Toulon

When I was young and hitching, with a small tent, a sleeping bag and a camping-gas stove in my rucksack, I didn't know whether I'd manage to get where I hoped to get by the end of the day and I didn't know where I'd sleep. 

Years of holidays being responsible for the wellbeing of children, and mostly travelling without the safety net of a tent, meant that my new normal became arranging accommodation in advance. Despite a long time of mostly not being responsible for anyone, I have fallen into that habit.

This trip is a bit of anomaly. Eighteen months ago I was very generously given some Eurostar vouchers and, back in May, I realised I had only days to book trips before the vouchers expired. The furthest ahead I could book was out to Paris on 1st September and back on 20th. I had no idea what I might do for the three weeks in between.

A couple of months ago, I had four weeks of fatigue like nothing I've ever known. Not the fatigue of having carried too many bricks and needing a rest, but waking up so bone-tired I could barely get out of bed then, when I did, shuffling. Using my booked Eurostar tickets was out of the question. In August I began to feel a bit better and started to think I might be up to getting trains onward - to Portugal, maybe. That idea fell through. Then I remembered being young and setting off without plans. 

So... here I am, having decided to head for Corsica, where I wanted to go a year or two back but decided the authorities didn't need an extra tourist to put on their island wildfire evacuation list. I've done very little advance reading and I don't know where I'll be when, though I have now bought ferry tickets to and from the island.

I left Paris this morning. My ferry to Corsica is on Thursday. Tonight and tomorrow night I am in Toulon and I am grateful to that neglected part of myself which made me stay in a small flat here for two nights, rather than racing on, as I normally do.

This afternoon, I stumbled across an expensive boat tour of the harbour and decided not to take it but to meander instead. I suddenly discovered that there is a local commuter ferry across the harbour to La Seyne-sur-Mer, leaving in, oof, four minutes. I walked fast back to the pontoon, bought myself a return ticket and ran onto the jetty. A man was closing access to a boat so I called out, 'Je peux monter ?' 'Non, c'est un bateau militaire.'

Ah. On the other side of the pontoon was the non-military boat and I just managed to jump on. Ye gods and little nukes, as we crossed the harbour the huge menacing grey boats made it very clear that Toulon is a military base.

La Seyne-sur-Mer was a real surprise: Mediterranean ochres and pastels (extra), silhouetted men gesticulating outside bars, edgy street art alongside masses of graffiti, and a beautiful lift-up bridge that sadly didn't move while I was there.

Tonight I am back in my little flat with no idea what tomorrow will bring.