What could possibly go wrong?

Mary's and my trip to France started as all these things start. Late. The lift to take us to Milton Keynes station turned up later than promised seeming to cut things a bit fine but we fortunately made it with a few minutes to spare. Which is when we found out the train was late. Don't all trips start like that? Most of mine seem to.

Those who know the reason for this journey will understand that Mary and I had some anxiety going through the check-in procedure at Eurostar but our fears were groundless, thank goodness. We could see the whole trip falling apart right there. For those who don't know the reason all will be revealed as the trip progresses.

The Eurostar journey to Lille was an enjoyable experience, first class travel complete with complimetary wine and dinner, olives with chili, beef with red onion and a tiny tart of turkey in redcurrant sauce with a tomato relish. Forty minutes to change to the TGV to Avignon was plenty of time at Lille, made plentier(!) by yet another late train. I thought the French railways were supposed to be the model of efficient, on-time running but ours wasn't.

First time I've experienced a double-deck train, too, and fortunately we were upstairs. The view from there is pretty good, almost worth having to carry two suitcases up a narrow staircase.

We'd been travelling for some time when we pulled into our first station. On the timetable it had said the train would be calling at Lyon, then Avignon, our stop. I was impressed with just how fast these trains go - about 180 miles per hour - and how quickly we had arrived at Lyons. As we approached the station Mary saw planes taking off quite close together and then we could see the airport right beside the railway station. As we came to a stand I could see the Station signs said Charles de Gaulle Aeroport. Now I have to confess there was a period of something like two seconds when I thought to myself, 'How strange that the airports at both Paris and Lyons are called Charles de Gaulle?' It was only two seconds that I thought it but, truth is, that really was two seconds too long.

Durr. We had only made it as far as Paris. We still had to call at DisneyWorld and then we would be on our way properly. There can't be a more relaxing way to travel than on a long-distance train. The mix of chatting with a friend, reading a book and gazing out of the window watching an ever-changing landscape is as pleasant as it gets. Between Paris and Lyons the style of houses noticeably changed from grey functional buildings to bright, cheerful little - and not so little - houses which looked sunny with their red-tiled roofs. The further south you travelled the more you could sense that you were heading towards the Mediterranean just by looking at the architecture. And from the air-conditioned carriage you could see and almost feel the warmth from the sun - just what we needed after our long, wet summer.

The reality check came as we were leaving Lyons. Right beside the track just a few hundred metres from the TGV station was a shanty town, the sort you associate with Brazil and countries like that. A patch of ground in the middle of the city with shacks made of wood, canvas, corrugated iron sheets and anything else to hand to create makeshift homes. I would have expected them in South America but it had never occurred to me that they could exist in the heart of Europe.

Approaching Valence we could see the western edge of the Alps across to our left and stood behind them was one of the really tall snow-covered Alpine peaks, looking a pinky-orange colour as it was reflecting the sunset. It really doesn't matter how many times you see the Alps - and I used to go regularly in my bike riding days - they never fail to take your breath away. So much one of nature's most beautiful sights, a freak really - they just exist because Africa happens to be crashing into Europe - and my only disappointment with them is the bulk of them are wasted by being in Switzerland and so you can't enjoy them without having to deal with the Swiss people. And there is no way you can enjoy Swiss people.

So, despite the possibility of things going wrong because of late trains, or difficulties checking in at Eurostar or carrying two large cases onto foreign trains the whole journey had all gone so smoothly, so easily and left Mary and I with a wonderful feeling of achievement.

Well - it did as far as the approach to Lyons to be honest. That was when we heard the sound you hear when someone realises they have made a big, big blunder - that long, low, moaning, "Nooooooooooo!" And I think you'll find the groan of pain came from me. About the time I realised I hadn't brought my driving licence with me. Which was about the time I realised they wouldn't let me have my pre-booked hire car without it. Without which we would never be able to carry out our mission. Nooooooooooo!

Mary came to the rescue. Tucked deep in the back of her wallet, for no obvious reason, was her licence. We'd have to hire the car with her as the driver. There was the small issue that I had been dutifully sober throughout the trip because I knew I was going to be driving later. Mary didn't need to so she had drunk a fair bit of red wine - a delightful little number I had picked up from M&S! Plus Mary had never driven a left-hand drive car before. And she had only driven abroad on autoroutes so never had to negotiate roundabouts or traffic at crossroads, etc, and, by the time we would have got the hire car it would be dark. This looked promising.

We managed to travel steadily - very, very steadily - from the car hire place at the railway station to the hotel which was all of eight hundred metres away.

And that left us with the following conundrum. Did Mary, who really had no confidence or desire to drive in France take the controls or should I having done many miles over here before although, of course, it would be illegal and without insurance cover because I wasn't registered as the driver? And you know me - I am always most reluctant to do anything illegal or dishonest . . .