Though Gill and l grew-up in the Northeast, we spent our entire working life in and around Manchester and the Peak District. Visiting relatives always meant a trip through Yorkshire. Over the years we came to appreciate the 'White Rose' county's charms, its prosperous looking villages, handsome Georgian market towns and mighty cities, both industrial and historical. Nevertheless, like Christmas pudding, Gary Lineker or 'Strictly', it is possible to have too much of a good thing. As we trundled up the A1 from Doncaster to Darlington the we were often assailed by the thought, Yorkshire may lovely but why is it so big? The place could be easily shrunk by a quarter and lose nothing of its charm.
The same thing is true of France, though the country's topography demands judicious cosmetic surgery rather than shrinkage; midriff reduction is in order. The area we dub 'French Yorkshire' is a seventy mile wide prairie belt that stretches from Chaumont in the east for almost 250 miles to Chartres in the west. There is no way to get from Calais to the South without crossing this brain-numbingly tedious tract of cereal crops, a fact the travelling Turpies bewailed at least twice a year as they sped towards the Med each Easter and Summer. 'Who needs all this,' we asked, 'isn't there supposed to be a wheat mountain?'
Talking of mountains, Auden observed that seen from a distance they appear as a 'wall', but up close 'turn out to be a world of their own'. Plains are the same; seen from above they seem flat as a pancake, however, when traversed, they become patchworks differentiated by clumps of woodland and small river valleys. In the case of 'French Yorkshire' the eastern end is the most prairie-like, the western fringes bordering Normandy more undulating and pastoral.
Thankfully it was the latter route we followed yesterday, south from Sées through Alencon and across the Loire at Tours. After two grey, stormy days it lifted the spirits to see the sun. Though driving was hard going due to the plethora of roundabouts that dot French 'D' roads, the route itself down the D438 was lovely - a mixture of shadowy avenues and wooded valleys with ancient villages, each with a ruined 'donjon' guarding an ancient river crossing. It's classic soft September weather, as Wordsworth described it, 'An autumn day with silver clouds and sunshine on the grass.'
Whereas last night we lodged somewhat un-romantically in an Intermarché car park, tonight's stopping place conforms more accurately to a stereotypical vision of La Belle France' - a charming nowhere in particular. Tonight's particular nowhere happens to be La Celle St Avant, about 50 kilometres south of Tours. The village's archectural highlights are two giant concrete grain silos that are so big they are marked on our Michelin road atlas. However, the Marie of this patch of ordinary France had the nous to develop the nearby 'plan d'eau' into a small country park complete with concrete picnic benches, a jogging track and a Aire de camping-car with a service point and electrical hook-up. We've taken a pleasant stroll around the lake, admired the sunset, swapped pictures of our super-moon with Sarah's in Lisbon. France is full of simple pleasures; place and community still matter here.
It is important to remember these small pleasures because sometimes France can be infuriating. Frequently we talk about becoming 'Frenched-out' and get irritated that a 700 mile drive through it always lies between England and the delights of southern Europe. Hence our wishful thinking about a geographical nip and tuck. However regular practice has revealed numerous routes south across the boring wheatfield bit. The rule of thumb is, the further west you go the more undulating the landscape becomes. Maybe this route south on 'D' roads from Rouen to Tours is the most attractive we've found so far.
It is important to remember these small pleasures because sometimes France can be infuriating. Frequently we talk about becoming 'Frenched-out' and get irritated that a 700 mile drive through it always lies between England and the delights of southern Europe. Hence our wishful thinking about a geographical nip and tuck. However regular practice has revealed numerous routes south across the boring wheatfield bit. The rule of thumb is, the further west you go the more undulating the landscape becomes. Maybe this route south on 'D' roads from Rouen to Tours is the most attractive we've found so far.
The alternative is to hit the autoroute and go as fast as you can. These days we can't justify the extra fuel consumption and expensive toll charges, though 'l'autoroute de soleil' was our preference when we were in work with more money but less time. Most importantly, never attempt a lateral journey east to west across France's inland sea of wheat. We tried that once on the way back from Germany. The effects of a whole day of cornfield voyaging was so traumatic we were inspired to make a short video of the experience in the style of a public information film. It's important to for all British motorhomers to watch it as it serves as a warning to anyone tempted to linger too long in France's Sargasso Sea of wheat.
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