Gray and beasts

In just a few days from now we will be once again loading ourselves onto a large ship which will carry us silently through the night to that distant world called Great Britain (or whatever name it now calls itself). From here we will squeeze ourselves onto the first of many crowded roads, remembering to cross to the left side, and motor northwards again to the place we call home. Having just spent the last three days driving northwards through France on nearly empty roads (thanks to Mrs Google); smoothly surfaced, long straight sections running away into the distance, slowing down for each village then accelerating once past the last house, it has occurred to us just how different the driving experience will be once we are back on British soil. We'll soon be back in the world of traffic queues and crowded roads - we are not looking forward to it - but then all good things must come to an end.

France is not all a bed of roses, of course, and if we had to name one place we are unlikely to revisit it is the town of Gray. And who could have thought of a better name! Straddling the River Saône this place has an air of failure about it, as if someone has tried to make it somewhere pleasant but not quite succeeded. An information board in the town centre is blank, as if to say 'nothing happens here'. Closed up shops are always indicative of someone's misery and there are plenty of these too.

Contrast this with a tiny village just to the north

where this grand beast stands proudly at the roadside glaring out at every passer by as a bold statement saying 'look at me!' Or even back in the Jura where we couldn't help but meet another giant beast sitting at the rear of a shop which sold...well, wooden things.

As ever our mode of travel hasn't changed though. Mrs Google has instructions to avoid main roads, which she does faultlessly as she directs us across farmland then through woodland and every small village settlement she can find. What is remarkable, though, is that she now has a companion, un copain as they might say in France, a well spoken man's voice, who will add his own guidance tips whenever he feels they are needed, as if to say 'Just to clarify what Mrs G has said....  try turning left just up ahead'. There never seems to be any actual back chat between them and we speculate that he only butts in when Mrs G needs a comfort break. We don't have a name for him yet but I'm sure we'll find one soon enough. We like to take advantage of modern technology when it makes our lives easier but it is rather worrying when that same technology does things we have not asked for, harmless though it may be.

Our last few days turn out to be longer drives than we predicted, again largely due to the 'stick to small roads' mandate, but it does serve to illustrate the differences between each country - France, Belgium and Holland - as we pass through each one. Arrival in Belgium suddenly brings on the cycle lanes again, the road width for cars being deliberately constrained to accommodate them. Road markings become clearer and bolder, a line of triangles denoting give way instead of a faded white line. We decide to divert (briefly) onto a motorway for the first time since these are toll free here and the experience confirms for us why we have chosen not to use them on our travels. Wall to wall lorries on the inside lane and speeding Audis and Mercedes flashing past in the outside lane is just not our idea of a fun holiday.

So we are back in Holland again, arriving on Kate's birthday, and this is celebrated by flags flying, music and dancing in the streets everywhere, which is sort of unexpected, but rather nice. Quite by chance it turns out that King Willem-Alexander of Holland shares the same birthday. 

Indiana

Perhaps from this point forward each new entry here should start with a different spire.

I'm sure there are enough of them (although I suspect others have made collections already).

Despite being nearly over, we have discovered that our dog sitting days here have their own routine. To understand their world one must imagine a place where only dogs exist and humans are only there because they need protecting... from other dogs. Be aware that it is necessary to be constantly on alert for those other dogs and to respond to any doggist communication by barking at top volume, just in case. As likely as not this will provoke a similar reaction from other dogs within hearing range, which is most of the village, but they all understand the rules so no harm is done.

The nearest 'other' dog to us is next door. Some days he is an early riser, starting the day with a whining noise at around 6am. (This is not the full doggist sound but perhaps he's just stretching his vocal chords after a long uninterrupted sleep.) Naturally this initiates a period of doggist chatter lasting some minutes by which time every human in the village will be awake, but thankfully they are totally safe... from all the other dogs. It's quite simple really.

Dogs don't measure time as we do, of course, so just as long as the next things happen, in whatever order, then all is well. There's food and there's a walk, both these things being terribly exciting. Indiana is a powerful dog so getting him through the village on a lead is a strain on any human but once we are in the forest he is off like a shot, tireless, dashing into the trees to one side then the other, nose down, following scents far out of sight, but he keeps checking back by returning to the path where his humans are to be sure we are still safe... from other dogs. Then there is Toby, rather elderly but still enjoying the sniffing and running about and he knows he is top dog, the boss, should there be any disputes over food bowls or sleeping positions, but he does demand attention from the humans he cares for. Constant petting will do fine, unless you'd like a wet muzzle on your lap.

