In transit

To Toulouse to catch a plane. The journey was more exciting than it should have been. Yesterday (Saturday) was the nationwide gilets jaunes day of protest. No, not against global warming, but against diesel being too expensive. It got its name thanks to the bright idea of a guy in Narbonne who suggested putting the fluorescent jerkin you're obliged to carry in your car in France on the dashboard, to show solidarity.

We thought there might be lingering blockades today so decided to set out a little early. However we weren't concerned enough to go for the plan B (drive cross-country to Carcassonne via the gorges du Congoust) -- it was raining hard and we reckoned that would dampen the protestors' ardour. Instead we headed for the motorway junction, and had to do a U-turn on discovering the protesters were out in force blocking it. A quick zig across to the Nationale. Already it was touch and go whether we would get to Carcassonne in time to catch the train, so we were not best pleased when we were stopped at a blockade in Capendu. The people in the car in front had got out and were rummaging in the boot. We discovered why when a "charming" demonstrator approached and enquired whether we had a gilet jaune in the car. "No," replied S bloody-mindedly (it's obligatory, of course we did). "Oh dear," he said with feigned sympathy, "that's going to cause you problems because my colleagues up the road won't let you pass if you don't have it on the dashboard." "Oh really??" Muttering "Connard" and "Blackmail" under our breaths, we moved on when the people in front did, having displayed their gilet jaune on the dashboard in the approved manner.

We were sure we'd missed the train now, but sooner that than help this guy in his mission to claim his FN-backed movement had mass popular support. And in fact there were no more blockades, and we easily parked in Carcassonne and dashed to the station, arriving with five minutes to spare. We had to do yoga breathing once we got on the train though.

We'd booked an extra early train based on our recent problems with the SNCF, but in fact it was on time, so we had hours in the airport, which we filled by lunching in the top-floor restaurant overlooking the runways. A good choice, we had the best food I've ever eaten in an airport by some considerable margin. The service was so slow that it used up a couple of hours before we got on our on-time plane. 

Then a hairy cross-country drive in the dark on unfamiliar pitch-black roads from Luton Airport to Bundle's house in Oxford. It took me several goes and some 3-point turns to get out of the worst signposted airport ever, and when we eventually emerged onto the well-lit A34 outside Oxford I heaved a sigh of relief. "Well done," said S. "I'm amazed you haven't crashed into anything." Which I guess was a vote of confidence. It only took an hour and a half but it felt like three, so a glass of wine and dinner chez Bundle was most welcome.