Today is Monday(ish). We are almost exactly 1,000km south of where we were last Monday.
After Belgium, our personal pilgrimage led us into northern France. At Thiepval Cemetary, the impressive and imposing memorial to the missing of the Somme, we found my great-great uncle Cecil Allett listed under the Leicestershire Regiment and later, by moonlight at Bellicourt, the grave of his brother Bertie. Despite being given the honour of a headstone, Bertie's final resting place was unclear: it simply said 'Believed to be buried in this cemetary.' Holding Huw's hand, looking around at the pristine, perfectly aligned white stones gleaming under the light of the almost-full moon, I felt all the young souls circling that place and felt strangely content, calm and at peace.
It might seem odd to trace your family back and visit the place they fell in this small part of the world where hell existed for four years. But I urge you, do it if you get the chance. Find out more from the Commonwealth War Graves Commission.
That night, we started our journey south, navigating the French motorway system from very top to very bottom. Here are some observations from the following days and nights:
- French truckers have it easy. They get to sleep outside French service stations. No sarcasm to be read into that sentence. Honestly, these are luxurious beyond belief. They have showers. And friendly staff. We haven't paid for a campsite since our very first night in Amsterdam - and if we stayed in France the whole rest of the trip we wouldn't need to. The only downside is the occasional hum of HGV generators, but it's amazing what you get used to when you're living on the road.
- They also have their own code to say 'merci'. We are by now very used to being overtaken by pretty much everyone. It makes us very happy, when we've flicked our beams to let them know to return to the inside lane, if they make their indicator lights wink at us cheekily.
- But they aren't all nice chaps. We encountered a small handful of truckers on our journey who were complete ****s. Feel free to insert your own four-letter word. Approaching us from behind at a frightening speed, full beams blinding us in our mirrors, horn honking. Do they expect us to drive on the hard shoulder?
- Cat's eyes are a marvellous invention. But the French government hasn't realised it yet. Driving on French motorways at night, in the rain, with headlights as useful as dimly glowing candles, without them guiding the way, is not a good idea.
- French milk isn't what it used to be. On all those childhood camping trips, did my parents deliberately deprive me? I vividly remember being given UHT with no mention of an alternative accompaniment for my Coco Pops. For the record, their milk appears to be fresh as a daisy now.
- Our truck leaks a bit when it rains. Nuff said.
- The world is very small. Oh, those sweet random moments when you can't really believe the synchronicity of the stars, or the alignment of planets or whatever it is that causes the glitch in the matrix that makes odd 'coincidences' happen. We had a great one: taking a detour off the motorway to see some pretty villages in the Loire Valley, we passed a tiny cafe flying a huge Welsh flag. The owner, Anthony Jones, was from Crickhowell, just up the road from Huw, and his wife Hannah was born in Brighton. Even wierder, Anthony had driven 101s in the TA.
- The Eiffel Tower makes me go gooey. Even viewed from afar whilst seamlessly navigating the busy périphérique, just the floodlit image of it, standing proud above the Parisian skyline, made me feel all soppy and romantic and flooded my mind with Amelie and Moulin Rouge images.
- I am powerless to resist a vintage shop. In Orleans there is a great one. I bought fur boots which I needed (my feet had been cold and my steel toe capped rigger boots were just not de rigueur, as it were) and a fur gillet which I didn't.
- Huw and I work best as a team in the face of adversity. The steering wheel went wobbly en route and somehow we fell even more in love.
- Never underestimate the kindness of strangers. Attached to our windscreen wiper, an envelope with two words: BONNE ROUTE and a name: Joseph Mado, Montauban. Inside, a much-loved cut glass heart on a silky string. It took up immediate residence in the cab, despite H bemoaning the increasing hippie-ness of the interior, and expressing cynical concern at the number of good luck charms we've been given. Nevertheless, I thank you Monsieur Mado, whoever you are.
We now find ourselves near the Spanish border in Coueillas, a tiny hamlet at the end of the road and in the middle of nowhere. A place so small only three houses are inhabited and there has never been a crime. But more about that another time; it's late and I want to go to sleep.
We've already popped up some pictures of our French leg so far. They are here should you have the time and inclination to look. À bientôt until next time, et bon nuit.