Fortunately, gentler beasts we could not have wished for. Both will respond to a brusque command, in their own time, and having them care for us has been quite relaxing... for us too.

We would not, however,  have wanted to take them up to the top of Pic D'Aigle though. This feature sits on one side of a rift between two high ridges, summits of over 1200 metres dropping almost vertically to 800, and the views over the edge of the drop make it rather popular with tourists. The ascent path is steep enough to justify chains on either side, anchored to the rock, for those same tourists to pull themselves up on and the viewpoint at the top is exposed, requiring steady nerves. Not a place to take your dog, one might think, but surprisingly this view is not one shared by many. One dog owner was pulled right off her feet by her pet. She'll be sore.

So what of the view. Well photos don't really do it justice... you had to be there.

Notwithstanding the forested landscape all around us we cannot help but notice that this is a different climate from the West of Scotland rainforest we call home. Our walking boots now are as clean as when we left, covered only with a fine layer of dust. Surely it must rain some of the time here though... and then it does, just a little at first then overnight and through into the next day. Already it feels more Scottish.

The damp ground brings out two creatures we had not noticed before but we managed to photograph only one.

The other one was a Kite, hovering in the breeze right above our heads, a truly spectacular flyer with the classic body shape but noticeably larger than the red kites we have seen nearer home. Any photos we might try to take would be just a silhouetted shape against the sky - anyone could make that up.

A musical Jura

Richard has been a family friend for many years, indeed in discussing this one night we came to conclusion that we had first met 36 years ago, at a boatyard in Kent! And since amongst his many talents he plays a fair guitar whenever he can, and with having a Music Room to hand it seemed like a good opportunity to join him there. And since my concertina had travelled with us from Scotland it was ready for another good squeeze. I also like to think that the presence in the room of a wild boar, Un Sanglier, as the French would say, actually improved our performance, but who knows. 

The sunshine continues, bringing out the colours in everything, especially this rather gaily coloured church spire.

It seems hard to believe that since we left Scotland we have had no more than two days of rain and this was many days ago, whilst we were travelling south through France. The only other shower we got falling on us was of sand, which did nothing to improve Martin's fine looks. It may have been blown up from a Saharan storm, we'll never know for sure, but most of what is now sticking to Martin's paintwork will probably be taken back home with us - we won't be rushing to wash it off, sorry mate.

We do, however, still carry all those logs around with us - or so many  people must think. In order to hold our bedding in place in the back of the van we have a cloth stretched across the rear so that when we open the large rear door, things won't come rolling out.

And because Kate had a convenient remnant of material left over from some other project, we used this, despite it having a pattern on it representing a stack of logs, viewed from on end. The effect of this simple piece of practicality is that when viewed from the rear it appears that the van is full of logs. This is clearly what the customs officers thought back in Harwich when they were carrying out their inspection prior to loading onto the ferry and it explains the strange looks they gave us and their insistence in having us open up the rear so they could inspect the timber for themselves. Readers may judge for themselves how our log-filled van compares with a genuine logpile.

The village we are staying in, St-Maurice-Crillat, with its handful of inhabitants, lies in the foothills of the French/Swiss Alps, the nearest large city being Geneva, but between here and there are some pretty big mountains.

Clearly though there is considerable leakage from across the border in Switzerland, of culture, architectural styles and behaviour. Many houses here have overhanging roofs with tiles that have spikes on them to hold the snow on rather than let it slide off and cause damage. Then there are the cows. Let loose into pasture only when the grass has recovered enough from the winter chill, every animal has a bell around its neck, a bell which may have been passed down from mother to daughter for many generations. Each villager could own no more than seven beasts, that was the rule, which was reckoned to be what the land would support.

We're also in département No.39, apparently something one businessman is very proud of, going completely overboard by choosing this as the theme for his shop.

A Jurastic welcome

Mrs Google directed us along ever smaller and steeper roads, taking us further and further into the wilderness, so it seemed, until, just after a tight left turn up a farm track, she told us we had arrived at our destination. This seemed unlikely to us so a quick telephone call to Richard sorted things out - we had passed Karen's house just a minute earlier.

