Pérouges is, without a shadow of a doubt, one of the prettiest villages I have ever visited. Perched atop a hill, this medieval walled village has rustic charm by the bucketful: winding, cobbled streets, wisteria bursting out of cracks in the walls and traditional metal shop signs that creak in the breeze. The timber-framed buildings with their pebble-dashed walls and exposed beams ooze character; aside from the occasional TripAdvisor sticker in a merchant’s window, it’s as if time has stood still.
Easter weekend heralded not only the end of teaching, but also the arrival of ma chère famille, who flew out to Lyon to spend a few days exploring the gastronomic capital of France and its environs. Needless to say, it was absolutely lovely to see them all and show them round the city that I’ve called home for the past eight months. After some rescheduling on Flybe’s part, their flight landed late at night, so after meeting them at the tram stop we walked over to their hotel. (Over the course of their visit we became all too familiar with the wee-drenched odour of La Part Dieu’s underpass.) Upon arrival, we whiled away an hour or so in the hotel bar, catching up and giggling over the English translations of pour les petits creux (“munchies temptations”) and pour les grandes faims (“starving solutions”) on the ibis menu. As midnight approached, Vicki and I headed over to my flat, having arranged to meet Mum and Dad early the following morning to go on a croissant hunt.