I’m just about back in the swing of things after my trip to Lyon. I didn’t really want to go but I’m ever so glad I did. I know Lyon really well already and I have so many other destinations on my list. I also knew going to a funeral wouldn’t be the holiday I hoped for.

Everything happened so suddenly! 2 weeks ago my bags were packed and I was ready to cautiously make my way onto the main road at 2am to meet the taxi. I didn’t want to risk the cab getting stuck on my icy lane.

I couldn’t believe how much snow there still was at the airport. Despite the conditions, the flight left promptly and we landed at 9am. I jumped on the shuttle and was at my Airbnb by 11. I found a small studio flat in the heart of the old town which had everything I needed and it was warm and cosy. It was the perfect time to test the bed with a much needed siesta.

A couple of hours later, feeling revived and refreshed, I needed to stretch my legs. It was bitterly cold but sunny, the skies a soft inviting wintry blue hue.

I bought a big carton of soup, a jar of chickpeas and some leeks for my evening meals during my stay. I’d packed my breakfast oats (I know! I definitely didn’t need to pick up a January croissant habit) and I bought some fruit and milk to go with them so breakfast was sorted. There were coffee pods in the flat and I already knew my way around a Nespresso machine after Spain.

On Sunday I went for a long walk in an area I didn’t know very well, La Croix Rousse. Lyon is a city of twos. Two rivers flow through it and there are two hills – Fourvière which is the area where I lived, also known as the hill that prays since the cathedral is perched up there. The other hill is Croix Rousse, nicknamed the hill that works. It was home to the silk weavers. I made my way up to a park and wondered around there for a bit:

before weaving my way downtown through the winding streets of quirky Croix Rousse:

I had an early night after my long walk. The funeral was at 10 the next morning.

I walked steadily up the steep hill to the church, arriving shortly after 9. I’d been to my teacher’s funeral at a crematorium in Lyon, I’d been to a French church wedding, but I’d never attended a French funeral in a catholic church. I didn’t know what to expect but I suspected it would be a lengthy service.

I walked into the church with a few people. I greeted the 3 bereaved children and offered my deepest condolences before signing a book with a few words about CC. I sat close to the back. It was quiet, no organ, no music.

The funeral began. It was long at an hour and a half and quite formal. The heartfelt family tributes were moving, the sermon less so and I enjoyed drifting in and out of the complicated French vocabulary. We had been given booklets with some lovely photos of the deceased in his youth and prime. They also contained the words we were supposed to recite at appropriate times.

At the end of the service we were invited to go to the coffin in pairs if we wished to do so and say our goodbyes. A woman walked next to me. As we approached I whispered to her that I wasn’t sure what to do, whether I was allowed to go. She whispered back that it was fine. She dipped a metal orb into holy water and made the sign of a crucifix over the coffin. I copied her and followed her out of the church. I thanked her profusely.

Turns out she’s an artist and she invited me for coffee to her home a couple of days later, and she’s close friends with a harpist who’s half Welsh, but that’s another story!

After the service we all gathered at the family home where I used to live. Despite the sorrow of the occasion it was great to see the house with the shutters open, flooded with daylight, full of people whom grief had rendered thirsty and ravenous. I knew quite a few of them actually. CC and MJC often had guests for dinner and there were lots of familiar faces. Interestingly, people don’t change that much in 30 years.

After some genuinely pleasant exchanges, I dawdled my way back to the flat, walking through the barren gardens which had been in full bloom when I was there last May. I had another early night.

I was invited to the burial of the ashes the following morning at 10am in the cemetery which was a 30 minute drive from the city centre. This was very emotional for me. The tomb had been opened and CC’s ashes were carefully placed with MJC’s coffin. I was unable to attend her funeral due to work commitments so having the opportunity to say goodbye was precious.

I felt quite drained that afternoon and just took it easy.

On Wednesday I had a lunch date – with myself! I couldn’t possibly go to Lyon and just have soup so I treated myself to a nice meal at a restaurant I’d spotted near the flat called Court Bouillon (Stock). It appealed to me as it wasn’t very tourist oriented and the owners seemed passionate about produce and their style of cooking. There was a choice of 2 starters, 2 mains and either cheese or dessert on the lunch menu.

The starter was a simple lightly charred little gem lettuce with gently pickled red onion and walnuts. Delicious! The accompanying bread was flavoursome, brown and bitty.

For my main I chose rabbit, polenta with black olives and a chorizo and rosemary sauce that was weightily packed with flavour. I mopped up every drop of sauce with the bread.

Dessert was a playful candy floss glazed Chou bun filled with a decadent pistachio cream dressed with apricot coulis and an intricate biscuity tuile. The cream tasted more of pistachio than actual pistachios, it was a delight.

Sated, I went to walk it all off. I had a meeting with one of the daughters of the deceased that evening. It was my penultimate day in Lyon and I had a lot to do.

I made up a game called Passerelle-Pont to amuse myself as I zigzagged from one side of the Saône to the other. I didn’t really have time or the headspace to visit either of the exhibitions which had caught my eye. F, true to form, was at least 30 minutes late, but I really didn’t mind, I just kept walking and it was important that I see her after all that had happened. She was angry. Understandably. All emotions are valid in grief. Much as they are in life.

I left the flat at 7 the next morning to catch a train to Geneva, then on to the airport. I kept a watchful eye on the departure board to find out which platform to take. 20 minutes before my train was due, I read the word “supprimé” (cancelled). My heart sank. What now? I asked an SNCF attendant – she sent me upstairs to the information desk. Oh it’s fine, she said. You can just take the 938 instead. Ok I thought, but if that one’s cancelled due to the tree still being on the line, I’m really stuffed. There was only one daily plane from Geneva to Manchester. I considered a coach or a taxi to Geneva – out of the question.

We embarked the 938 and I dozed off. An hour from Lyon, we were told we had to wait an indefinite amount of time at Culoz station for the train driver to arrive by car from Geneva.

Due to Swiss laws, only specially trained train drivers were allowed to drive trains in Switzerland. Honestly, you couldn’t make it up.

We arrived in Geneva at midday, nearly 2 hours later than anticipated. I jumped on the train to the airport and dashed through security. I just had time for a coffee. It cost me the princely sum of £7!!! It was the best coffee I had that day 😃

Tune in again soon for hopefully even more rare bit travel adventures!