Believe it or not, I can remember when Stansted was relatively pleasant to fly from.
I know that must mean a long, long time ago. But it did once seem the sort of airport at which embarkation procedures were smooth and free of stress.
Now, of course, it is a monster. But I was glad to have Stansted, and Ryanair's services from it, as I retreated from the ugliness that is Britain and flew back to the Var.
And at the other end, Toulon-Hyères on the seafront much nearer Hyères than Toulon and just 25 minutes down the road from Le Lavandou, remains a delight to use.
It is, to be fair, just about possible to get through Stansted without too much trouble. The middle of the day is a good time to fly, especially in midweek, and we were not unduly delayed at security or then required to struggle with impossible crowds in the departure lounge. So it was a much less irritating experience than most in recent memory.
But we did make one mistake, sitting down at an empty table outside the Yam Yam Thai fast-food place.
Despite the clear offer, meal plus drink for £7.99, the staff tried to overcharge both of us, each having placed an order separately, and then seemed cross when the error was pointed out. They also served the noodles and topping in a distinctly unappealing cardboard cup - for which they cannot be blamed since that is obviously Yam Yam's way - and they served mine cold in the middle.
The flight was on time, so we should not be too critical of Ryanair for wanting to broadcast the fact loudly with that infuriating fanfare followed by excited Scottish voice. The approach to the airport was a visual joy, the islands of Levant, Port Cros and Porquerolles appearing majestically in the Med as the Boeing made its long, sharp turn and final descent.
And we were through the airport and on the road home within minutes, well in time to prepare for an evening on the port, dining modestly but in rather more splendour than at Stansted (and not feeling robbed at the end of it) and then watching an impressive fireworks display on the fête of Sainte-Marie, patron saint of the Ancien Régime, but in truth commemorating the Allied landings in the Var 67 years ago.
There was another bonus: no trace of Gérard Depardieu on board. I bow as steeply as anyone to the man's acting talents. If only he had been acting, I imagine fellow passengers on his Paris-Dublin flight thinking, when he decided to stand up and relieve himself in the corridor rather than obey a stewardess's instruction to wait until the aircraft was in the skies and then use more conventional facilties.
He was reportedly drunk. I have been drunk, and I would guess that many readers of Salut! would admit to having been so, too. Calls of nature can be decidedly inconvenient. But would any of us have behaved quite like that?
The only mitigating feature was the comment attributed to a fellow passenger: "No one said anything. It all happened with courtesy. Mr Depardieu sat back down and the plane returned to the parking area to be cleaned."
Courtesy indeed.
If the airline chooses to pursue the matter, the nature of the charge to be levelled against Mr Depardieu is one for conjecture: behaving like a spoilt brat may not be available in either the French or Irish jurisdictions, so we are probably left with the misdemeanour of committing a public nuisance or something relating to aviation security.
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