Saturday morning we were up early to visit the town hall in Roquebrune, where we need to submit all of our paperwork for our civil ceremony. Part of the process is an interview with the mayor (or his delegate) to ensure that the marriage is genuine and to go over all the details for the day.

We were met by the adjunct mayor, a generously proportioned woman with an apparent predilection for sunshine and a disdain for soap. She was our first real brush with the French etat, and represented everything that is bad about the civil service in France. With little genuine power but a keen desire to demonstrate her importance, she decided to throw impediment after impediment in our way. “I’m not sure it’s possible” was her favourite response, and her interpretation of the laws governing marriage changed with the wind.

It was not the most positive meeting I’ve ever had. She seemed unimpressed when I asked whether it would be easier to elope to Las Vegas. I suspect Guantanamo detainees are treated with more respect than she afforded us.

The trauma of the town hall behind us, we headed to a much more agreeable lunch by the port in Frejus – moules frites washed down with a couple of beers. After a brief stop to look at some decorations for the wedding, we were off to Brignoles for a quick chat with the woman coordinating the details at the chateau and a champagne tasting – and then on to ‘test drive’ the hotel and restaurant at the Abbaye de la Celle.

The hotel was absolutely beautiful, with genuinely warm service and a lovely room with our own private garden. We were greeted with two glasses of wine from the vineyard in the back. After we’d settled in, we went into the Alain Ducasse restaurant and had a lovely dinner of asparagus with kumquat sauce, grilled fish with roast potatoes, caramelised pork with stir-fried vegetables, cheese, and a chocolate fondant. The food lived up to the hype – it was a lovely evening. Stuffed to the seams, we trundled off to bed.

We woke up early on Thursday morning with a sense of smugness. We had decided to avoid the long Easter queues, the traffic jams and the nightmare scenes at the security check at Heathrow, instead opting to take the train to visit Aude’s parents in the south of France. “What could go wrong?” we thought as we boarded the 8:05am service from in front of our house to Ashford.

Our trip down to Ashford was painless enough, and once we arrived there we checked in. We were through security in five minutes, then straight to the (very small) business class lounge for a cup of coffee. An hour later they called our train. We boarded, found our seats, and sat down with a look of self-righteousness. We set off from the station right on time, and a few minutes later the driver announced that we were about to enter the Channel Tunnel. With a contented look on my face, I turned to Aude and remarked “What a good decision. This is definitely easier than the whole airport struggle.”

Ominously, at that moment the train stopped in the middle of the Channel Tunnel. “A problem with the regulation,” said the driver, who had no further information to provide. Twenty minutes later and still stuck 40m under the English Channel, the driver came on to provide another update. Apparently, the train in front of us had broken down completely, and until they could move it we weren’t going anywhere. Pierre, the purser (honestly, I’m not making this up), came onto the tannoy to give us an update. “We are now twenty minutes behind schedule. Don’t worry, ze ventilation system is working properly and we are completely safe here for ze moment.”

The ventilation system failing was something I hadn’t considered until Pierre had helpfully brought it to my attention. Suddenly I was claustrophobic. More importantly, our 1-hour connection in Paris was looking less and less likely.

We finally started to move again. Allez, Pierre, allez!

We made it into Paris Gare du Nord at 13:25. Our train to the south left from Gare de Lyon at 13:50. Cue two travellers frantically sprinting across Gare du Nord to try to catch the RER D train. Luckily, we managed to push our way onto a train that was waiting at the platform (the carriage was half-empty inside, but everyone insisted on standing in the doorway so that no one else could go on. I’m suddenly thankful for the London Underground announcements asking people to “move right down inside the carriages, please”). We arrived at the RER station at Gare de Lyon at 13:45. Cue more sprinting as we tried to locate our train.

We finally boarded at 13:49. Being the last to board, there was no luggage space left except between the seats. So I figured that’s where I’d put my bags. Until Madame Crazy in the seat next to us decided to give me a stern talking to in French – apparently upset that I had moved her bag. (Come on, you silly French loon, what part of “communal luggage space” don’t you understand?) I feigned ignorance, carried on with what I was doing, then spent the rest of the trip quietly detesting the woman.

