We were shopping in the centre of Marseilles on Saturday morning when a frightened security guard ran up and said, "We are under attack!" He was not wrong. Leaving by the back door, we felt the heat of a bonfire of tyres just outside. All over the city centre, demonstrators were congregating in substantial numbers and lighting fires.
On our street, young people dressed in black, faces covered to hide identities and filter out the tear gas, were streaming towards the Old Harbour. Quiet streets had suddenly become scary places. Bonfires of tyres and plastic barriers burned, the emergency services pelted with rocks as they arrived. This felt like a carefully planned event.
Watching TV at the end of the day, commentators talked of France being on fire. It was not. Cathie and I retreated 300 metres to a café where people were enjoying a coffee in the sunshine. The demonstrations were many but limited to a small area in each city. Life went on.
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