Thank heavens for the eminently sensible, Tintin-loving proprietor who clearly understands that an attic room in France can quickly turn into a slow-roasting poulet oven by midnight. In a stroke of genius worthy of a Voltaire script, they provided a portable air-con unit. I spent a good hour sprawled beneath its cool breeze last night after blogging…sheer, bliss. It felt less like a two star, Hergé themed hotel attic and more like reclining on a balcony at Château de Chambord, if Chambord had a blues band wafting up from the café next door instead of court musicians in tights. Magnificent.

Morning began with pleasing ease, my lodgings were so conveniently placed I may as well have been a minor French duke with excellent transport links. Four tram stops and I was at the Gare in about five minutes, just enough time to swing by the ‘Relay’ café for their delightfully confusing cappuccino, which appears to have been designed by a rogue chocolatier rather than a barista. It’s basically a mocha wearing a cappuccino’s disguise, but tradition is tradition, and I dutifully partake before boarding every TGV like a nobleman insisting on his morning goblet. TGV bang on time as usual, and the eminently pleasing journey in it to Nantes.

Today’s voyage was a gentle hour southwest to Nantes, much of it gliding alongside the Loire itself, with the odd early fisherman dotted along. Unlike our dear British waterways, there is a notable absence of shopping trolleys and inflatable flamingos lurking in the green waters. Instead, it winds through the countryside with the sort of regal indifference you’d expect from a river that has watched centuries of châteaux rise and fall along its banks. There is something about wines named after rivers as well, where you just say the river and know it’s decent….Loire, Rhone…… Tamar…

Arrival in Nantes was, again, suspiciously efficient. I swept off the TGV and onto a tram like a seasoned Breton aristocrat although, in true British fashion, I promptly bought a day pass despite weekend travel being free. This caused mild amusement among my fellow passengers, who I assume mentally filed me under “British fool , probably due to Brexit…’

A few stops later, I disembarked at ‘Commerce’, having already spotted the rather splendid Château des Ducs de Bretagne en route, a proper French castle, bristling with turrets and add-ons like it’s been enthusiastically extended over several centuries by nobles who just couldn’t stop themselves. “Another tower? Oui, pourquoi pas!”

My hotel was brilliantly central and exactly my kind of establishment: two-star French charm with a faint undertone of…drain. A classic. Check-in wasn’t until 4pm, but in a twist of fate worthy of Versailles level favour, the room was ready early. I dropped my bags and immediately set off in search of a food market, because if you’re in France and not heading straight for produce, what are you even doing?

A 15-minute walk (or survival exercise, given the heat) brought me to Marché de Talensac. Wandering through it produced the usual mix of delight and mild existential despair that we can’t quite replicate this back home. Not the farmers’ fault, more a national confusion about what to actually do with glorious ingredients once acquired. The fish stalls in particular were extraordinary…a dazzling display of North Atlantic treasures that looked like they’d just been personally escorted by Neptune himself. I secured a picnic lunch from a particularly promising boucherie, some sort of heroic sausage and potato combination, with Oeuf Mayonnaise for a starter and ate on the go. It was very, very good. The French can do things to potatoes we can only dream of. Next stop: Musée des Arts.

A quick tram and short walk delivered me to a building so grand it practically screamed “we taxed Picasso for this.” Still, the collection was excellent, and I was pleased to bump into my old mate Raoul Dufy (artistically speaking) represented there. I can never work out what order French Galleries lay out their collection in- but this was pretty good, a walk through the timeline from 18^th Century master pieces to Anish Kapoor. Great to see some Monet ‘Nymphs’ as well, and a touch of Fernand Legér.

Following a recommendation from the pub landlord at home (Halfway House, Polbathic- great for food and beer!) I crossed the Loire again to visit a giant mechanical elephant at Les Machines de l’Île. And not just any elephant, this was a colossal, clanking, water-spraying beast the size of a modest château, lumbering about with passengers on its back like some sort of steampunk royal carriage.

Completely bonkers. There’s also a workshop full of equally bizarre contraptions. It’s the sort of place that makes you think, “Yes, this is exactly what happens when the French let their imagination off the leash.” Brilliant.

Unexpectedly, the highlight of Nantes was its Japanese Garden on the Île de Versailles. Beautifully tranquil, slightly chaotic, and wonderfully French in execution, half Zen retreat, half cheerful gathering of bongo players enjoying robust IPA and cider. Barges lined the edges with people living aboard, giving it a laid-back, bohemian feel. I lingered for hours, pondering life, the universe, and whether I could feasibly relocate there and become a contemplative river-dwelling eccentric.

Today was a ‘really quick sketch’ day as it was hot and I was short of time… so although had the kit with me, just blasted a couple of quick sketches on the pages. trying different things….

By evening, Nantes transformed entirely courtesy of PSG vs Arsenal. Every bar was bursting, TVs lined the streets, and the atmosphere was electric, if slightly on edge, judging by the conspicuous number of Gendarme vans lurking about like castle guards anticipating a siege.

Things stayed civil… until they didn’t. Walking back later, the medieval streets became a lively game of cat-and-mouse between revellers and police. From my third-floor perch, I had a front-row seat: crowds charging past every few minutes, flares blazing, firecrackers popping, sirens closing in like dramatic punctuation. And this wasn’t even Paris.

One can only imagine the full Versailles-level drama awaiting there. As I write this, the riot Gendarmes have just gone past the hotel in full riot gear firing CS Gas. I just looked out the balcony window and got a face full of it- eyes now stringing and streaming- this really is an unexpected adventure! Last riot I was in the thick of was New castle Vs Middlesbrough in 1993, so I’m feeling nostalgic.

All in all, Nantes has been brilliant, unexpectedly so….. just maybe less CS Gas when I next come maybe? I only wish I had longer to explore it properly, but Paris calls, and after that it’s back home. For now, I’ll consider myself a travelling minor noble of the Loire… albeit one who still occasionally pays for free trams….and brings a gas mask with me next time.

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