Nevermind. We’d made it. We pulled out a nice picnic lunch and a bottle of wine and settled in for the four hour trip to St Raphael. The friendly ticket inspector was even kind enough to wish us a “bon appetite!”

Our little sprint aside, the train was actually pretty stress-free. The seats on the TGV, even in second class, rival our first-class seats in the UK and are certainly more comfortable than their airline equivalents. We arrived right on time, no one hassled us about the size of our carry-on (except for Madame Crazy), we had no security nightmares, and we didn’t get stuck in traffic. All things considered, I’d take the train again.

Well, the weather didn’t cooperate, but otherwise we had a lovely weekend in Normandy visiting Aude’s grandfather.

Having narrowly avoided the Friday evening proposal-writing session at the office, I ended up spending several hours talking to my mother on the phone on Friday evening – and subsequently didn’t get to bed until nearly midnight. Which, with my early starts most mornings, qualifies as “late” these days.

We set off early on Saturday morning (too early, actually – I prefer my weekends to start after 6am!) and caught the 8am Eurotunnel to Calais. From Calais, we drove down to Montreuil sur Mer where the Wine Society has their European shop, and restocked our wine cellar. On the recommendation of the shopkeeper, we decided to try a local restaurant for lunch but changed our minds when we were put off by the proprietor.

She was the stereotypical arrogant, rude French person that every English-speaker fears – the stuff of whom legend is made. And Aude was right there beside me to witness it all – and agreed with my assessment. It’s people like this that are giving the French a bad name.

It was all our fault, you understand. We’d entered the restaurant at 11:50am. Aude had politely asked, in French, whether they were serving lunch yet or whether we were too early. “You’re too early,” came the reply. “Come back when we’re open!”

We asked what time they opened. “12 o’clock!” she said.

We should have recognised her displeasure at having arrived ten minutes before the designated serving time and left then and there. But since there wasn’t a full menu posted in the window, we asked if perhaps we couldn’t have a quick look at the menu. I’ve never seen such a roll of the eyes or heard such a sharp intake of breath. Who were these two idiots in her restaurant, so mal élevé?

We left the restaurant, wishing her a future of bankruptcy and food poisoning. We had a steak around the corner instead.

Lunch behind us, and with a boot full of booze, we headed down to Normandy to meet Aude’s grandfather. Luckily, we had a much warmer reception when we got to the Manoir where we were staying (more about that with photos to come later). We were greeted like long lost friends. The hotel and room were beautiful, with a warm log fire to greet us.

We spent the afternoon visiting with Aude’s grandfather and looking through some old family photographs. Jerome, if you’re reading this, I’ve seen the photographs of you in the pyjamas with bunny ears. God help you if you should ever decide to go into politics.

We had a lovely meal yesterday evening with Aude’s grandfather at a restaurant in the centre of town, then went back to his place this morning with a charcuterie and had lunch with him. We hit the road around 2pm with the best intentions of seeing some of the Norman coast, but it wasn’t to be. It poured with rain all afternoon.

Our plans thwarted, we headed straight for the tunnel and caught an early train home. Short of my mother calling, I should be in bed by 10pm tonight, ready for another week!

Aude picks an apple, the fruit that made Normandy famous…

Aude in front of the Manoir

Tired of having only one boyfriend, Aude chats up some of the alternative Frenchman. Her first effort isn’t terribly successful, landing her a boyfriend a lot like most of her ex’s.

Her second effort was more successful. She caught this good-looking fellow, but eventually rejected him because she found him a little two-dimensional.

Suddenly, every Frenchman in town heard that there was a young single girl on the market. Aude had no choice but to hide for cover.

Aude and her grandfather outside his house.

Matthew and Aude’s grandfather. For the record, he doesn’t hate me (despite the body language here). It’s just that Aude and auto-focus have an uneasy relationship, and this was the only shot that was even remotely in focus!!!

Aude and her grandfather in front of his house in Orbec.

Matthew and Aude’s grandfather. I haven’t farted. Honestly. Please see my previous comment about Aude’s auto-focus ability.

Aude’s grandfather as we had lunch together.