Back in the hotel with clothes balanced on the meagre heating facilities. Man alive. I've never seen so much water in my life. I'm sure that if I went to Bangladesh during monsoon season I'd get some kind of perspective, but this is something else.

The day started well. We followed a man with an amazing moustache. It would have been wrong to ask him for a photo, but I'm sure you'll be able to judge from the back view just how amazing this moustache was.

Up to a delicatessen off the Cours St Julien, to look at pies, pastries and other delicacies that would make fantastic gifts for people back in the UK, if the delicacies were able to survive the homeward journey, which they aren't, so we decided to have a picnic instead. Stars of the show were sitting on adjoining plinths: A Pudding Diplomat, and a Gateau D'Amour. Surely the two perfect items to take to your other half if you've had a massive bust up over failing to video something off Canal Plus, or something. “Darling, I'm sorry. I've brought you a diplomatic pudding, and a cake of love.” “Oh, darling, I'm sorry too.” Cue romantic music.

We slung our picnic in the car and made our way in the car west of Marseille to Martigues, prompted by 's revalation on this blog the other day that he lives there. I've never met , and probably never will, but it's nice to put a town to the LiveJournal user, isn't it. We looked around for a bit. It started raining. This has been par for the course on most days of this holiday, so we waited for it to pass. It didn't. Back in the car, and down the Côte Bleu, to a few villages that Time Out recommends as being “picturesque” and “worth a visit”. By this time the rain had become a deluge. It was irritating, but it gave us the opportunity to carry out the most English of pursuits: eating a picnic whilst parked up, facing the sea, as the rain drives relentlessly into the windscreen, while you listen to the radio, not talking to each other.

The rain got worse. Torrents of water cascaded down the street behind us, and cars were having trouble getting out of the car park as a small lake had formed at the exit. I took this moment to record this short video clip which you may be able to view.

Then followed quite the most terrifying 30km of driving I've ever sat through. The rain was relentless; you could barely see out of the windscreen as it hammered down with alarming ferocity. Jenny stuck the hazards on and crawled at 40kph down the road to Marseille; we were comforted that a few French drivers were equally terrified and were either doing the same as us, or had stopped under bridges to quietly weep. We were concerned that we would get stranded, as water was collecting on the road in certain areas, making it almost impassable. Occasionally some idiot would overtake, directing more jets of water onto the windscreen and rendering us utterly blind. I started to develop a headache. Jenny started to feel sick.

It was awful.

Suddenly, it stopped. The road ahead was as dry as a bone. We breathed sighs of relief and made our way back into the city, parking the car and making for the supermarket to buy a couple of bottles of wine, should we get stranded in the hotel this evening. Sure enough, within 30 minutes the rain hit Marseille. People stood in shop doorways as the rain flowed freely down the main shopping thoroughfare. We walked back to the hotel wearing the bin liners we snaffled on Tuesday night, as people shouted out “Bon idée!” Not that good an idée, really. We're soaked. Hopefully we'll be able to get out of the bloody building later, for the last night of our exceedingly damp holidays.