Back to Lyon on the 89 bus; metro, then change for Town Hall. My objective, if I had one, was to get a sense of the traditional workers’ area. It looked quite a way on Google maps, but what it didn’t show was how many of those footsteps were uphill: literally up steps. This was a traipse; not a saunter, or a wend. Stopping frequently to take on oxygen, I made it to the Croix Rousse, and had a look at the map.

I realised I was still some way off the mural, that had been recommended by Hayley (Paul and Jennie’s best man). And there was rain in the air. Time for the umbrella. This was definitely an arty district – these wall decorations were more mural than graffiti, though there was some tagging too. And a number of small fringe theatre venue and art workshops

Putting one foot in front of the other, and repeating quite often, I eventually made it to the mural, much to my surprise. Obviously getting fitter. Google maps did its thing; couldn’t see it, then rounded a corner. A gaggle of appreciative tourists assembled, all smiling and laughing as they spotted new details. Genuinely, I couldn’t see what was real and what was painting. The shops on the ground floor turned out to be adverts for sponsors, as was the EDF van a little up. As a work of art, it’s top rate. (The reverse of the building is an apartment block)

h up I knew there were other paintings in the area so set off to find them.I came across a cafe that looked OK; waiters in black shirts, tables laid with glasses. No indoor places were free but I was installed under a large umbrella outside. I’d thought it was a simple burger/pizza place, but looking at the menu there were oysters from Noirmoutier, and gambas with ravioli in a Goan style sauce. The plat du jour was Beef Madras, but I stuck with the set menu option. And a glass of Viognier. By this time I’d done 9000 or so steps. Eh up, this will be a big one! There was always the option of taking public transport, but decided to walk it. But not before Id sent a picture to my walking group, by now tucking into bacon sarnies. There was banter.

There was another mural on the map, down by the river front. Set off down the longest staircase I’d ever seen; easier than going up. But by navigational error, I managed to miss it. I did noticeably young lass who’d been taking photos, assignment like, up on the hill. She’d given up the SLR and was using a mobile by now. Anyway, I’d seen there was a puppet theatre, the Theatre des Guignols; and a puppet museum, on my sort-of way back to the Vieux Lyon metro stop. This being Monday, both were shut. I did find the Petit Musee des Marionettes (more of a shop I think), with the Swedish Chef hanging in the window. Burdy burdy Boom! Boom!

It was only down by the river that I realised that I’d probably chosen what Rosie would have had. At that moment I got a WhatsApp message, saying that Lily’s prize was across the school, and voted for by teachers and schoolfriends. For kindness! Looking at her photo reminded me again of her grandma; I think I can see a resemblance, and living again in her. That gave me a ‘moment’, apart from being proud of her. A kind person is a good thing to be. Recently, and I think it’s part of my therapy, Ive been reading books which mention bereavement with interest; maybe I’m ready now. I’d sought out Richard Coles’ book about losing his husband, The Madness of Grief. Matt had given me a copy of Stanley Tucci’s What I ate in a year, where he talks about his first wife; and Michael Rosen’s book Getting Better, where he devotes couple of chapters to suddenly losing his son Eddie from Meningitis. My nightmare thoughts are fading, and it’s now happier memories that occasionally make me well up. I’ll take that. I’m still fighting the loneliness; but I’ve decided that the most I want now is friendship, rather than commitment. It can’t compete with 47 years.

Back to the journey. The last part of the stroll was evidently the tourist hotspot – guided tours, one with Americans who had a guide who was saying something derogatory about the English I think; but I didn’t hear clearly enough to be sure. It would have given me great pleasure to chirp up with “Oy Mate, mind who you’re knocking!” A different kind of esprit de l’escalier. The shops were selling the usual – t-shirts and lavender bags, that kind of stuff; different to the print shops and vinyl places on the hill. The bouchons down here were open, too; I don’t know why the rest of the city shuts them on Sundays and Mondays. There were a few that looked like they were shut for the rest of the week too. My new friend Dan will be up with his van quite shortly.

Trekking back, I bought a bottle of milk near the station, then got back to the camping 14000 steps later. And with two new walking words: strolling and trekking.

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With great satisfaction and immaculate timing, managed to strike the awning and pack away, just as the first large blobs from the thunderstorm touched down.

Watching the new arrivals manoeuvring their caravans reminds me of the fraught times we had in ours. It was always a spectator sport; watching mein herr trying to get over the kerb with his motor mover was a sad experience. By comparison the camper is much simpler – less comfortable of course, but still. It’s always a trade off. Tomorrow I’m off to Grignan, the village where Mme de Sévigné wrote her letters.