Leaving Marseille

When the screens at Marseille station announced that my train was on platform 1 rather than some letter, as for most of the trains, I searched for signs to platforms with numbers. I spotted 3 to 5 but nothing about 1. The queue at the information desk was so long I was certain to miss my train, and when a passenger wanting to help told me that Platform 1 might be at the far side of the station, I got out my back-of-the-room voice: 'Excusez-moi, est-ce que quelqu'un pourrait me dire où se trouve le quai 1 ?' There were some startled looks, but no useful response so I tried again. This time a reply: 'C'est quai i, pas quai 1.' Ah, foolish, I should have thought of that. Quai i was within easy hobbling distance and the train was there.

At Chalon-sur-Saône my friends met me, took me for a coffee on a shady terrace then drove me back to their lovely house in rolling vine-covered Burgundy hills. Since I was last here two-and-a-half years ago, they have transformed the space behind their house from a large expanse of soil into into a beautiful big garden looking out across the hills. 

I have settled in like I live here.