For those who are unimpressed by Papacy, there is a more compelling reason to visit Avignon:- it is also the inspiration for that famous French tune, "Sur le Pont d'Avignon". Legend holds that a young shepherd heard divine voices instructing him to build the bridge, and for many years it was the only crossing point for the Rhone. Today, less than half of the bridge remains, but the divine voices linger on - this time, in primary schools throughout the world. For those who are a little rusty on the lyrics, one can buy a host of postcards complete with sheet music, full verses and rows of medieval dancing girls to give the feel of the tune.

The city of Avignon is fortified: completely surrounded by stone walls around ten metres high. Within the city walls, one finds a pleasant place of winding streets, old apartments and modern shops. Spring blooms were in full technicolour glory and people sat in the sun - it was the warmest place in France that day, with not a breath of wind. We found our hotel - a smelly little laundry room which I absurdly liked because it reminded me of being in South America – but still we resolved to only come home when necessary - any earlier than that and the smell of bleach would permeate our nostrils for the rest of our trip.

As our time in Avignon was limited, we decided to go to the Palace first. On entering, we were given handpieces which were programmed to tell us all sorts of fascinating things about the Popes who has lived there at one time. I started off enthusiastic, but there were only so many things they could tell us - to me there seemed an inordinately large number of rooms where the Pope received people, had someone dress him, or had someone feed him.

there seemed an inordinately large number of rooms where the Pope received people, had someone dress him, or had someone feed him.

Or had someone feed him while receiving people, or received people while someone dressed him. Rarely did he have someone feed him and dress him at the same time, which only goes to show that the twelfth century must have left a Pope in Avignon with a lot of time on his hands.

The highlights of the Palatial visit were walking into the courtyard for the first time, where on looking up, a group of school children in the balcony above were waving, blowing kisses and blessing us. Perhaps these are recent inventions of the Papacy, as the instructive talks made no mention of the Pope waving from a balcony in the twelfth century, although they did mention the Pope giving a golden rose (an honour), or a fur hat trimmed with pearls (an even greater honour) to people he particularly liked. Alas, no pearl-trimmed hats or golden roses floated down to us, though we were lucky enough to dodge any children's goobies, which must have been a blessing in itself.

After we had walked the 25 rooms of the Palace, from ceremonial rooms to chapels, cloisters and private papal apartments, it was getting late, but we were reluctant to return to our hostel until it was time to sleep. And so we found a restaurant which, from the outside, seemed typically "French". It was based on a Theatre theme. The walls were curtain-red, curling posters of French plays were stuck to the walls, and we ate wedged between a wine cupboard and an old-fashioned film camera. Funnily enough, the service, too, was also typically "French" - that abrupt, glowering service for which only les francaises are renowned.

An example of the typical conversation:

WAITER Bonjour
US Bonjour
WAITER A table for two?
US Yes, and non-smoking please.
WAITER (Abruptly) There is no non-smoking.

(At this point the customer at the table next to our conversation pointedly lights his cigarette)

US Ok.

* * * 

WAITER You would like to order your meal?
US Yes please. What wine do you recommend?
WAITER They are all good.

* * *

US This dessert - what is it?
WAITER An apple pie.
US Could I get it with cream, or icecream?
WAITER No.

* * *

WAITER The wine you want - we don't have it. Choose again.

* * *

In any event, it was sort of nice to be able to talk about French service again! In Paris I have been consistently astounded by how nice the waiting staff have become - nothing is too much trouble; people make conversation and smile with the eyes. Here at least we were back in traditional snarly country, and it allowed us a snigger while we ate our (admittedly very good) meal.

The next day we only had time for a tea and croissant in a sunny outdoor cafe, before it was time to pick up Bertrand's mother from Nimes.

On the way, Bertrand was particularly taken with the idea of visiting the "Pont du Gard", an ancient Roman bridge with three levels and standing around fifty metres high. The only problem was, due to what he scathingly called the "Disney-isation" of the Roman ruin, we could get no further than the gigantic carpark, which charged five euros to enter. And so we parked up the road and walked there ourselves.

The walk was a warm, waspy kind of promenade, where humming insects rose from our footfall and flowers nodded from the roadside. It suddenly felt like summer, and I could all too well imagine being some kind of Roman, walking from village to village asking for bread and cheese, perhaps leading a horse. It was romantic, foresty, pleasant country. But when we finally got to the bridge, it seemed to be a classic example of the Roman tendency to overdo things. The river was barely ten metres wide, and towering above it, fifty metres into the air, with arches on three levels, and built on stupendous legs of stone, was the bridge. It was a feat; it was enormous; it made the eyes water just to look at the top of it.

There was a lot of graffiti carved into the sandstone of the bridge, but the people had thoughtfully written their names in Romanesque lettering - and the graffiti dated back as far as the 1700s. We wanted to walk across the bridge, but could only get halfway, as an enormous crane was doing repair work in the middle of the bridge.

Oddly, there was a sign (written only in English) that we noticed on the way back which stated NATURISM PROHIBITED. I wondered how many times they must have had English tourists streaking across the bridge before feeling it necessary to put up a sign like that.