Last September, I met a couple on the train back to London. They were in their seventies, and they’d just spent a week in Arles. The wife told me they’d taken the Eurostar because her husband hated flying—like, white-knuckles-and-sweaty-palms hated. But on the train, he’d napped, read his newspaper, and even struck up a conversation with the guy opposite about French wine. She said, “It’s the first holiday we’ve taken in five years where he didn’t complain once.” That right there is the whole point. The journey should be part of the joy, not something you endure.
So, here’s my pitch: next time you’re staring at that drizzle on a Tuesday, or you’re stuck in traffic, or you’ve just had one of those days where your inbox won—consider it. A Eurostar holiday to the South of France isn’t just a trip. It’s a giant, warm, luminous reset button. You don’t need a passport, you don’t need a week off work, and you definitely don’t need a lot of money. You just need a sense of adventure and a willingness to eat a baguette on a train. That, my friend, is a holiday you can actually live.
