Tuesday May 20 2008

The view from my bedroom is never the same – today it’s Arles, tomorrow Avignon and another day I’ll draw back the curtains on Lyons. Cruising the Rhône in the boat River Royale is an oh-so smooth way to travel – no stop-start driving or packing bags; our rooms glide along with us. From south to central France, the boat takes us from sun-drenched, coastal Provence to lush, rural Burgundy over eight packed days. We pass through 12 locks – including one as high as a seven-storey building – sample the local cuisine and wine, glimpse the French at play on the well-tended river banks and marvel at the architecture, some of which was around when Caesar’s sandals touched this soil.

DAY 1 ARLES, PROVENCE
“Excusez moi, monsieur. La rivière est près d’ici?” That’s a useful phrase if you’re lost in town after midnight… as I was when searching for the scene of one of Vincent van Gogh’s masterpieces. He painted his ears off here – or rather one of them – and across the town, in front of cafes, houses and the river bank, are plaques that match the spot with the masterpiece.

But Arles was around well before Vincent shared his sunflowers – more than 2000 years, in fact. The Roman influence remains with its amphitheatre, which once housed 20,000 people; now it’s reduced to the occasional bullfight. The other influence is the cicada. As we walk into souvenir shops, we’re greeted by the croaking – to the Provençals, the insect symbolises good luck.

But there has been a drought since 2003, and the Provençals are looking to the Romans to resolve their water crisis. “There was nothing the Romans didn’t know about water,” explains Frances, our guide. “They knew where to find it and how to transport it without spilling a drop.” We’re standing beside dramatic evidence of that – the Pont du Gard, a huge aqueduct up the road from Arles. The cicadas must have been chirping overtime, because it narrowly avoided German bombing during WWII. (The main bridge in Arles was not so lucky, but the townsfolk in their Provençal languor haven’t got round to rebuilding it. ) The locals want to reharness the aqueduct to bring water to their – yes – rice paddies. When France surrendered its Asian colonies, Provence became a primary source.

DAYS 2 & 3 AVIGNON, PROVENCE AND VIVIERS, RHÔNE-ALPES
So you think the Pope’s always lived in Rome? Not so – in the 14th century, he decamped to Avignon. His home, the 1500-square-metre Palais des Papes, looms over the town, and today is framed by the window of my cabin. One little quirk: the Pope’s personal quarters are without religious images. “He was taking time off,” quips Frances. While soaking in the tapestries, the frescos and ornate ceilings, we take the staircases in our stride – and the 292 steps from entry to exit.
The next day, friends of our guide seem bewildered as a gaggle of tourists descends on their 13th-century home in Viviers, a medieval town perched on a hill upstream from Avignon. This town is straight from the brochure: cobblestone streets meander to a cathedral on the tip of the hill, and, in the doorways, cats bask in the sun. Washing stretches just above our heads – sheets, shutters and potted geraniums mix in a potpourri of hues.

DAY 4 TOURNON, RHÔNE-ALPES
Under cover of darkness, we pass one of three nuclear power stations on our route (after September 11, this region was on red alert and the outside world briefly intruded on the sleepy hollow). Much later, we pull into Tournon, which is dozing on a Pentecost Sunday.
At Ferraton Père et Fils winery, there’s no sign of either the père (father) or the fils (son) – standing at the gate waiting for us is a formidable French woman, arms crossed and legs rooted to the ground. Madame Ferraton has been running the winery since her husband died and her son was immobilised in an accident. We sample the St Joseph and Hermitage, but they’re almost eclipsed by the orange-flower brioche Madame Ferraton serves up between tastings. Next is a tour of the Valrhona chocolate factory. This, too, has the ritual of a wine tasting; we compare the bitterness of a Trinidad with the nuttiness of a Madagascan. But who’s getting technical? All we’re aware of is the aftertaste of luscious chocolate.

DAY 5 LYONS, RHÔNE-ALPES
They like nicknames in Lyons, France’s second largest city, sitting at the confluence of the Saône and the Rhône. ‘The Pencil’ is the new Crédit Lyonnais building, the sole skyscraper, which towers over the city centre. ‘Concrete’ is the name of a former mayor who got carried away with urban renewal. But, fortunately, much of the old city remains with its gorgeous 18th and 19th-century facades behind the forests of bike racks. Under the Velo’v scheme, the city is saturated with red-and-grey two-wheelers for hire – place your credit card in the slot and you’re pedalling. We survey it all from the hill above the city, which is home to the eclectic Basilique Notre-Dame de Fourvière cathedral. And nearby is an Eiffel Tower wannabe. In 1894, the town fathers imitated the top of the icon when they built a communications tower – over a century later the Parisians still tease them for it.
Tonight is billed as a highlight of the tour. Internationally renowned chef Paul Bocuse is based in Lyons and we sail up the Saône to visit his headquarters in an old nunnery. As we spoon out the crème brûlée, he smiles at us from the base of the bowl, although the man himself is nowhere to be seen. It’s a six-course dinner, with a massive barrel organ announcing each course – the waiters do a dash to the William Tell Overture and not a drop of coulis touches the floor. From here we venture further up the Saône, where the barges multiply – people even live on them. We witness a typical tableau of a Peugeot perched on one end and lush foliage in terracotta pots overtaking the other.

DAYS 6-7 MÂCON AND BEAUNE, BURGUNDY
By now the dusty, stony landscapes of Provence have yielded to the steep tree-covered terrain of the French Alps, which, in turn, has given way to the bucolic hills of Burgundy. And the houses have changed, too, from the stone and terracotta-tiled Mediterranean style to the more sophisticated, rendered, limestone hues further north.
Pretty-as-a-postcard towns like Mâcon are lit up like Christmas trees at night and no-one cares about the bill – power’s as plentiful as croissants, because most of it’s nuclear-generated (France even exports energy throughout Europe).

Burgundy, with its wine shops and caves (cellars), leaves us in no doubt about its livelihood – in Beaune, a little inland from our last port of call, Chalon, I feel I could get dizzy on the air alone. But it’s time to come down to earth, because Chalon also marks the spot where the Saône can no longer be navigated.
So we leave the river to the rowboats and jet skis, and retrace our steps to Lyons, where we have a plane to catch.