Toulouse

Some cities welcome you with open arms. Toulouse welcomed us with parking restrictions, environmental regulations and a rather expensive parking meter.

It was perfect.

Our morning began at 6am. While sensible people were probably still asleep, we were outside packing Bandit on our campsite. Ninety minutes later every chair, cable, kettle, dog lead and mysterious item that had somehow migrated beneath the seats was finally back where it belonged.

Bandit looked ready for another adventure.

So were we.

The drive south to Toulouse would take around four hours, and we decided the French autoroutes were worth every euro. Smooth roads, light traffic and scenery that changed from sleepy villages to rolling countryside.

Before joining the motorway though, there was one very important stop.

A tiny village called Ajain.

And, more importantly, its boulangerie.

The moment we stepped inside Boulangerie Remandet Michèle, the smell hit us.

Fresh bread.

Butter.

Pastries.

Coffee.

If heaven has a bakery, this would be very close.

Dana chose a Pain aux Raisins.

We both grabbed Pain au Chocolat for later.

Then my eyes settled on a magnificent Mille-feuille.

Known in England as a vanilla slice.

Known in France as something that deserves far more respect.

The pâtissière wrapped each pastry with incredible care. My Mille-feuille wasn’t simply placed in a bag. It was folded into paper that formed a little protective basket, as though she knew full well that one careless corner would transform it into very expensive custard soup.

I briefly considered eating it immediately.

Dana looked at me.

“Not while you’re driving.”

Probably sensible.

Two hours later we pulled into a motorway service station.

Dana announced she was having “a little nap” in Bandit.

Anyone travelling with Dana knows a “little nap” can vary anywhere between ten minutes and next Tuesday.

So I wandered off with a coffee and my carefully protected Mille-feuille.

I’d always thought vanilla slices were nice.

This wasn’t nice.

This was outrageous.

The pastry shattered into dozens of buttery flakes. The vanilla cream was impossibly rich, smooth and fresh, while the icing sugar immediately coated absolutely everything.

Including me.

It was gloriously messy.

Every bite seemed to produce another avalanche of pastry.

Driving immediately afterwards would have required a full vacuum cleaner and probably a shower, so Dana’s earlier advice had proved remarkably wise.

I sat there slowly eating what may genuinely have been one of the finest cakes I’ve ever tasted.

Another couple of hours.

Two toll booths.

Surprisingly reasonable this time.

Then Toulouse appeared on the horizon.

Or rather…

Our parking problems appeared.

We already knew the Park & Ride sites had a 1.9 metre height restriction.

Bandit is 2.1 metres.

Close enough to be annoying.

Then came another discovery.

Toulouse operates a Crit’Air Low Emission Zone.

We actually owned a Crit’Air sticker from our visit to Reims.

Small problem.

It still displayed Bandit’s previous registration number.

Another quick search.

Even worse.

Bandit is classified as Crit’Air Category 4.

Category 4 vehicles aren’t permitted within Toulouse’s Low Emission Zone.

Excellent.

We hadn’t even reached the city yet and we were already technically planning how not to break French environmental law.

Google Maps became less of a navigation system and more of a panic management tool.

One parking area after another.

Height restriction.

Too small.

Questionable neighbourhood.

No thanks.

Eventually we found ourselves driving…

Right into central Toulouse.

“Oh…”

Dana looked out of the window.

“I don’t think we’re supposed to be here.”

Neither did I.

No signs had jumped out at us.

No flashing lights.

No angry French policemen.

So we decided not to stop and simply headed for our hotel.

Sometimes the best navigation strategy is to keep moving and hope confidence looks legal.

Eventually we found roadside parking large enough for Bandit.

Success.

The parking meter, however, had other ideas.

Three hours.

€30.

“What?!”

I cancelled.

Started again.

Two hours.

€3.60.

Much better.

Apparently the parking meter had initially assumed I wished to purchase the entire street.

We checked into the excellent Nemea Appart’Hotel Toulouse Concorde Gare Matabiau, then I drove Bandit out to La Cité de l’Espace, where parking was easier and free for longer stays.

A Bolt taxi carried us back into the city.