To say their welcome was a warm one is an understatement. Their living room fire was glowing and we were shown to our own en suite room in the 'West Wing', all this in a beautifully converted old cottage and barn, set amongst the most amazing hills and scenery one could wish for. Oh, and the sun is shining.

Just to get a feel for the lay of the land, on our first day here Richard and I took Karen's two dogs for a vigorous walk up a nearby hill along some very Scottish looking forest tracks, then later that day we all drove up the hill again to watch the sun as it dropped down behind some distant mountains. Quite spectacular and so different from anywhere else we have so far visited on this road trip.

Whilst at no stage have we felt constrained or uncomfortable living inside Martin for weeks on end, the sudden shift to so much luxurious comfort and security does take some getting used to. Were we asking to much of our hosts by imposing ourselves on their foreign retreat? Well probably, yes, but our consciences were assuaged by fixing a few niggling projects for them, the stove being one of these.

This majestic beast sits in the corner of their first floor 'Music Room' and consumes wood pellets which are poured in through a hole in the top. The trouble is that the stove's only physical control is a single small button hidden away at the rear, right where you can't see it. Instead it is operated entirely using a phone app which talks to the stove via wifi. Simple really, except one first has to have the password which is hidden away inside the machine itself, then you must be less than 5 metres away, to make it work. Even then it is temperamental at the best of times. Beautiful to look at it may be, unnecessary complicated it certainly is, however after downloading the necessary software and some playing about I did manage to get the big machine working and doing what it was built for, providing heat.

The Jura is a vast forested area, none of which is less than 200m above sea level, and the village where we are staying is around 700m high, which means the air is rarified and fresh. The trees have always been an important part of life here but they are not clear felled, as in some parts of Scotland, instead selected mature trees will be taken out and replacements allowed to grow naturally. And which trees to take and when to fell them, will depend upon the phase of the moon, so we have discovered. Here's why.

The moon's gravity has a big effect upon all the water on the earth's surface causing the sea to bulge towards the moon regularly and at certain times more than others. We call these things tides. But those who live and work closely with trees may also be aware that each tree contains a body of fluid that is similarly influenced by the moon's gravity, this knowledge being ancient, perhaps going back into pre-history. The pull of the moon will cause the moisture inside the tree to rise up, and if the wood is to be used for delicate bending and shaping this might therefore be the best time to fell the tree. Conversely if it is firewood that is required then the best time would be when the moon's influence is at its weakest, when the sap is still in the tree's roots. This astonishing piece of knowledge was relayed to us by Karen one evening as we relaxed outside in the sunshine, supplemented by a small medicinal glass of Pastis, and we are grateful to her for passing it on. I know that in future before hugging any tree I shall always check the tide tables first!

Aside from these educational titbits, our stay in the Jura will continue for a short while longer as our hosts here have themselves planned a short road trip in their own campervan. To make this easier for them we'll be dog-sitting here, taking these gentle beasts on long forest hikes and generally entertaining them as best we can. Oh, and I almost forgot to mention Madeleine the cat who also stays here. None of these animals seem to mind us, in fact I'd go as far as to say that they enjoy our company, just as long as we keep them fed and watered, of course.

Lyon and more

The idea here is to start with something wild, or as the French might say, sauvage. So far as we can work out this word is used to describe what we would call feral, and Auguste le lézard did look pretty feral to us, especially after we had disturbed him in the  middle of the afternoon, sunbathing on his favourite tree.

But really a most important event in our lives has been the visit to the home of our friends, Guy and Noëlle, who live in an amazing house just outside Lyon. Twelve years, give or take a month or so, have passed since we last visited them and on that occasion  we were drafted into assisting with laying a beautiful tiled floor across, well, most of their house. So naturally, the moment we arrive now, the first thing we do is to take a picture of it.

We were delighted to find it all in perfect condition, just as we left it twelve years ago.

Sadly we are only able to spend a couple of days chez Guy and Noëlle as our next appointment is in the Jura mountains, to the east of Lyon. But it was long enough for us to appreciate their hospitality and Noëlle's fabulous cooking. We were treated like family and our French speaking improved no end in the time we were with them. Neither of them feel comfortable speaking English but this doesn't matter, we always seem to make ourselves understood.

