You can usually predict the difficulty of a new week by the first day of travel. If things run smoothly when moving from one destination to the next, then there is a good chance the week ahead will do the same. That depends, of course, on your philosophy: those who prescribe to the balanced nature of the world might presume easy travel means a difficult stay, and vice versa.

I'm not sure which category I fall into, but last week at the French Open outside Lyon was a nightmare. The flight to Paris was one of the bumpiest I have been on in a long time. The kids behind me were puking for much of the journey. The furrowed brows and awkward gate of the air stewards betrayed the severity of the turbulence.

We arrived in Paris on time, the luggage appeared promptly and there was a convenient TGV leaving from the train station at Charles de Gaulle airport which would arrive in Lyon just over two hours later. Not bad, I thought, for a 450 km trip. Despite the driving rain, I was confident things would look brighter down south.

It was remarkably quiet in town for a Tuesday afternoon as I left the Part-Dieu station in Lyon in search of my rental car. I had been warned that this new destination for the French Open was a little isolated, some 30 km outside Lyon, and a car would be useful. Was there a siesta ritual here, as in Spain? Would I have to hang around till three o'clock waiting for the commercial wheels to start turning again after a communal snooze.

The voucher I had for the rental car led me to a closed office, with a sign on the door informing clients to go to the Hotel Bordeaux for the keys if you had a booking. I shuffled around to the hotel to find it open, but not expecting me and certainly without a car for me. They did have plenty of spare rooms, though, if I was interested. How many times had I longed for a room and received an abrupt complet reply? There was another office of the same company about 20 minutes walk away which might be open. The helpful hotelier phoned the office to receive no reply, but that didn't mean there was no one there, and he said it might be worth a trip down. I left my bag in the hotel and walked past very closed shops to the next rental car office. At three o'clock last Tuesday afternoon I became aware it was Tuesday the first of May. May Day, a worker's sacred holiday. You couldn't even buy a croissant in France.

It started raining again as I searched for a taxi to take me to the other main train station in Lyon, which definitely housed an open car rental office, as Autos Abroad, in London, had advised me calmly on the phone as I bellowed down the line that they had sent me to a closed office. The open office was miles away and, naturally, being May Day, the taxi drivers of Lyon were in a similar holiday mood to the rest of the nation.

So, short of throwing myself under a passing taxi, 30 minutes after my phone call to London I finally wound up at an open rental car office. I drove out of Lyon in search of Villette D'Anthon some two-and-a-half hours after I began my car search. An hour later I found the course through some sodden farm fields down some back lanes. It was chucking it down. That was Tuesday evening: it stopped raining on Sunday morning. Without asking, those of us who have been around for a while knew "The Rain Man", Mike Stewart, was tournament director last week. He earned this sobriquet after it became apparent over the years that he was always on duty when there was a week of deluge. The French Open was doomed from the time he was appointed TD.

However trying it may have been for players and caddies, with long days of sloshing around the bog that the Lyon Golf Club had been reduced to by the overflowing banks of the mighty Rhone, it was even more testing for the Tour staff. No matter what decision The Rain Man made it was going to upset some players, as they are instinctively looking for the unfair advantage - like the older sibling is convinced that the younger is always getting away with murder. Players generally live in the cocoon of their own performance.

That the French Open was played over 72 holes amazed us all. On Saturday afternoon, with dark clouds looming low on a sodden course, some players had yet to complete 14 holes of their second round. I suppose many would argue that The Rain Man has had so much experience of rain delays that he is getting good at dealing with them. He did do well to complete a 72-hole tournament.

Depending on the side of the draw you were on, at some stage of the week you ended up hanging around the course from morning to night waiting to play. Everyone had extremely long and trying days, because you were never sure if play would recommence. It culminated with a marathon Sunday of 36 holes play, with a 30-minute break between rounds.

The first bus on Sunday morning at 5.15 a.m. from the players' hotels (play began at 7.10) went missing. Our two playing partners arrived on the tee at 7.08 with two minutes to spare, without having hit any warm-up shots. They had ended up in a mushy car park behind the 12th green at 6.35 a.m. with their suitcases, in search of the clubhouse - it was the driver's first visit to the club, he didn't know the way.

I didn't have time to quiz them about their philosophy on things balancing out in the long run. Too many more weeks like last week and many players and caddies alike may well opt for another profession.