Our driver was brilliant.

When I asked where we should eat, he immediately suggested Py-r, one of Toulouse’s Michelin-starred restaurants. It’s known for modern French tasting menus created by chef Pierre Lambinon, using seasonal local ingredients. It sounded wonderful.

It also sounded like somewhere I’d still be hungry after eight tiny artistic courses costing roughly the same as a campervan service.

“I think I’m after pizza.”

He laughed.

“Then Bellini.”

Much better.

He also recommended Ma Biche sur Le Toit, a rooftop bar overlooking the city.

Perfect.

A short walk later we arrived in the heart of Toulouse.

The late afternoon sun transformed the famous terracotta bricks into shades of pink and orange.

Only then did we understand why Toulouse is called La Ville Rose - The Pink City.

It genuinely glows.

Our first stop was Ma Biche sur Le Toit.

The views across the rooftops were spectacular.

Dana and I ordered matching Number 4 cocktails.

Rhum.

Several other ingredients neither of us could remember.

And just enough alcohol to make us briefly forget the parking drama.

The rooftop itself was partly under refurbishment.

Less glamorous rooftop lounge.

More glamorous building site.

Still…

The view was worth every sip.

Walking back through the city, Dana suddenly stopped outside the Opéra National du Capitole.

A poster advertised Rusalka, Antonín Dvořák’s famous Czech opera.

Being Czech herself, Dana’s face immediately lit up.

“It’s Czech!”

She insisted on a photograph.

Whether it was because she was genuinely delighted or simply because she wanted photographic evidence she’d found Czech culture in southern France remains unclear.

Probably both.

Just across the square sat Le Bellini Pizzeria & Osteria.

Exactly the sort of lively Italian restaurant we’d hoped to find.

Outside tables.

Warm evening air.

Large cooling fans.

Occasional bursts of cooling mist.

And that wonderful Mediterranean atmosphere where nobody seems in any hurry to leave.

I ordered the Mediterranean seafood platter.

King prawns.

Salmon.

White fish.

Rice.

Chargrilled vegetables.

All sitting on a rich tomato and roasted pepper sauce with fresh herbs and lemon.

Dana chose a pizza topped with burrata, ham, mushrooms, pesto, sun-dried tomatoes and beautifully blistered mozzarella.

A bottle of chilled white wine appeared.

Holiday mode was now fully activated.

While we were eating we couldn’t help noticing two elderly French ladies a few tables away.

Probably in their eighties.

Elegantly dressed.

Laughing.

Talking.

Completely absorbed in each other’s company.

Every now and again they’d glance over and smile.

Dana smiled back.

Then came the sentence I knew was inevitable.

“I’m going to talk to them.”

“They only speak French.”

“So?”

Fair point.

Five minutes later they were all chatting happily despite sharing perhaps twelve words of common language between them.

Smiles did most of the work.

Photos followed.

Watching it unfold reminded me that travel isn’t really about speaking perfect French.

It’s about making human connections.

Kindness doesn’t need translating.

No evening stroll is complete without ice cream.

Especially in Toulouse.

Toulouse is famous for violets, so choosing Violette ice cream felt compulsory.

Delicate.

Floral.

Sweet without being overpowering.

I’d never tasted anything quite like it.

Dana chose Banoffee.

Probably the safer choice.

Mine was definitely the more memorable one.

We wandered slowly back towards the hotel through warm streets still buzzing with people enjoying Saturday evening.

No rushing.

No plans.

Just another one of those evenings where everything feels wonderfully unhurried.

Looking back, Toulouse wasn’t really about famous landmarks.

It was about unexpected moments.

A perfect Mille-feuille.

A parking saga we’d eventually laugh about.

Cocktails above pink rooftops.

A Czech opera poster.

Two delightful French ladies.

Purple ice cream.

And discovering that some of the best cities don’t need a long itinerary.

They just need one evening and a willingness to see where it takes you.

One final surprise arrived while we were asleep.

England had beaten France 6-4 to finish third in the World Cup.

Probably just as well we only found out the following morning. It saved me from having to explain the result to our new French friends over breakfast.