Mon dieu! I could have chosen any of 51 other weekends for a short trip to Lille, but, in blissful ignorance, I chose this one, 20th & 21st June.
We set out from London at 3.30 pm last Friday, leaving what we thought was plenty of time for the 110 mile journey to Dover, but, as usual, didn’t make sufficient allowance for the wretched M25. Sitting in an endless traffic jam is not the most relaxing way to start a mini-break and by the time we got to the signpost saying 40 miles to the ferry port but with only 20 minutes left to check-in, it became obvious that we wouldn’t make the sailing we were booked on.
Now, I confess that we did, on those few miles of road where it was possible, exceed the speed limit perhaps by a teensy bit, but in most places it wasn’t an option. We finally drove into the port just 15 minutes before the boat was due to sail and so were checked in for the next boat, 45 minutes later than our intended departure.
We followed the twisting route to the holding area, but noticed on the way that the original ship was still in port. We whizzed to the stewards loading the cars and were thrilled when they let us on. Phew! Now we could relax.
We had bought our tickets on the ridiculously cheap current P&O
offer, which stipulates that if you sail on either of the two new ships, The Pride of Canterbury or the Pride of Kent, you pay only £10 for each day away. Since the crossing was only costing us £30, we treated ourselves to an additional £15 each way to allow us into the Club lounge. It would also have given us priority loading (joke!), and did, in fact, allow us to be amongst the first cars to disembark.
The extra is very good value, as you get unlimited free champagne, coffee and other drinks, and are able to sit away from the madding crowd.
When we arrived in Calais, my husband announced that he was going to look for the panoramicrestaurant that a friend had recommended to him. The view, apparently, was magnificent. “What’s it called,” I asked. Don’t know. “Where is it then?” Don’t know. “How, pray, are we going to find it then?” Talk about throwing down the gauntlet.
We tried phoning the friend (no, this was not Who wants to be a millionaire?). Just as well, as he was out. The only thing my husband knew, was that the restaurant was at the top of an apartment block. As I speak French, he wanted me to ask a passer by, but I refused to ask such a silly question. So he asked. In English. Shrugged shoulders. Rien.
We were driving around what looked like a housing estate, and I was just about to insist that we give up, when we saw a signpost announcing “Restaurant Panoramique.”
It may not have been the right one (in fact, it turned out that it was), but I didn’t fancy our chances of finding another, similarly placed establishment, so we decided to eat there. It was a magnificent,, sunny evening and we enjoyed a very pleasant meal (27 euros for 3 courses) watching a superb sunset. (The restaurant was called The Aquar’Aile.)
We then took a leisurely hour-long drive into Lille, but had great difficulty reaching our hotel, the Golden Tulip Alliance, by car, as there were road works blocking the access from several directions.
Our first impression of the hotel was pleasant enough, though it was perhaps less atmospheric than I had hoped for. The building is a converted abbey, about a kilometre from the city centre, but it had something of a corporate feel about it. Still, it was close to midnight, we had had a long day and we soon dropped off to sleep.
Saturday morning dawned sunny and bright, and after an acceptable breakfast, we set out to explore the shops and sights of Lille.
It is a delightful town, full of atmosphere and steeped in history. It has a prosperous feel, with busy shops and cafes and restaurants spilling out onto the pavements and in the squares, and we also visited the flea market in the old city. It wasn’t long, though, before we realised that something unusual was happening.
All over the city, very large sound systems were being set up.
We walked and walked all day on Saturday, and thought we’d pop back to our hotel for a short rest and freshen up before finding somewhere suitably French to each dinner. Could we snooze? Hardly. By this time the sound of, frankly, very bad music indeed was permeating the city.
Qu’est-ce qui se passait? (What was happening?) Well, it seems that in all my years as a regular visitor to France it has totally escaped my notice that, all over the country on mid-summer’s day, amateur musicians, groups, choirs, whatever take to the streets and do their thing.
This festival takes place regardless of what day of the week 21st June falls on, and regardless, too, of the weather. This year, though, the calendar and the climate had both conspired to bring this joy to the people on a glorious Saturday evening, and those people came out in their thousands, their hundreds of thousands, to join in the fun.
My husband was in a carnivorous mood, so we set out in search of a steak. We found just the thing – and, luckily, an outside table – at La Maison du Boucher, where we enjoyed a wonderful meal, and where watching the people go by compensated for the racket playing not more than 50 yards on either side of us.
On our wanders after dinner, we came across an African drum group playing outside a bar called The African Beat, and a group of extraordinary young, white girls performing some pretty impressive African dancing. The obligatory fire eater added to the spectacle.
The music must have gone on all night, but we were so tired by the time that we finally got to bed that we slept through what was left of it.
On Sunday the weather was less kind – dull and overcast – but the rain held off until late morning. We spent the morning in the local market, sampling the tastes and smells of local produce and buying hunks of bread and cheese for the supper we would be eating back home.
We took a leisurely drive across country, and stopped for lunch at a typical family-run bistro in a village called Cassel, close to Dunkerque. This is a charming, cobbled village perched on what looks like the only hill for miles around.
Close to home again, the M25 threatened. We decided to take an alternative route when the traffic jam got too heavy, and were relieved that we had, since we read in the paper today that drivers had been held up in it for 7 hours.
So, would I have gone if I’d known about the festival? You bet I would.
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Jun 23rd, 2003
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