They took us on some long walks around their neighbourhood and in particular along the wooded banks of the river Saône
 which runs close to their home. There are markers on a bridge parapet next to the river which show the flood levels at various dates in the past.... quite a scary sight, but the waters here emerge in the Jura mountains which lie mostly in Switzerland so the volume of water coming from there must be pretty unpredictable. 

We were delighted to find another metal man inside Guy and Noëlle's home although elsewhere, the cow statue installed in the back garden of someone's very expensive looking house seemed a little excessive to us -  it is apparently quite normal here.

But it is time to move on and as we do, quite suddenly the scenery changes. No longer are we driving along the straight tree-lined roads that are prevalent in most of France. As we get closer to the French Jura mountains the roads become ever more twisty and are never on the level, always up or down, ever steeper hills with bigger and bigger mountains emerging all around us. 

We pause briefly at an Aire in Nantua where we experience what is apparently a custom at similar rest stops across the country where they lie close to a town. At around 10 o'clock each night the local youths turn up with a portable sound system and walk along the line of campervans playing some thumping music at full volume. It surprised us when we first heard it as we quite enjoyed what they were playing and the second night it was even better. So no complaints from us then and we didn't hear any shouting from the other campers so they must be quite used to it. I can only guess at how this might be received back in the UK.

Whilst on the subject of UK, readers of this blog might not be aware that our home country, Great Britain, has recently changed its name. For reasons known only to the demons who operate from the lofty towers of Whitehall in London, having a GB sticker on the back of your vehicle, something the whole world has got used to and understands, is no longer appropriate. This is a shame because the translations into French, Grande Bretagne, Dutch, Groot Brittanië, German, Großbritannien, Italian, Gran Bretagna, Spanish, gran Bretaña, all share the same initials, GB, so in those countries they can easily work it out. But no, what we now have to show is 'UK', short for United Kingdom, which translates into French as Royaume-Uni and is similarly  irreconcilable in other languages. Worse still, perhaps, is the coincidence of this change with the Russian invasion of Ukraine, and this being at the forefront of everyone's mind now, there will inevitably be some confusion over just what the letters 'UK' stand for. Whatever, from the few British vehicles we have seen on our travels it does seem that the message about the change hasn't really got through.

All in a mad rush

What were we thinking. Hardly had we puzzled over the absence of campervans on our journey south, when suddenly we hit the flood. It was like someone had turned on the taps, full on, raised the starting gate and given every campingcar in northern France and Germany a shove off. Where previously there were none, now there are great convoys of the things, each one larger than the last, rumbling down the highways. They say size isn't everything but clearly when it comes to the campervan, it is. If you can't fit the bikes on the back it isn't worth going, it seems, despite the fact that from observing most drivers and passengers it is hard to imagine them being capable of ever getting into the saddle.

But then we figured it out. We have checked into a campsite in Mâcon, a large town which is just off the Autoroute du Soleil and it therefore serves as an overnight stopping place for everyone going to the south of France, The Road to the Sun. And since no owner of one of these trundling beasts would dare to drive along the sort of roads Mrs Google has been finding for us - avoiding main and toll roads - we are meeting them for the first time in our travels. We always pride ourselves in doing what nobody else is likely to be doing, indeed we make a great effort to do just that, so this just proves that we are successful.

This next section will showcase some of the highlights of Mâcon so those not interested might choose to look elsewhere for pleasure.

Another powerful big river, the Saône, a tributary of the Rhône runs beside the main town and it is lined with some magnificent specimens...

...of trees. The patterned bark of the plane trees always reminds me of my days working in central London, which is full of them, and the cherry blossom...well who can fail to enjoy that?

Next we come to the artwork of Mâcon.

I had to shrink Kate down a little to get the first one but the painted hoarding just cried out for a picture.

The nice part about our tour of the city was that we didn't have to think about where we were going, it was all mapped out for us with small metal plaques set into the pavement.

All we had to do was to keep walking and look for the next plaque.

Mâcon clearly sees itself as a city of culture and fashion, which may explain the headless figure standing on a high balcony...or maybe not...but we felt we had made the best of a rather chilly and indifferent day. The maze of narrow streets we were led along took us beside some ancient and stunning architectural marvels and the absence of crowds meant we could sit and eat our lunch on the steps of the enormous St Peter's church without being disturbed.

