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And so, the cooking retreat I have for so long waited to attend, is over. This morning saw hugs and adieus as seven of us climbed aboard the bus. Anna, Bobbie and Geraldine had already left, in an uber for their earlier flights and Sandra and Matt were waiting for their hire car to arrive. I’m not sure about Suzanne and Sonya. Finally, there were farewells from and to our wonderful hostesses Anissa, her mum Delilah, Oriane and Cintia as they stood in the door of the bus. Then we were off.
While it was only five days, we became a remarkably close group. I’m going to miss them all and our wonderful shared experience.
While everyone else left the bus at the airport, I was dropped at the station. I’d already booked a Radical Storage spot for my bag (such a brilliant idea) so I dumped it then headed for the metro.
I decided, given I had five hours to kill before my train, that I would visit the Musee des Augustins, given it opens all day on a Sunday.
I am so glad I did. What an amazing place. And not just for the artworks. The building is pretty amazing as well.
The building dates from 1310 when the Augustinians lived there. The French Revolution put paid to that and the place was turned into an art gallery and museum from around 1795.
Relics from its religious past are dotted about, most notably on the ground floor where capitols have been placed on poles so visitors can see them.
Most of the poles have an explanation of the scene depicted. My favourite is the parable of the wise virgins, which I had never heard before.
Apparently, so the story goes, there were ten virgins waiting for a bridegroom but five of them, called the foolish virgins, hadn’t brought enough oil for their lamps and so went to find some when their lamps started to flicker.
While they were gone, the bridegroom arrived and took the five wise virgins who had come prepared with extra lamp oil, into his chamber, locking the door behind him. The foolish virgins returned only to realise they’d missed out.
I mean what kind of stupid religious bullshit is that? It’s one of stories in Matthew. He was quoting Jesus. Imagine the son of God mixing up the wise and the foolish like that.
Away from this wonderful installation by American artist Jorge Pardo, and heading upstairs, the visitor is rewarded with some of the biggest paintings of mythological scenes I’ve ever seen.
Another thing the gallery has going for it is that it is small enough to see everything in about an hour.
I wasn’t feeling particularly hungry (no surprise there) so decided to pop over to the Basilica de St Sernin, a UNESCO site.
A small diversion…as I was writing this post, my train to Paris was delayed over 40 minutes because a tree fell on the line ahead of us. The guards kept making announcements but only in French. Eventually, and because I had nothing better to do, I looked up what was happening.
Meanwhile, a small baby was not happy. Actually, that also applied to the older woman sitting opposite me who tutted and grimaced a lot. At least she didn’t scream as much.
But, back in Toulouse, I found the basilica and walked in.
Originally, a small basilica was built on the site in the 5th century and named for Saint Saturnin who was martyred by being dragged around the streets behind a sacrificial bull back in 250 CE. The basilica was erected on top of his grave, supposedly.
By the way, his name, Saturnin, was changed to the Occitan, Sernin. Because Toulouse, obviously.
It seems that he was pretty popular though I’m not sure how given he didn’t have any social media accounts, but he somehow attracted lots of pilgrims and, in order to accommodate all of their visits, the present, huge building was constructed.
The main reason that the basilica was recognised by the UNESCO people was because it lies on a southern stretch of the route to Compostela.
And, as long as I’m discussing UNESCO, the Canal du Midi, which flows through Toulouse, is also included on the list.
It is considered one of the greatest construction works of the 17th century. I might have been on a bit of it with the Weasels but, of course I can’t remember.
Train #8 : Toulouse to Paris Austerlitz
And the train slowly made its way to Paris. At least it was moving. Not that I minded. I was totally entertained by a six-year-old girl trying to speak English with her mother. She had the brightest face with an incredible smile. I mean the little girl. Her mother looked like she’d had a hard life and her only joy was her kids. She also had a delightful teenage son who looked remarkably like Tom when he was about 12.
So the fallen tree managed to delay the train more than the suspected 40 minutes. The scheduled arrival was 23:10. As at 22:10, the new arrival time was 0:50.
Not that it mattered. I dozed, read, wrote, dozed some more and had a coffee when the man with the trolley trundled by.
Of course, it was a bit annoying when the power went off but that was only for a few minutes so no great cause for alarm.
The train eventually arrived at Gare d’Austerlitz at 00:30 and I struggled to get out of what is essentially a construction site surrounded by honking taxis. I eventually found my hotel for the night. I’ll not be there long as I have an earlyish Eurostar train tomorrow from Gare du Nord.
Oops, I nearly forgot a photo from inside the basilica.
Meanwhile, I had a text from Mirinda to say she was rushing Freya to the hospital. She had a fever. I doubt I’ll sleep very well.
