I’ve gone down this road, so I might as well blog the full trip for posterity’s sake. Needless to say, we didn’t hang about long in Dijon. Next stop, Lyon.

Strolling through the cobbled streets of the quaint old city, we thought we’d died and gone to dessert crepe heaven. We’d arrived mid-afternoon weary and slightly lacklustre, and had taken ourselves off in a somewhat dejected state in search of - what else - food. Cake, preferably.

Our hostel, as it turned out, was located right of the edge of the old city wall, and as we picked our way through the ruins of a Roman amphitheatre, we suddenly popped out into an orchard where the birds were singing, waterfalls flowing and the flowers, erm…flowering.The views of the whole city were just spectacular. We followed the little windy path down into the alleyways of the old city, dodging buskers, fruit sellers and artists with their easels set up on street corners.

Everywhere we turned the locals of Lyon forced us to dispel the myth of the French being snooty little snoots - everyone was tossing around jovial ‘bonjours’ and pressing their chocolate crepes into our hands. There were ice cream flavours I’ve never even heard of (possibly because they were in French).

Finally we settled in a jolly little courtyard wash our salmon salads down with Baileys as Kylie, my trusty traveling companion, chose that precise moment to have a small nervous breakdown over the tragedy of her latest heartbreak.She’d met him in Italy, a visiting Aussie rugby player (’I swear, he did have a neck though! And an engineering degree, and biceps like dinner plates…’), and by all accounts he was the perfect guy with the perfect everything. Including the perfect wife.’But did I mention he had biceps like dinner plates…?’