Willma has been getting admirers. Yesterday at the services, a youth in a hot hatch pulled up next door. Casting a glance at her side bars and wheels, he said only “Sympa!” A term of approval, (I think). And last night, had a long chat to Dan, whose comment was “Nice wheels”. An interesting chap, making a new life for his family in France, and developing a business as a furniture dealer. “Paris is the best place to buy; all the cafés that Covid shut are selling off their furniture, sad for them but. And it’s trendy in London, so a good mark up. I’m getting to know where’s the best places to buy: Alsace is good for armoires, so I go there occasionally.” Being on the road, he misses his wife and two year old, so was glad to find someone to chat at length to.

Today was my first day visiting Lyon. I was in doubt regarding the validity of my City Card on public transport, despite assurances from reception it would work. The doubt came when the guy said “and if it doesn’t you can always use a credit card”. Hmm. In the scramble to,get on the bus, I wafted the phone at the screen; couldn’t hear whether there was a peep or not. Transferring to the metro system, no chance. By this point, I was travelling with a bunch of German campers. Joachim and Moniker from near Munich are pitched opposite, so got chatting at the bus stop. The other couple, who had a physical city card, got struck on the Metro entrance. We never saw them again. I’d worked out by now from the rather cryptic statement on the printout, I needed to visit the Tourist office to sort it out.

Even if the Tourist Officer speaks good English, it’s difficult to hear with hearing aids, through a plate glass screen. A city Travel Pass was duly issued. I’d left meine neue freunde at the Old Lyon stop, so the rest of the trip was solo. From the square, I wandered what I thought was South, but turned out to be West. Rosie never forgave me for my map reading blunder in Montpellier, she’d have revelled in this one! However, like any good flâneur, I did a little pavement hopping, stopped for a coffee and croissant to keep me going, and tried to unlose myself. I had intended to head south, to the confluence of the two mighty rivers, but realising I’d come to the banks of the Saône, sauntered through the press of the Sunday farmers’ market. I resisted the temptation of engaging the American tourists in conversation, knowing it would be an easy call.

Of course, of all the lovely shots of exotic fruit and veg, food and drink, even one of nougat, I had to take one of pots. I’m survey had a better one.

Lyon doesn’t do things by halves. Coming out of the Metro, I was confronted by the Paul Bocuse school of cookery; and the restaurant run by his acolytes. He’s credited with inventing Nouvelle Cuisine, and was an inspiration for Ratatouille. It has not one, but two funicular railways. I travelled them both. One of them takes you to the top of the Fourvière hill, where the Roman town was established. There are two ruined Roman theatres there; in one of them they were rigging for a show. But I mean, how many theatres did Lugudunum need? The Main house held 10000, while the Odeon, used for musicals, held 3000. This photo was taken from the archeology museum, built into the hillside.

The view from the top of the hill, near the Notre Dame basilica, is stunning, all the way across to the Alps. There’s another cathedral at the bottom of the Hill, John the Baptist, just in case you run short of one. As far as I could tell, both were catholic, unlike Liverpool where alternative confessions are catered for.

By the time I’d wandered round these, I was starting to feel my age a bit, so decided to start wending. (There was a German tribe in the post-Roman period called the Wends – I wonder if they invented it?). Walking down the hill, I came across a sign for the other funicular, so using my previous travel card, used it to get to the station; which was also the Metro interchange. At the end of the metro ride, there was a long wait for the bus back to the campsite, where I had a nice chat with a lady in a hijab, some of which I understood; and a chap from Tunisia, much of which I didn’t. Friendly helpful people. The lady and I agreed that it was sad seeing all the kids on their mobiles; she was harder on them than me, but each to their own.

Tomorrow, I really want to go back and see the Mur des Canuts, a huge tromp l’oeil mural dedicated to the silk weavers of the city. I’d better take my umbrella: the sky has already darkened, and we have storms forecast. But at least I know how to get about. Hope I don’t end up looking like this funerary mask>