So what's next?

To answer this we must look back twelve years to the days when we were a recently retired couple who had decided to live aboard a boat in the summer months, travelling slowly around the coast of Britain, turning left at all the corners. Which left us the problem of what to do in the winter months when sailing on the seas around the UK becomes... well, less attractive. Then, as luck would have it, at the back end of the year an opportunity arose to spend those winter months in a tiny village in northern Italy called Torri. What happened next is documented in the earlier entries of this blog and one such entry documents how we spent time in Lyon fitting a tiled floor at the home of our friends Guy and Noëlle, who we had first met back in Torri.

Anyway, to cut a long story short, 12 years on and we're back!

A narrow escape?

There we were, visiting a fascinating museum collection of Celtic and Roman artifacts when this chap appeared behind us! But then, like every other metal being we have met on our trip, he didn't say a lot so we just ignored him and carried on.

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The people of Châtillon-sur-Seine, have preserved to themselves a huge collection of truly stunning pieces of archeology, all unearthed in the surrounding area, this despite immense pressure for all these artefacts to be moved to a much more prestigious location, the Louvre in Paris. One can just imagine the fight they must have had because the real prize, and clearly the envy of every archaeologist, is an elaborately decorated bronze cauldron, deemed to be for holding wine or mead but it is the size of a small bath. It was just one item amongst the grave goods of La Dame de Vix who lived nearby some 2500 years ago, long before the Roman era. She was clearly some woman if the massive gold torque she was wearing around her neck is anything to go by and, being so carefully laid out in her own 4-wheel chariot, her journey into the afterlife was extremely well planned and executed.

It was well worth pausing our journey here to spend an extra day bumbling around this town. Besides which, we could see what was soon to be coming our way - rain, two days of it together with some strong south-westerly winds. There is no way to escape it. The best plan seemed to be to travel on to some place where we can hide away and wait for it to pass, a nice secure campsite surrounded by some trees, perhaps. They are known for breaking wind(!)

A nearby national park seemed like a good bet, another big green blob on our map, but then we found a problem. For some reason the French don't consider it worthwhile going on holiday at this time of year and thus most campsites are not open. We had already observed the almost total absence of campervans travelling with us on the road - it is as if they don't exist here - and it is now begining to dawn on us why. There is simply nowhere for them to stay. However, undefeated and having found ourselves some trees beside Lac des Settons, we made short work of parking up and tucking ourselves in for the night. One can imagine that in summer it would be heaving here - there are at least three large campsites and you can hire canoes, boats, bikes, or engage in a raft of other sporting activities. But for us, in April, it is deserted; not a soul to be seen, barricades across entrances, toilets locked up, signs everywhere making it clear you are not welcome...yet. So just like the bears, we make use of the woods and enjoy the undisturbed silence...apart, that is, from the raindrops dripping from the trees and pattering on our rooftop.

Given that what we enjoy most of all about travelling about in our 'campingcar' is the ability it gives us to explore new places and to wander along untrammelled paths in the wilderness, it wasn't hard to decide that with two days of rain forecast we might as well carry on driving, moving on in our journey south. As usual we looked to Mrs Google for directions, which she normally gives us impeccably, but just occasionally she has a little wobble, a Googly moment, and plays us a little game. It usually happens as we are approaching a junction or a roundabout which she announces in advance and tells us to take the first exit. This is accompanied by a small sketch showing a circle with an arrow pointing right - it all makes sense to us since we are driving on the right here. Now and again, however, this is at odds with the blue line on the onscreen map which shows a turn to the left. So which is correct? Is she testing us perhaps? Then when we do go wrong the screen immediately says 'Rerouting' and she will then send us down some tiny back road, through a housing estate, or along a narrow twisting lane through a farm so we can get back to the road she mistakingly directed us away from in the first place. There's never an apology from her, however. Maybe she just has a quiet chuckle to herself.

Warmth at last

The landscape we pass through is gradually changing - small leaves are showing on the trees now - and the tiny villages we pass through have characteristics which strike us as typically French - a line of connected houses fronting the street built in a pale stone, shuttered windows - and then this, a rather grand castle straddling the main road.

We would have loved to research the history of this creation. Was it once the gateway to a private chateau, now disappeared, which was revered enough to be put to use accommodating the road out of the village? Or was it built by some villager who had a grand idea about the status of his home?

