Moving-on day. Goodbye to our tiny apartment with its splendiferous views:




Down the road to Jourdain metro station. Change at Hotel de Ville for the Gare de Lyon, where we're due to catch the train that heads to the southern coast.

We kind of mistimed this leg... A train that leaves at 1010 (it was a bit late, actually, but that's not the point) means you're doing a metro journey around 0900, and that, in Paris, is still rush hour. You try to efface yourselves and your big bags as much as you can, but on that first metro, we were probably a nuisance... Also, the train we'd booked was due to get us to Toulon a couple of hours before we could check into the new accommodation. Double whammy. We can only assume it was the price that led us to this not totally sensible choice.

Anyway, Gare de Lyon. We've not travelled from this station since our trip to Milan in 2019. It's a handsome station:




But both times there's been something slightly shambolic about it. There's nowhere to sit, for a start, and then when they suddenly change your platform to one in a different Hall, there's not enough room to accommodate the vast swarm of people suddenly simultaneously on the move.

But eventually we're on board. TGVs are very comfortable, and we've even copped an obstruction-free window (a comparative rarity for us):


You whizz down the country, stop-free, all the way to Marseille (passing, en route, a snow-covered Mont Ventoux, scene of Panda's triumph back in 1990...). Toulon is the next stop after that.

It's interesting to watch the countryside change on the four-hour journey down through France. From the wooded hills, huge fields, and cloudy skies of the north, to the rugged rocks, vineyards, red roofs, and brilliant blue of the south:







Thinking we would have to wait quite a while at Toulon station, we bagged ourselves two seats (across from the man rattling out some jolly good tunes on the free-for-all piano). As it turned out, however, there was barely time for a loo visit before a message arrived saying the apartment was ready. Yay!


Out into the warm air (temperatures in the high teens) and the amazing southern light that instantly makes you understand why artists love these climes.

A short walk to the apartment, and we're rapt at what we find. From the order-requiring constraints of a teentsy Paris studio to a wonderfully spacious flat that takes up a whole floor of its venerable old building:







Our immediate concern was provisioning (and, in our slightly bleary state, it took us two goes to get what we needed), but you don't have to be paying much attention to realize that this part of the city is lovely. Narrow streets, little squares with fountains, bushy palm trees, and houses with shutters and wrought-iron balconies -- all painted by that glowing sun, now declining:







We're tired. Don't know why. It hasn't been a difficult day. But transition days always seem to be a bit draining. I guess it's because you're spending a lot of time unmoored.

Very glad to be here, though. There's going to be plenty to explore.