Ten minutes into the return trip we hit a 2km tailback at the first payage. This prompted a long and rambling monologue from me on the subject of the Paris mob. How the 223rd anniversary of the moment Parisians grabbed their pitchforks and marched on the Bastille was being celebrated today in that most French of way - by having interminable family lunch - and right now (11.40am) our arrival at the toll booth had inadvertently coincided with the rush to arrive at 'mamam's' before noon. Hence the 'bouchon'.
Like most of my pet theories (I have many) this proved to be somewhat off the mark. Eventually we reached the toll booths, it was a twisted wreck, a couple of fire trucks and a cherry picker were parked next to it, gaggles of guys in hi-viz and white hard hats were engaged in earnest conversation, a lone woman stood in the only lane functioning handing-out tickets by a blackened machine . It must have been a spectacular conflagration. So much for my Bastille bouchon theory.
Still, my assertion holds true I think, Bastille day brings French people together to celebrate the triumph of the people over absolutism, our nearest equivalent, Guy Fawkes Day, commemorates the opposite, the triumph of the state over rebellion. It's one of the fault lines between our two cultures, we are subjects, the French are citizens. If the French don't like what is happening they take to the streets, gilles-jaunes at roundabouts, trawlers blocking Calais, tractors jamming the Champs Elysées. Our response to having our rights stripped back is to grumble. Hence the genius of the phrase 'remoaner'. Voicing dissent is seen as impolite, un-British, we are trained from an early age not to make a fuss.
As a rule French people quite like making a fuss and seems to thrive when they are the centre of attention. It makes being in France on a public holiday fun, we can't really do 'joie de vivre' and it's awkward if we try, but it's fun to be on the sidelines. Unlike the site at Neufchatel the one at Arques-la-Baitaille is a former municipal and full of French families rather than northern European grey-hairs. It was wise of Gill to have pre-booked, the place was packed; we squeezed onto the last pitch.
The receptionist warned Gill that the local village would be having a Bastille day fireworks display at 11pm. The gate at the back of the site would remain unlocked until 11.30pm so campers could watch the event from the nearby Avenue Vert. This was not something we could avoid even if we had wanted too, our pitch was next to the gate.
The display was spectacular, we watched half of it, then headed back into the site before the gates were locked.
Celebrations continued over the weekend. A 'soiree' with food trucks and disco next to the boules pitch on Friday evening.
A 'bal populaire' on Saturday, this seemed to be identical to the 'soiree' with food trucks plus a talent-less chanseur.
Other diversions included a vintage Citroen rally in the camping field next to us. All day Deux Chevaux, Dianes, ancient corrugated vans, a three wheeler sports sports car similar to a Morgan but French, trundled past our pitch, their rackety two stroke engines sounding like a lawnmower's badly in need of a service. After they'd gone a whiff of fumes remained, prompting memories of la Republique pre-Mitterand, an unmistakable aroma, like Galloisse or pongy drains .
We had a fun time just doing simple stuff. Though most of France was sizzling, here it was hot in the afternoon, but still comfortable enough do be cycling on the Avenue Vert.
On our final day Matthew borrowed my bike and rode the whole way to Neufchatel and back, a 60km round trip.
We mooched about locally, did some shopping in the village store and took a more leisurely ride along the trail.
It was good to have company, and I think Matthew benefited from getting out of London for a week. We travel for months on end, but not during the summer months. It was great to rediscover the simple pleasures of summer camping in France, cooking outside, sitting in the warm, lingering 'crepuscule' watching the stars appear through a trellis of twigs. It's what we did more or less every year through the nineties until the mid-noughties. It felt at the time that it would last forever.
On the ferry home Matthew reflected on the trip, repeating what he had said to me a couple of days previously in E LeClerc's fruit and veg section, "We're falling behind." It's an inescapable conclusion now when you visit the continent. It wasn't always the case, but it is at the moment. I doesn't annoy me anymore, but I do feel sad about it, and utterly powerless - sitting in a field in France watching the debacle of the parliamentary Conservative party choosing a new leader, an elitist club determining who leads our country.
"Where's our Bastille spirit?" I grumbled mildly in my grey-haired English way.
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