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The guard regarded us quizzically. We were waiting for our train to be able to proceed from our local Medstead & Four Marks station along the single-track line to Alton. ’We don’t see many people with suitcases here,’ he said, by way of explanation. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Hopefully back here, eventually,’ I offered, immediately realising that my reply wasn’t wholly satisfactory. ‘Avignon,’ I added quickly, lest the Watercress Line volunteer thought I’d taken leave of my senses.

‘Oooh. Really?’ he asked, perking up. ‘And then on to the Italian lakes – all by train,’ I continued. He smiled. ‘I’d better check your tickets then…’

Awaiting the signal at Medstead & Four Marks

And so the first of an estimated 44 rail journeys began. If you were setting out for the Italian lakes, it’s unlikely that you would start with a ride on the Watercress Line and even less likely that you would travel via Avignon. But having free tickets for both, it made good sense to me.

Day 1 of our journey took us as far as London, where we checked in to a cheap (£9) but cheerful Travelodge near St Pancras station. After a book shop foray and surprisingly pleasant Indian dinner, an early night was required.

Day 2 began frighteningly early, in order to stock up with provisions before checking-in for our Eurostar departure. One of the joys of travelling by train is that it is permitted to travel with items such as scissors and needles, and Mrs Giles had planned to maximise this benefit by packing a mobile scrapbooking tin containing all manner of contraband that would be seized by the airport authorities if one even thought about smuggling them through. It’s also permitted to take drinks on board Eurostar, which is refreshingly sensible.

I was less than thrilled, therefore, having just purchased the day’s snacks from the station’s 24 hour Starbucks, to be told ‘you can’t take that through’. The ‘that’ in question was a mocha frappucino. ‘Why?’ I asked, with due temerity. ‘That’s the rules.’ I have yet to work out how an iced coffee and chocolate concoction is perceived to be a threat to Channel Tunnel operations, but as the next London to Avignon train is not until July 2012 I didn’t want to risk missing the service by discussing molecular structure. And more to the point, Sarah was tugging my arm gently but firmly. It is usually best to comply.

The 07:17 to Avignon about to depart

The Eurostar left on time and belted through Kent towards the tunnel portal. Last time we did this journey we got stuck sous la Manche for five hours (hence the complimentary tickets this time round), but before we knew it we had emerged into the French countryside. I must confess that I’d never really seen the point of France, as it just seemed to be a rather grottier version of Lincolnshire. But once we’d nipped around the Paris avoiding line (LGV Interconnexion East, if you prefer), the scenery improved markedly. The train manager gave us some brief bursts of commentary which helped us to get our bearings as we passed through Burgundy into Provence. It was pretty much full speed all the way, until we left the high speed lines at Lapalud, about half an hour short of our destination.

We arrived at Avignon an impressive ten minutes early, and went in search of the left luggage office. Fermé. Undeterred, we pondered the prospect of a taxi. That was until we noted that the sizable majority of those who had travelled from London with us on the 18 carriage train were now queueing with decreasing levels of patience for the five taxis that appeared to be in attendance. And then it started to precipitate.

Being British, no amount of rain was going to prevent us from visiting Pont St Bénezet – the bridge immortalised in the 15th Century children’s song. But, boy, did it try. A 20 minute paddle through a full-on thunderstorm later, and your invincible but bedraggled correspondents arrived at the historic river, resembling some loons who had waded through it themselves.

The eponymous pont

'On y danse, on y danse'

The saunter back to the station was rather more enjoyable, by dint of it being considerably drier. The remainder of the day’s travels took us still further south, by local trains via Marseille and the Côte d’Azur to Nice. Alas, the weather had become capricious again, and the fabled blue sea was more grises than azur.

Nice to see you, to see you Nice

It may have been because we were tired, it may have been because it was gloomy, but Nice - it transpires - is something of a misnomer. And our accommodation in the city, Hôtel d’Orsay, was not one of its highlights. One might summarise it as shabby chic but without being in any way chic. Plainly at some point in the 1950s, someone had stolen the hotel’s cleaning paraphernalia and the police had never solved the crime. We swiftly rechristened the establishment as Hôtel d’Awful, but in fairness had a relatively good night’s sleep.

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