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.