Our holiday didn't start well. Little unsettling things started to go wrong. We found the right car park at LISBON airport but the wrong entrance (never mind the details) and I had to do a bit of circling to get the right ticket. Lisbon is a bad airport to get things wrong because, before you know it, you're back on the freeway heading you know not where.
Then the penknife I'd been seeking for weeks was spotted by security at Lisbon airport, hidden in a pocket of my satchel. It was mum's last gift to me and I really didn't want to lose it. Fortunately we'd given ourselves plenty of time and the security people were brilliant, showing me to a mini-postal system beside the scanners, which allowed idiots to mail forbidden items back to themselves instead of having them confiscated.
The real world can be seen in the bottom section of the picture. The images above are all those of people who are walking beneath the huge mirrored ceiling.
The images are crystal clear and it's quite fascinating to look up and see oneself walking upside-down along the paving below.
Finally, as we set off through the streets to find some supper, I sneezed and put my back out. That was very depressing.
Fortunately, from there things improved.
Aix is a most beautiful old city, a maze of lanes, alleys and squares, punctuated with fountains and closed to non-resident traffic. Residents have electronic keys that enable them to lower the bollards that prevent non-resident drivers from entering the zone. There's a constant flow of people, cycles, motorbikes, and battery-driven mini-taxis past the endless stalls, markets, street cafes and fancy shops.
BATTERY-POWERED TAXI
Every big name in the fashion business has a store there, each trying to outprice the one next door and often succeeding. Shoe prices ran to three figures, watches to four and five. And towering over everything, four storeys high, were the most beautiful plane trees.
And there's a sad story. Like the ash trees in the UK and the palm trees in Iberia, the plane trees in much of Europe are doomed, gradually being wiped out by a deadly fungus. There's no remedy other than to cut them down and burn them.
The authorities in Aix en Provence have already begun to take out the trees, sending mountaineering types high into the branches to lop off the upper limbs. We watched as workers closed off the streets for a few minutes and the great branches came crashing down.
Jones, who has been checking my text, has complained at the many pictures of herself in the blog. The reason is that we travelled light, leaving the camera at home and taking pictures only with my smartphone. Naturally, I was the main taker of pictures and she a frequent focus.
One excursion during our Aix stay was to a gallery devoted to the large illusionist works of the artist, Victor Vasarely.
He created his "architectural installations" using a variety of materials including glass, aluminium and tapestries, devising patterns of lines, squares and circles in various colours.
Some of these works you have to approach closely in order to see through the illusion. Others remind one of the impossible drawings of Maurits Escher.
Forty four of these roof-high installations are pinned to the walls of seven halls in the Vasarely Foundation gallery.
The inspiration for our visit to France was an exhibition of paintings by impressionists and the movements that had followed them, being held jointly in Aix and Marseille.
For the occasion the organisers had secured paintings from around the world. This is more Jonesy's field than mine but I too got a great deal of satisfaction from it. Most of them are not paintings I am ever likely to see again.
Aix en Provence, as one is reminded by numerous plaques and street signs, was the home of Paul Cezanne, regarded by Picasso as a father figure of modern painting.
After two full days of drifting around Aix, visiting churches, museums and whatever took our fancy, we caught a train to Marseille, some 30 minutes and a whole different world away. While Aix is like a mini-Paris (without the attitude, says Jones) Marseille feels like of blend of France and north Africa.
Families of Arabs wandered the streets or sat drinking coffee at the street cafes. On the evening Algeria played Burkina Faso in a World Cup match - Algeria lost 3-2 - we could hardly move through the crowd that had gathered around a street TV set to watch the match.
Our hotel (an Ibis and a much better bet than our Aix studio) was located right beside the main railway station which, in turn, overlooked an Arab quarter through which we passed to an from the old port area a mile away where most of the city's attractions were located.
