Work in progress

Sunday dispatch, written from the sofa, where I intend to remain.

Sunday

There is a particular kind of Sunday-morning thought that arrives uninvited: “Got to get up, things to do.” I met it with the quiet dignity of a man who has nothing to do and is delighted about it. I got up anyway, in a pleasant mood no less, until my legs filed a formal complaint. Yesterday, you see, I walked just over 15 km. Voluntarily. Through a city. In a pair of shoes with opinions.

Saturday

How it began: a cancelled lunch and a city on edge

Saturday was my second day in Lyon, and my lunch date was cancelled as a precaution against announced demonstrations and possibly destructive riots. A sensible decision, and one that left me with a whole free day and a single guiding principle: if you can’t dine, walk.

After a leisurely breakfast at my hotel by Part-Dieu station, I set off for Vieux Lyon, picking a bridge over the Rhône at random like a man choosing a lottery ticket.

The mood in town was sobering. CRS and gendarme vans sat parked and packed with officers in full riot gear, looking like a very serious sports team awaiting a very unsporting fixture. The main pedestrian shopping street had most of its shops boarded up in plywood, with the odd shattered window left over from the previous week’s unrest. Lyon was dressed for a storm. It’s a sad sight, and I walked on with fewer jokes than usual, though not none. I’m only human.

Pew, pew, pause for thought

Another bridge, this time over the Saône, delivered me to Vieux Lyon and the Cathédrale Saint-Jean. I went in and, most unusually for me, actually sat down in a pew. Me! Sitting! Contemplating! Whether it was the soaring stonework, the hush, or simply my feet lobbying for a recess, I’ll never know. But I sat there full of thoughts, and not one of them was “what’s for lunch.”

The ill-advised ascent

Rested and spiritually refuelled, I did what any sensible person does after a moment of peace: I walked up a hill. Fourvière, specifically, which in hindsight may have been a mistake. It’s quite a climb. Manageable, yes, in the way that a root canal is manageable, with the odd strategic stop on the way up where I admired the scenery, by which I mean I wheezed with great panache.

The view from the top might have been spectacular had the sky not decided to dress in head-to-toe cloud. Still, pleasant enough. Lyon looked nice in grey, a sort of “moody Scandinavian film” look.

Salvation, in a glass

Down the hill I went (gravity being the only part of the day that worked in my favour), and into the busy quarter, parched. And there, like an oasis for the thirsty pedestrian, stood Big White, with an impressive selection of world beers. I ignored the world and went local: an excellent regional brew from the Brasserie du Mont Blanc.

The music was from my era, which is a polite way of saying everyone in the bar was playing the soundtrack to my youth. The beer was superb, the seat was heaven, and for twenty glorious minutes, my legs and I made peace.

The return march

Restaurants and bouchons beckoned from every corner, but I wasn’t hungry enough. (Note to self: a sentence I will never write again.) So I headed back toward Part-Dieu by a different route, which in Lyon means, naturally, crossing two more bridges. This city has more bridges than I have opinions.

Les Halles was packed to the rafters with people shopping and, mostly, lunching, a gastronomic Colosseum with a lot of elbows. With a couple of hours before my train, I braved the Westfield mall, all three floors of it, in a crowd that suggested everyone in the region had the same idea. Eventually a small hunger set in. On the cunningly named “Tables” floor I found a pleasant burger joint with table service and a rather pleasant pint. Two pints in one day, for medicinal purposes, naturally. Hydration is important.

All aboard for three hours of nothing

The train was on time, and since Lyon was the starting point it was already waiting at the platform, so I boarded with the smugness of someone who has beaten the system. Then came three hours that appeared to pass in dog years. I managed to write a couple of emails, which is the travel equivalent of cleaning out the garage, and otherwise sat there bored and tired, watching the countryside do its best impression of a screensaver.

I was home by 10 pm, in time for a restful couple of hours in front of the TV, which I consumed with the intensity of a man who has earned it. Final tally: 23 km walked in two days. My step counter is thrilled. My knees have asked to speak to a manager.

Friday

But wait, there’s more

Believe it or not, none of this was the main event. Friday was the real reason for the trip: the Epoqu’Auto show. Gleaming metal, nostalgic engines, and enough chrome to blind a pigeon. But that, dear reader, is a story to come later

Thursday

Wednesday

Tuesday

Monday

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