Lyon

Choir at the chapel

After a full day sailing, we stepped off the boat in Lyon and into something completely unexpected, a concert in a chapel that no longer serves a religious purpose. It’s still very much a chapel, though. The moment you walk in, you feel it. High domed ceiling, stone and marble everywhere, statues watching from their niches, and that quiet, slightly hushed atmosphere that makes you instinctively lower your voice.

Chairs had been set out in neat rows facing a simple performance space at the front. No stage lights, no grand setup, just the building itself doing most of the work. And honestly, it didn’t need anything else. We were offered wine or juice to drink while we listened. The wine was awful. I abandoned mine somewhere, barely touched. Which is saying something.

The performers were eight singers, four men and four women, standing in a semicircle. No instruments, no backing track, just voices. Pure a cappella. The moment they started, you understood why this place had been chosen. The sound didn’t just travel, it filled the space, rising up into the dome and coming back down again, rich and layered.

It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. Every note was clear, every harmony perfectly balanced. You could hear individual voices when you wanted to, but together they blended into something much bigger. It’s the sort of sound that gives you goosebumps without you quite knowing why. Here’s a short idea of what it was like.

There’s something rather special about listening to music like that in a place built centuries ago for voices to carry. Even though it’s no longer used for worship, the building still does exactly what it was designed to do, hold sound, shape it, and give it back.

Pérouges

The following morning we climbed into a coach and headed out into the countryside to the hilltop village of Pérouges. After the biting wind of the previous days, this felt like a reward. Bright blue sky, no breeze at all, and a promise of 25 degrees by the afternoon. Not a Mistral in sight.

Pérouges sits on a rise with distant views toward the Alps, a compact cluster of stone buildings that looks like it’s been dropped straight out of the Middle Ages and left untouched. The streets are narrow and uneven, paved with cobblestones polished smooth by centuries of feet. You don’t stroll here so much as watch where you’re putting your boots.

One woman can’t have read the memo. She had to walk the cobblestones in high heeled sandals. Sorry. I thought it was funny.

The church is part of what was once a fortified complex, more practical than decorative. Built of the same pale limestone as the surrounding buildings, it’s solid and plain, with very little in the way of ornamentation. Our guide told us its unusual north to south alignment may be because it was fitted into the remains of an earlier castle structure, rather than built to the usual east to west plan. Whether that’s strictly true or not, it fits the slightly make do character of the place.

Historically, Pérouges spent a long time under the control of the Dukes of Savoy rather than France. It was a strategic spot, sitting on trade routes between Lyon and Geneva, and it prospered on weaving and commerce. Later, when those routes shifted and industry moved elsewhere, the village declined and was largely forgotten. Oddly enough, that neglect is what saved it. While other towns modernised, Pérouges stayed much as it had always been.

Eventually people realised what they had, and efforts were made to preserve it rather than replace it. What you see today isn’t a reconstruction, it’s the real thing, worn, slightly uneven, and all the better for it.

Peter and I joined new friends in a gallery beside the main square for coffee. French coffee, of course, which means a cup the size of a thimble and strong enough to wake the dead. Even Starbucks is better. And that’s saying something.

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If you’ve missed any of the posts for this trip, go here. Europe 2026