Boat or tunnel?  This was the first question everyone asked when he said he was driving to France.

Not “Why?”.  Or, “Are you sure you should be chasing some dopey letter half way across the Continent?”.  These were not, it seemed, the burning questions on everybody’s lips.  As ever, in a world ruled by one-way-systems, mini-roundabouts and traffic-calming schemes, it was how, not why you were traveling that fired imaginations in the suburbs.  He wondered if Van Gogh had this trouble when he announced he was leaving for the South.

“So Vincent, will you be taking the A10, cutting across at Orleans, thus avoiding the Periphique altogether?” 

“No, Vinny old son, you don’t want to do that.  Stick on the A1, straight through Paris by the back-doubles, then keep going till you see a load of sunflowers...”.

Suddenly cutting your ear off didn’t seem such a stupid idea.

What these well-meaning, if slightly irritating inquisitors didn’t realize, of course, was that the question “Boat or Tunnel?”  was the automotive equivalent of “Alzheimer’s or Parkinson’s?” He held both in equal dread.  In the end he’d opted for the ferry, applying the grim logic that, when it came to 12 billion gallons of ice-cold sea-water, he’d prefer to be over, rather than under.

Decision made, all that was left for him to do was to check the weather forecast the night before, just to confirm that Hurricane Quentin, or whoever they were up to, wasn’t heading for the Garden of England, as it hilariously announced itself.  That, and to invest in some pharmaceutical grade sea-sickness pills.

He’d been recommended one of those copper bracelets by a woman who was very big on “alternative” health -- very big all round, in fact.  (All her friends blamed Ferrero Rocher rather than anything readily available from Holland & Barret -- it seemed she had been attending the Ambassador’s Reception just a  little too regularly.  First name terms, in fact.).

Either way Tim politely declined – he’d always understood the “alternative” to health to be illness, and eventually, death.  Plus, he reckoned that if copper really was an antidote to the gray sweats and a heaving stomach, they’d have put it in beer years ago.

By the time he arrived at Dover the drizzle had got its act together and turned into a good old English pelt.  Visibility was down to about 10 yards (somewhat of a blessing in Dover) and the harbour looked like a bath left to run too long, boats like cheap plastic ducks.

It would get worse before it got better.

His car safely stowed, he headed straight for the top deck to get a good view of the horizon  -- this being the sole, half-way successful method of prevention he’d ever employed -- only to have his way barred by some Captain Ahab-type telling them that it was far too dangerous to go on deck and that they’d all have to “get below”.  A few comedians orchestrated a mass Long John Silver impersonation, but the bulk of the passengers proceeded, cow-like, down the sluiced and salty stairs, into the bowels of the ship.

Rows of seats, like a cinema without a screen, filled the passenger deck.  Those timid souls who lacked the stomach for seven pints and a fry-up, gingerly picked their way across until they found somewhere to sit out the misery.  By the time Tim  wormed his way through the screaming shell-suits and comfortably shod pensioners, all the seats at the front -- the ones with the faint possibility of seeing some glimmer of daylight through the filthy plate glass windows -- were, of course, taken.  So, in lieu of a decent seat, he attempted to maximize the distance between him and any explosive looking babies, keeping an eye out for anyone already running through the green section of the Dulux colour chart.  Satisfied that he could do no better, he settled in and resolutely began sucking his barley sugar.

Eventually, to everyone’s relief, the skies cleared and things became as close to pleasant as it is possible for two hours on a floating toilet to be.  To celebrate, the prisoners were allowed up on deck and Tim had his first view of France for nearly twenty-five years.  And, as unprepossessing as it was, this first sight of the Port of Calais stirred something within that had laid dormant for all those years.  In a flash, he realized he still loved this country.  He’d never stopped loving this country.  And no amount of painful memories would convince him otherwise.

*

Now, just as then, the South announced itself to the nostrils before the rest of the senses.

The dry, slightly perfumed air, full of baked earth and lavender, cypress and sea-water, insinuated itself into the fug of the rattling carriage as it pulled away from the platform.

Even at this ungodly hour Lyon Station was a jumble of thrilling senses.  The sound of bins being   emptied and streets being washed down fought with the clatter of the destination board spelling out the trains” itinerary.  And it too had its own palette of smells.  The caustic, eye-watering fumes from the engine brakes; diesel and black coffee.  Behind that, the ultimate olfactory cliché, as the first baguettes of the day were turned out, crisp and hot from the baker’s ovens.

Then, fleetingly, a few more molecules of the South.  A promise of parched, tight skin, salty lips and cool, purple wine.  And with it, the usual vividly incoherent mishmash of images, gone in a heartbeat.

It was three in the morning on the overnight car train bound for Avignon, and he hadn’t slept a wink. 

