As I quickly discover, the city is built on seven enormous hills, and it appears my campsite is on the other side of one of them while my dinner reservation is back in the centre.
Not only is Camping Uzurat up a mountain, but out of town, too, down a side road past an enormous hypermarket and a Roman fort; handy for all the attractions, basically.
This slightly sinister state of affairs makes more sense when a Yorkshire terrier leaps out of the Belgian-registered caravan opposite and makes straight for its treasure, ignoring the pleas of its owner, who comes running after it in a dressing gown. The dog eyes me suspiciously as it is forcibly removed from my pitch, leaving me contemplating the happy prospect of a night with half a lamb leg next to my head.
Unsurprisingly, given its prime position, it has been a centre for butchery since the Middle Ages: indeed, their trade guild was once so wealthy that it is said to have lent money to kings, and so powerful that it was the butchers that received Henry IV when he visited the city in the 17th century, rather than the other way round.
Perhaps, one muses, the King was having problems with his repayments. It feels today like a pleasant but rather slow place, though perhaps no city is at its vibrant, multicultural best on a wet Sunday evening. Neither, of course, is this the best time for dinner anywhere, let alone provincial France, but a place going by the name of La Vache au Plafond The Cow on the Ceiling at least sounds like a safe bet for beef.