We really liked Marseille. Once again we took in churches, museums, galleries and the old fortifications. The most impressive of these was Fort St Jean, one of the two castles guarding the narrow entrance to the old port. The fort was badly damaged during WWII when the German occupying forces accidentally set off a store of explosives.
Adjacent to it was an astonishing multi-million euro building that had been constructed for the MUCEM exhibitions and celebrations which were part of the City of Culture festival. We were happy to cast just a brief glance over the exhibitions within the building, but its actual fabric, like an embroidered metal shawl, was too extraordinary.
The MUCEM building was linked by a long footbridge to the fort. One entered the building's outer fabric at the top and then wound one's way down a series of sloping ramps to the bottom. It was all metal and glass.
At several points one could enter the floors that housed the exhibitions.
THE OLD PANIER QUARTER
Just above this and the adjacent cathedral was the oldest part of the city, the Panier district, constructed by the Romans on the foundations of even older civilizations. For the visitor there is little to see here other than narrow alleys smelling intermittently of food and sewage.
I was underwhelmed. We stopped for lunch at a little restaurant run by two old women. The salad we ordered turned out to be 90 per cent chunks of freshly-steamed squid.
More sensible folk used either the road-train that ran up from the port or a bus.
More seriously, I was soaked with perspiration. We looked in vain in the two church shops for a t-shirt for me to change into. No luck! The stock was all of the religious momento variety.
Instead, I dried out as best I could in the sunshine that came and went on the great patios around the church, taking in the views across the new ports on both sides of the old harbour, and of the vast sprawl of the city itself.
Jones had a chat to the owner, a young woman who said she had been taking the cat for walks ever since it was a kitten.
On the Monday morning we took the train back to Aix and the next day the plane back to Lisbon. I had armed myself with cushions against the awful seats. We hoped to get a row to ourselves and would have, had not a young black gentlemen brought an impossibly large suitcase into the cabin. After several minutes of effort, he managed to squeeze this into an overhead locker but it stuck out.
When the cabin crew were unable to close the locker, instead of sending the suitcase to be loaded into the hold, they directed the black gentleman and his case to an empty row just ahead of us where the pair of them travelled in the comfort we had planned for ourselves. I thought of my brother, Brendan, who has a gift for appreciating the irony of these situations.
Back in Lisbon, we collected the car and drove 90 minutes east south east to the lovely old city of Evora, where I had reserved two nights in a boutique hotel that tops the Tripdadvisor selection in the city. This time I chose well.
The Albergaria do Calvario is absolutely seductive, a little treasure located just inside the old walls. It is staffed by several young people who seem willing to do just about anything legal to please their guests. The level of personal service is quite extraordinary. The only element I could have done without, or just with less of, was the fado music frequently played in the public areas.
And it's here, at the hotel computer, that I have been collecting my thoughts about our trip - between sniffles for a cold that some careless soul shared with me somewhere along the way. Evora has just enough for a pleasant two day visit.
The hotel had lots of suggestions for places to see and to eat. The latter were generally more expensive venues that we avoided in favour of the back-street eateries where the locals preferred to dine.
Evora is a bit like Aix without the French flair and with one zero missing from most of the prices in the rows of shops. We've taken in the remains of the Roman temple, the adjacent cathedral, the city museums and churches, several restaurants, half a dozen squares and the scores of clothing and tourist shops.
The shopkeeper didn't have exactly what I wanted but said he'd try to get hold of one. In the meantime I came across a similar shop in another part of town where the woman behind the counter said she had exactly what I needed in her storeroom and would have it ready for me the following day.
We were simply astonished. He could have filled a museum with his collection of every imaginable item, some of them priced in the thousands. His great advantage in these austere times is that he is able to run his business with a minimum of paperwork. You agree a price and pass over the cash. He passes over the object. Business is complete.
As much as I dislike these occasions, Jones and I took ourselves to dinner under an Evora moon with a fine bottle of wine at a side-street restaurant somewhere above the main square.
And as sufferings go, such as these are quite bearable.
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