He could hardly blame his quarters.  One of the pleasures of re-visiting the haunts of your poverty stricken youth in your mildly affluent middle age was that you could buy your way out of trouble.  So, he’d splashed out on a First Class “Wagon Lit”. 

The compartment itself was a marvel.  A typically French triumph of pretension over physics.  Polished wood, brass screws, ingenious little folding sections, places for toothbrushes, wineglasses - it was like a Louis Vuitton prison cell.

The toilet was, thankfully, elsewhere -- a barefoot pad down the corridor, past the sleeping guard.  He’d once traveled on an Amtrak sleeper during a trip to the States.  There his “roomette” (even the yanks hadn’t the nerve to call it a room) consisted of an upholstered train seat and a loo.  During the day you either, sat in the chair and stared at the loo.  Or, sat on the loo and stared at the chair.

This was far more civilized.

He craned his head further out of the open window to look at the sky.  Dawn couldn’t be far away.  His first day in the South.

He didn’t bother getting back into bed.  He’d spent most of the last hour with his eyes squeezed shut, pretending to be asleep.  But it had fooled no-one.

There would be no sleep now. 

He stared back at the station, now shrinking into the cool night.  Someone must have disembarked, because he could make out a young woman with a case, standing alone on the platform. 

He looked across at his own battered museum piece.  Strange that it, too, should be making this pilgrimage back to the source, back to the point in the road where turnings had been made, avenues closed forever – where life had become a cul-de-sac (an ironically French word for such an English phenomenon).  But it had seemed right, somehow, and he made sure it escaped the clutches of Maureen’s van.

A glance back at the station, but the woman and her suitcase had gone.  He fell back into his seat.  Memories of that first trip South began to surface.  A different time.  A different place.

But, sleep, like love, has a tendency to appear just when you think it never will.  And so it was he awoke, several hours later, in that different place.

They were trundling past a field of sunflowers, already drawing a bead on the early morning rays.  Still cool, the air bristled with expectation.  Heat was on it’s way and a fat, lazy farm cat was weaving through the tough green stalks, seeking out the day’s shade.

Tim blinked a couple of times to re-calibrate his eyes to the light.

Like many before him he’d been astounded to discover that the light really was different down here -- not just some romantic fancy to file next to Van Gogh’s ear and Piccasso’s stripey jumper.

Whether his newly attuned nostrils had smelt it, or the steward had read his mind, the second he thought of coffee, his reverie was interrupted by a polite knock.  He made himself decent and opened the veneered door to a tray of coffee, bottled orange juice and a sweet brioche.

“Bonjour monsieur, you slept well?  We arrive in Avignon in just under an hour.  Your ticket and passport.  Bon Appetit”.

He was gone.  Through the wall he heard the same speech, again in English.  He gratefully took the breakfast tray and his documents, pleased to have both in his possession.  Using his left hand to shield against drips -- why did he always travel in white? -- he dipped the shiny brioche into his coffee.  Half slurping, half chewing he hungrily dispatched the lot, immediately wishing he had another.  He consoled himself with the thought of a second, more leisurely breakfast in the Place d’Horloge.  He opened the bottled fruit juice on the cunningly concealed opener beneath the fold-away sink.  It was as cool as well-water and washed away the staleness of the night.  Nose to the glass he continued to sip coffee as Haut-Provence slid by.

He had been disappointed to learn that they were not stopping at Avignon station proper, but at some staging post two miles outside the city walls.  This was where the cars were to be unloaded.  Re-folding the letter along it’s fragile creases, Tim tucked it into his inside pocket and swung his case out into the corridor.  The train ground to a halt, the last shudder nearly knocking him off his feet.  And then, as he disembarked, the unexpected depth of the last step jarred his dodgy knee.  Christ!  At this rate he’d be lucky to make it to the hotel in one piece.  He limped towards a bench and waited under the relatively safe shade of an oleander tree.

Some of the more agile travelers, and a few who really should have known better, clambered up onto the wagons in an attempt to get to their cars before the French locals got their hands on them.  Concerned wives looked on as men who only changed a light bulb under duress allowed male pride to get the better of them.  And little wonder.  These “chauffeurs” were not the peaked-capped, grey-suited, if slightly nicotine-stained, gents of legend.  In fact, they looked like the kind of people who might be more inclined to steal your car rather than run a well-worn chamois over it.  As the first vehicle screeched down the ramp, throwing up dust and gravel, he wondered whether he should be doing the same.  A beautiful old Jag, British racing green, tore past him.  Its owner, visibly shaken, took the keys off the grinning driver and immediately began to give his beloved motor the once over.

Ah!  The British and their cars.  If ever you wanted to draw the differences between these two great nations, you could do a lot worse than start with the role of the motor car.

