The Hotel De Ville (City hall) in every French town is emblazoned with the National moto of France: Liberte, Egalite, Fraternite. (Liberty, Equality, Fraternity).

Words have power, a rallying call to the people. The motto has its roots in the French Revolution of the 1790’s.

It’s currently a tumultuous time politically in France. Fissures exposing discontent have arisen despite the ‘unifying’ impact of the Olympic games. Soldiers in full kit patrol the cities and larger towns. There’s tension in the air.

The veneer of Civilization is wafer thin.

Townsfolk in smaller rural villages seem especially friendly and engaging. We admire the simple practical French Provincial style houses with their Juliet balconies and sky blue-painted shutters that ooze a quaint romanticism. When not decorated with potted geraniums, residents use the balcony to hang out bed covers or washing, not missing the opportunity to share greetings or gossip with passersby.

In heatwave conditions, we cycled deeper into the high season tourist mecca that is the South of France. Accommodation of any kind became increasing difficult to locate. We were turned away from campgrounds and hotels were fully booked. Campgrounds had signs up proclaiming; ‘pas de place pour les vélos’ (no places for bicycles).

The Avignon Arts Festival was in full swing , the city crowded with tourists. We took the only available room in town then resolved to take the next possible train to Lyon, catch up with a family friend then continue riding north east .We will spend the last three weeks of our tour cycling the La Voie Bleu, along the Moselle – Saone rivers to Luxembourg then back into Germany.

Therese secured tickets for us and our bicycles on the 8.11 am limited express from Avignon to Lyon. Waiting on the station platform, we passed the time in friendly discussion with other touring cyclists. It quickly became apparent that the number of cyclists and passengers exceeded the number of spaces available. When the local TER train pulled in, mayhem ensured, with citizens and cyclists pushing for a place. I managed to get Therese and her bicycle up and onto the train but was swamped when trying to get on myself! “See you in Lyon!” she cried as the train lurched forward.

Running beside the train along the platform with my bicycle I managed to get hold of the door to the last carriage, while station guards screamed after me blowing whistles. Suddenly the train stopped and I scrambled triumphantly on board to be greeted with a mixture of disgust and admiration from the other passengers.

A days ride out of Lyon at Thoissey, sitting in the late afternoon shade of ancient plane trees by the river Saone we sip cool drinks as a young guitar player accompanied by an elderly local women sing soothing French folk songs.

It’s as if we have been somehow transported back to another place and time to a Jacques Tatii’s comedic classic film Les Vacances de Monsieur Hulot

(Mr Hulot’s Holiday).

Just like the film itself, the France I have experienced is warm, whimsical and just a little quirky, not unlike our good-selves.