We are in Burgundy now, a move from plum to wine country in the space of only a few hours and with it some early signs that the cold air might finally be moving on. At first the weather change is unconvincing, misty and quite windy, so that topping up Martin's water tank in the early morning using our 10 litre collapsable bottle is a laborious and cold-fingered experience. (We didn't know this but Martin has an alarm that goes off when the water in his internal tank gets too low, just one of his little foibles that we are discovering as we go along.)

Continuing south we get quite excited when the temperature rises into double figures for the first time since leaving home. Not as excited as this chap, perhaps.

The predominant types of tree now seem to be chestnut and walnut and the larger towns have some truly massive specimens. Tiny leaves are appearing everywhere, even on this great bulge that brings to my mind a similar formation on a tree near my home when I was much younger. We called it the Bum Tree, for some reason.

We are now in the valley of La Seine river although it is hard to imagine the tiny waterway here is the same as what passes through Paris on its way to the sea many miles away at Le Havre. Even the bridges are on a different scale but the water is boosted by underground rivers emerging from the limestone rock, health-giving waters which are supposed to cure all ailments, or so many once believed.

In every village we pass through now there is always a line of posters, faces staring out at us, each with a name underneath together with a slogan or catchphrase - largely meaningless to us. We are witnessing the build up to the French presidential elections which begin on 10th April. Fortunately we will escape all the media politicking that is no doubt already blasting out from every TV in the land by (a) not having a TV and (b) not having a part to play here anyway.

Brown and green blobs

You know how when you wake up in the morning and discover you are covered in mud.

Martin didn't tell us just how bad it was. It was mostly due to just one vehicle, a large lorry, which had just pulled onto the road from a ploughed field and then accelerated towards us spraying mud in all directions. There's no escaping it when this happens.

One way to describe our route southwards is 'nature hopping'. For many people the word 'nature' is used to describe a thing, a group of trees or a lake perhaps, but I have always considered nature as if it is an environment you go out into, whether it is a woodland or just an uninhabited area free from human interference. Studying our map of France we notice that there are dark green splotches here and there so, reckoning that these might represent 'nature', we try to plot a route from one to the next. In between these green blobs is mostly arable farmland, some of it full of sweeping curves mirroring the hills around it. but open and empty, crops only just starting to grow.

We usually track down a campsite and aim for it but we know there are also the Aires where overnight parking is allowed and where there are often basic facilities too. This young fellow was in charge of one of these beside the River Meuse but unfortunately he didn't speak much English.

Pausing our journey in one of the green blobs gives us the opportunity to explore and see just what justifies the colour placed on the map. Better still if once there we find a waymarked footpath that will reliably take us on an adventure without us having to think too much about navigation.

Of course if the sun is shining too then this scores even more highly with us but it is really the trees that we need (and the absence of bears, of course) and ideally something of a gradient so that we can emerge at a place the French would call a point de vue, although we would normally turn it around and call it a viewpoint. This was a particularly good one

taking in much of the country we had crossed just the day before.

If predictions run true then our cold spell, frosty nights and sunny days, is finally coming to an end, much to the delight of the locals in this part of France where the Mirabelles variety of plum is grown and a late frost can play havoc with the tree blossom, wiping out the whole harvest. Time will tell.

A chilling experience

There is nothing more magical to us than enjoying the wilder aspects of the world around us, whether it be animals, birds or trees. Today we have a kite count totalling five, each one hovering over the tree tops with the triangular tail feathers spread out like a rudder, steering the bird from left to right as the wind gusts catch it.

This line of trees appears to be covered in round lumps, nasty looking things, and indeed they are unpleasant, for the tree that is. This is mistletoe, a parasitic plant, which appears to grow well in this area; we notice ever more of it as we glide along southwards. The poor trees must be crying out in pain as the plant sucks away at their sap.

All of this avoids the real topic, of course, the weather. Even before we leave our campsite the first snow flakes are starting to fall and the forecast does not make comfortable reading by anyone planning a drive. Martin has his own views as the dashboard begins the day displaying an orange warning triangle and the numbers to match, 0.0°C. But the flakes seem to be melting on contact with the ground, we notice, so perhaps the roads will not be as dangerous as the numbers suggest.

