Coming down to Toulouse on the TGV from the wintry north, with blossom blurring past the window, was like speeding into spring at 300 kph. At the station, as I left the train, the air was full of the scent of lilac and wisteria. But then locals do say that Toulouse, practically halfway between Mediterranean and Atlantic, is le Midi moins le quart; almost, but not quite the south of France.
In the company of local historian Gilbert Casagrande, I spent a day roaming through the narrow labyrinth of cobbled streets in the city's medieval centre. Toulouse lies on one of the oldest trading routes in Europe and Romans, Visigoths, Moors, Cathars and Crusaders have all left their stamp on the city.
In Rue du Taur, a mere 17 centuries before, an unfortunate Christian bishop had criticised Roman animal sacrifice, only to be lashed to a bull's tail and martyred as it dragged him through the streets.
But St Sernin had not died in vain. By the 12th century, his tomb had become a regular stop for pilgrims en route to Santiago de Compostella, with more than 2,000 penitents passing each day in the high season. It was big business, and the immense church built to accommodate his sepulchre was designed so the constant procession could file though the crypt without hindrance.
I stood with Casagrande in the echoing nave, where stonemasons were hard at work restoring the lofty roof, and noticed an intriguing pair of stone feet protruding from a pillar.
They were all that remained of a St Christopher whose painted figure had long since faded. The feet had an oily dark sheen, a patina bestowed by centuries of pilgrims' kisses. When Casagrande's back was turned I furtively gave the cold toes a rub for luck. The hidden beauty of the medieval centre, built in brick after a fire laid waste to the city in 1363, owes much to a small yellow flower called Isatis Tinctoria, which flourished in the rich fertile plains around the city.
In the 15th century, merchants made immense fortunes trading in the blue dye made from the plant, which the British call woad, and they lavished their new wealth on building exquisite small palaces.
In each narrow street, it seemed Casagrande would tug on my sleeve, lean against a heavy door set into an unassuming wall, and take us through into small courtyards, bathed in sunlight, where columns, cherubims and balustrades adorned the soft red brick walls.
On one occasion we climbed four storeys, up a spiral staircase, to emerge in a world which cannot have changed much for centuries. Punctuated by other towers, the skyline of the old city lay before us.
There, against this same wall of sun-warmed brick, noble families might have gathered in the cool of evening - to gloat, perhaps, for the height of each tower reflected the wealth of its owner. We paused at midday for lunch at the Cafe de l'Opera, at the corner of the wide Place du Capitole, where the market was in full swing.
I dined on dried duck breast and a cassoulet, for which the city is famous. Around us, people tucked into their food with an insouciance supported, according to Casagrande, by a survey which had established that those who lived south of the Loire - and more or less exclusively on the kind of food we had just eaten - live, on average, five years longer than their northern cousins. Outside, we stopped at the Hotel du Grand Balcon. There, Antoine de Saint-Exupery, aviator and author, had stayed when he was a pioneering pilot of the Aeropostale in the 1920s. He set up the first airmail and passenger service in ponderous biplanes from Toulouse across the deserts of North Africa to South America. He was reported missing in 1944 over the Mediterranean, and is still an icon for French pilots.
In the foyer, beneath aircraft models, a harassed young man in military fatigues was earnestly studying a handful of notes.
Sitting behind the reception desk, Monsieur Brousse, who had owned the hotel since the 1950s, told us that French pilots from the nearby military base still came there to spend a night before important examinations the following day. They believe it brings them luck.
I whiled away the remainder of the afternoon on a cruise aboard the Cap d'Ambre, a small cruiser which takes tourists along the tree-lined Canal du Midi skirting the old centre. We pottered slowly under bridges and then, passing through a lock, entered the Garonne, which swings through Toulouse before heading west to Bordeaux and the Atlantic. On its green banks, people strolled, or lay in the sun and, from the deck of the Cap d'Ambre, the pink brick walls and towers shimmered in the calm surface of the Garonne. There was suddenly in the air that blend of dust and warm asphalt, that hint of summer heat to come, confirming the essential southern character of this ancient city.
Getting there
There are flights to Toulouse from Ireland via Paris, Gatwick or Brussels. Apex fares begin at £245.