He watched the Jag guy continue to check for scratches as his own car, a far from classic grey BMW, squealed to a halt a couple of feet away.  He nonchalantly threw his case onto the back seat, pretending not to look for dents and scratches.  Tim settled into the leather interior.  As is the custom in these cases, the driver had taken full advantage of the 150 yard trip to adjust every possible setting on the car.  The seat, mirrors and radio had all been personalized to his particular tastes.  Being at least a foot taller than the previous, albeit brief, occupant, and no great fan of “le pop francais” it took Tim a good five minutes to get everything back to normal.  The air-conditioning, which had been switched to nuclear winter, was turned off and he allowed the warm Provencal air to blow away the cobwebs.

*
 
The walls of the old city come upon you rather suddenly. 

Honeycomb yellow against a peerless blue sky, they had something of the washed out sandcastle about them.  Seven hundred Provencal winters had almost completely eroded the crisp carving, and now a million car exhausts were finishing off the job.  The gypsy market, as old as the walls themselves, was in full swing.

In his memories this had been a romantic, dangerous place.

Now it just looked dangerous.

Tim sighed.  These gypsies really had no idea.  They completely failed to live up to their role as mysterious, itinerant fantasy figures.  They resolutely refused to dress the part.  And if there was more money in fake football shirts than rare and exotic spices, they had no qualms in switching brands. 

He was entering by the Porte de Republique, approaching the Place d’Horloge by that broad road of the same name.  If Avignon had a main drag, the Rue de Republique was it.  He drove past the faded glory of the Hotel Maurice, craning his neck to look into the neighbouring bars and cafes for evidence of change.  Plastic and aluminum seemed to have taken over from zinc and cane, but, apart from that, things appeared fairly intact.  The “morning” bars were filling up, as the human sunflowers took advantage of the rays while still bearable.  Later, as the temperature soared, canopies would be rolled out, and it would be shade that was at a premium.

Tim followed the convoluted signs to an underground car park just off the square.  He zapped the car, locking his case in the boot for safekeeping, and made for the pedestrian exit.

Surprisingly, it bought him up face to face with the Palais de Papes.  An unremittingly ugly building, that would not be out of place on the edge of town as a palace of cheap furniture, had it not been over a thousand years old and the ancient home of the Popes of France.

Tim always felt it looked as if it were made of three very big bricks -- either that or carved from a single, much larger piece of stone.  It was like a prison, not a palace and it dominated the surrounding architecture which had, to all intents and purposes, given up.  A few crappy tourist shops soldiered on, but the whole effect was rather dismal. 

A short walk past the ubiquitous “local artists”, however, delivered you to very different scene. 

The Place d’Horloge.

The square was dominated by eight enormous plane trees, whose shade was it’s raison d’etre.  Each tree’s branches touched it’s neighbours -- giants holding hands in a protective circle around the square.  And, whereas most city trees seemed trapped by their surroundings, you felt that these could walk off whenever they felt like it.  But instead they chose to look after their charges.  Noblesse oblige.

Sheltering gratefully beneath were the bars and restaurants that hugged the perimeter.  But these were just shells.  The real action was out front.  Packed tightly, one establishment’s chairs merged into another, a slight change in colour, style or  fabric the only way to tell where one began and another ended.

Tim remembered how he used to take great amusement in the futile gestures of tourists waving at the wrong waiter from the wrong table.  It made him feel local.  He, of course, had been sitting in the right seat, at the right time, ordering the right thing.  Even better, it wasn’t on the menu.  The sense of belonging was almost too much to bear.

Along with these memories came a photograph.  A faded colour picture of a man in a crumpled cream linen suit topped with a battered white Panama.  The man was gesturing dramatically with his smeared glass of rosé -- Tavel, to be sure.  His straggly red beard and slightly too long hair framing a face that had seen a glass too many.  To his right a girl, enthralled by this Falstaffian raconteur in full swing, her deep brown eyes brimming with life and love.

Tim’s heart skipped a beat.  Of course, she’d been there that day.  How could he have forgotten?

Tim had reached the far right hand corner of the square -- his final destination.  Florid gold writing on faded red cushions announced that this was indeed the Café Mistral.  Perfectly placed for a late breakfast (an early coffee was best taken at the “zinc” in L’Harlequin) the tables were caressed by dappled shade, with an unobstructed view of the square.  People-watching heaven, in other words.  And, to complete the analogy, the angelic presence of a hovering waiter.  He quickly, and was pleased to note, fluently, ordered.

The man in the photograph was Piers.  Piers Duchaine.  The Great Deceiver.  The Joker.  Tim’s mentor.

His nemesis, too.

Breakfast arrived -- a piece of buttered baguette and a nut brown coffee.  The journey was over.