We cross the border into France, spotting the roadside sign this time, and are delighted when Mrs Google directs us along ever narrower roads through forests, across open farmland, through tiny villages with not a soul about and then into a small town with one of life's essentials, an Aldi supermarket. (Actually we prefer Lidl and later curse when one appears after we have already stocked up on consumables.)

The cold is ever present, a shock whenever we step outside, slipping down below zero occasionally then (just once) up as far as 3°, but we are well prepared, hats and gloves always at the ready. We are broadly following the River Meuse, dropping down to drive along its banks then climbing up again multiple times and it occurs to us that this is the same river that we stood beside in Rotterdam where it is known as the Maas. Perhaps we should throw in some Pooh-sticks here for our Dutch daughter to retrieve in due course.

We camp for the night beside a lake - more a giant duckpond really - and crack open a bottle of 2020 Fitou as we watch the trees swaying in the breeze and try not to think about the temperature outside.

 

It does not take us long to realise that the village we are close to, Dun-sur-Meuse, was host to some of the most brutal fighting during the First World War, liberation coming only during November 1918 just before all fighting stopped.The signs and memorials are everywhere we look.

The bastions of these bridges still remain as a testament to what went on here, the village itself being totally flattened first by the Germans and then by the Americans who eventually recaptured the place. It is hard to see how this village can ever escape from its grim history; forever reminding us of what took place.

Belgium

Martin takes his routing instructions from a lady we know only as Mrs Google. As if by magic her gentle voice speaks to us from inside the dashboard from the moment we set off, first of all guiding us safely out of the convoluted maze of roads that surround the house of our Dutch friends then giving us periodic tips on which exit to take from the next roundabout or where we might like to try turning off the road. We are driving south, and chose to travel at our own pace by asking her to guide us only on smaller roads, thus avoiding motorways and giving us the chance to visit more interesting places and to gaze about us at the changing scenery.

We are about one hour and a half into the journey when we are thrilled to encounter our first hill! This comes as quite a shock to us although on reflection it is little more than a slight upward gradient on a straight road. But what it tells us is that we have become acclimatised to the Dutch landscape, so used to living and walking about on the level that this slight deviation from the horizontal takes us by surprise and fills us with with joy - we are from Scotland after all, a place not known for being flat.

We soon realise that it is more than just the gradient that is beginning to change. The road signage, whilst still in Dutch and thus largely incomprehensible to us, is subtly different with markings on the roads less evident and cycle paths, whilst still universally present, are no longer always coloured red. Then as we continue on we notice that although the roads are wide enough to accommodate more moving vehicles, they have been made narrower so that parked ones can be fitted along the sides, and not just in the towns. None of this would have been apparent had we chosen to use the shorter motorway route so we are delighted to have made this decision.

Finally something even stranger occurs when the language used on road signs suddenly shifts from one we always struggle with to one we are more at home with, French. Although there was no indication at all of us doing so we had actually entered Belgium some time ago but the language shift that has occurred tells us that we are now in the French speaking part of the country. More than this, buildings are no longer immaculately constructed with fine red bricks, here they are built of stone and are older too.

Strangely the biggest shift of all is part of the landscape itself, the grass. No longer is this neatly cropped wherever it is allowed to grow, confined only to places where it can do least harm. Here it grows randomly, wantonly, with gay abandon, dampening the straight edges beside the road and invading the paths where it will. Hedges too are no longer trimmed into straight lines, leading us to speculate that some of the laissez-faire of the French character has bled through into this part of the country. But sadly, gone now are the cycle paths, even the footpaths. This is brought home to us as we slow down and then swerve to avoid a lady pushing a pram along a busy stretch of road with her young child walking ahead.

Finding a well equipped campsite enables us to pause our journey, with no particular aim in mind but simply because we can. We are now amongst the hills, a mixed landscape of cultivated farmland with clusters of untidy woodland, a mixed jumble of trees still mostly bare of leaf. There are deep wooded valleys and the roads take hairpin bends so before long we find a footpath through the trees and can walk more comfortably.

Here too we encounter our first public religious symbols but as we stroll about in the chill air the light northerly breeze is a portent of what is soon coming our way. The next few days will be cold, temperatures well below freezing and snow is forecast too. Our adventure could be about to become just a little more adventurous.