Lille to Marseille – France

The story begins in Lille, a city that appeared notoriously difficult to get accommodation six months in advance, and one that did I didn’t have high expectations of. Five married guys and I were visiting for the final group stages of the Rugby World Cup, and somehow it fell on me to get the accommodation and trains booked. I hate organising such events because inevitably people will complain. After hours of searching, I had found a six-bed dorm in the centre of Lille that looked tidy, was close to the train station, and at less than £500 for three nights was a bargain compared to the hotels for that weekend. I had no idea what everyone else’s budgets were, it was practical, and it kept us all together, job done. Queue 24 hours of abuse because some of the chaps weren’t accustomed to anything less than a private en-suite room at a country shooting lodge. Thankfully, after that initial period of time they realised we would be spending almost none of our waking hours at the hostel and when we were awake, we would be drunk or hungover. As for Lille, it has a beautiful city centre full of classical French architecture home to numerous restaurants, cafes, and countless boulangeries. The streets were full of rugby fans for most of the weekend, closely observed by a significant police presence as well as heavily armed army patrols. I’m almost certain this was counterterrorism and not riot control as this simply doesn’t happen at rugby matches, but it did get me thinking. If the French army were patrolling in areas where they could bring genuine stability, the Sahel for instance, wouldn’t that reduce the threat back in France? This applies to all of Europe, and I know it’s complicated as the Sahel has proven, but still. On saying that, there was one knife related incident involving an Englishman. Our first night in Lille involved finding somewhere to sit and watch the French play Italy. Turning away from the busy centre we happened upon a bar that kindly sat us in the basement on sofas in front of a large tv. It was empty, probably because we had arrived over three hours early, but sure enough the venue started to fill, the match kicked off, and the largely French crowd turned on the party atmosphere. Because of our success in finding a sofa to watch the match, the price we paid was the bar served no food except pringles, nuts, and sausage. The first I knew of the sausage was when I watched my brother-in-law negotiate his way through a drunken crowd holding a cheeseboard with a large sausage and wielding an equally large knife. He then proceeded to wave the knife around asking who wanted sausage while slicing off pieces before leaving the knife lying on a table once its purpose had been served. Nowhere in a city in England would I be able to sit in a crowded bar or pub with an 8-inch kitchen knife sat lying around, nor would it be permitted. Incidentally, the sausage was great!

With England scraping through their rugby match with Samoa, and several other matches in between, Monday soon came around and I parted ways with the boys and jumped on a train down to Lyon. I had to be in Marseille on Friday and saw little point in heading back to England. It was in Lyon where I ate my first meal with cutlery for three days, albeit pizza, washed down with some delicious local wine, and waited on by a less than typically flippant waiter. This chap was nice and above all patient, two things that tend to allude the majority of service staff in France, but then thinking about it, good service is hard to find in many places. The strange thing with French wait staff is that they all tend to be French and it is seen as a job that shouldn’t be reduced to an app and an overseas worker. Yeah, they all go at their own pace and appear to not give a damn if you want to be their customer or not, but I’m learning to appreciate that undertone of arrogance. After all, it’s hard to find anything but good food and drink in France.

I only spent two nights in Lyon, most of it enjoying some time to myself in-between working up the confidence to go out to cafes and restaurants to blurt out my almost non-existent, putrid French. I always felt the French hated the English whenever we tried to speak French poorly and so I took it personally, but I have since realised that this is just their general demeanour when dealing with any customer that isn’t from the immediate local area; since coming to this conclusion, I am able to approach such interactions with a greater freedom. Lyon is what I would describe as a typical French city with a large river running through it, many old, grand buildings, and a few special sites of interest. The Basilica of Notre-Dame de Fourviere sits on a hill overlooking the city and was the obvious place to aim for. The views of the city were as excellent as I had expected but it was the inside of the Basilica that really took my breath away. Most religious sites within their intended audience are the same, and after seeing a handful it becomes rapidly boring. On the rare occasion as happened here, I was greeted with such intricate beauty that I found it hard to peel my eyes away. The Basilica was large but not overwhelming, the lighting and atmosphere perfectly balanced, the frescoes on the ceiling and walls incredibly detailed yet relatable. Religious extravagance for sure, but one of the rarities that I appreciated. Just around the corner I stumbled upon an old Roman amphitheatre as one does. As with the Basilica, entry was free and most of the intact site was free to roam about as one wished. Huge lighting platforms had been unceremoniously and permanently erected with complete disregard to the historical significance of the site yet ironically ensured the amphitheatre would continue to be used for its original purpose 2,000 years ago.

A high-speed train whisked me through the ever-increasing beauty of the French countryside and delivered me to Marseille, an all together different city to the ones I’ve visited in France so far. First impressions weren’t great as I dodged the dog shite on the pavements and looked on in awe at everything having been tagged with graffiti. While there may be some good graffiti in Marseille, the majority is complete nonsense. This was to be a couples weekend with two quarter-final rugby matches to look forward to and luckily for Rut and I, an opportunity to see both England and Argentina in action. However, being a couples weekend there had to be time built in for sightseeing, one day of which we spent outside Marseille. We visited the town of Avignon with its incredible 14^th century Papal Palace, had a delicious lunch, and caught the train across to Arles to take in their Roman Amphitheatre. Both towns were stunning, both attractions were stunning in their own right, but not left free of little Frenchisms. The Papal Palace is huge and spectacular yet inside it’s largely empty as they provide visitors with a tablet which is used to scan QR codes in various rooms and brings up a very jazzy computer generated and interactive scene. So, for instance, in the large empty banqueting hall you can move the tablet around the room and it will show a full-on banquet in progress on the screen. It’s no surprise that the tablet, although ingenious, was actually a little temperamental and did the opposite of what it intended by removing me from the physicality of the room and losing all my attention to a bloody screen. As for the amphitheatre, well it was covered in scaffolding, not for restoration, but with seating so that people could watch the bull fights that still happen. Animal welfare aside, it kind of spoilt the view and ambiance of the place. But as already mentioned, why have historical re-enactments when you can just carry on with the building’s original purpose. A boat trip the following day from Marseille, where the boat’s engines died within 20 minutes of setting off, presented an altogether more beautiful side of Marseille and over the coming days, as we found our way around, I began to warm to the city. There is no doubt I will return even if it is only as a starting point to exploring the innumerable gems of southern France, until then, Paris awaits.