alongside was being farmed - lots of small strips chequer-boarding the land we passed were being ploughed, either by tractor or oxen, ready for the winter growing season. It's a beautiful country. Cattle egrets (I think that's what they were) followed the livestock and the plough and small herds of sheep and goats, and cows, dotted the terrain feeding on the remains of the harvest helping to clear the land for the next crop.

Alongside this bucolic idyll, building work was going on everywhere and not just the new rail line, which incidentally was being constructed piecemeal rather than from one end to the other. There were both large construction projects and new housing of all sizes and all stages of completion in the towns and villages along the tracks. Interestingly, houses look like they're built almost from the inside out - people would be living in structure that appeared completely unfinished from the outside, others would be superficially rendered, some had more elaborate rendering, a few were painted and finished but all were lived in once they were habitable. There were of course other structures that were less salubrious still, sometimes what looked like an animal shelter turned out to be someone's home and sadly there was rubbish, mostly plastic, everywhere.

Our journey was incident free (apart from the small boy getting frightened witless by an express train passing the window as he looked out) and we arrived at Casa Voyageurs station 5½ hours after leaving Tangier. Once again I'd booked a hotel near the wrong station but at least it was in the area of town that we wanted to be. A taxi was required so we approached the rank, such as it was, and were ushered towards one of the many ropey-looking red hatchbacks claiming to be a licensed cab. Casablanca's traffic is mental. Weaving around other weaving cars we somehow made it to our hotel, but not before our driver picked up a young woman along the way in what appeared to be a perfectly normal transaction - the taxi was not full, and she could make use of the spare seat.

Our room was enormous with a super king-sized bed. And there's plenty of time for a quick rest, perhaps a shower, before heading to Rick's for dinner.

Next: Rick's, a late night crossing, Madrid and home.