I'm re-imagining our journey as a eurosarnie, wholesome, but not especially delicious, definitely a bit of a door-stopper, two thick crusty slices of France, with a bland Benelux filling squeezed between.
We opted for the crossing to Dunkirk as we planned to head south east towards Switzerland through Belgium, Luxembourg and France's 'Grand Est'. Given recent horror stories in the media about gridlock around Dover and half day long delays, the ease with which we swanned straight into the terminal off the A20 from Canterbury was a welcome surprise. The only evidence of the former carnage was virtual, Dover docks east roundabout now appears on Google maps as a tourist attraction.
Its delights have been reviewed, positively mainly, which says more about the state of the rest of the nation than the inherent charm of the place itself.
I do love British humour, we may have lost our claims to politeness and good manners and reputation for tolerance and pragmatism, but our wry, ironic take of life still remains, God knows, we need it right now.
Last month's meltdown at Dover docks has resulted in all the ferry companies instructing vehicle owners to arrive two hours before departure. It was a beautiful day, so hot that even the seagulls took to skulking in the shadows. I escaped the air conditioned cab momentarily to take a photo of the vintage VW camper parked in front of us then spent the rest of the time fiddling about with the blog. The ferry arrived as scheduled and we departed on time.
The crossing was one of the clearest I can remember, with a deep blue sky and the kind of scintillating light and crisp horizon line more reminiscent of the Mediterranean than the Channel. Not even a northern 'blue Med day' can alleviate the grim industrial sprawl and half abandoned freight sidings beyond the Dunkirk ferry terminal, but soon we were heading east; the big skies and wooded plains of France's 'Pays Bas' are unspectacular, but on a hot August afternoon they exuded an absorbing timelessness, as if the landscape was passing through us, rather than the other way round.
Lille loomed, dense traffic put paid to any further romantic notions. At least there were no hold-ups and we crossed the conurbation in a matter of minutes. We were heading for Hon-Hergies, a small village on the French side of the Belgian border about 20km south of Mons. Gill's sisterJackie has lived here for about thirty years. La belle France's northern border is not commonly considered as a scenic highlight, but the woods around where she lives are lovely and the village itself an attractive mix of red brick farmsteads and scattered cottage-like 'longères'. Jackie and her family have lived in one of these traditional houses for over two decades, it has character and a big garden with fruit trees and a veg plot.
By chance we arrived the day before our niece's birthday prompting a slightly premature celebration, eating outside as the sultry evening darkened into a warm summer night.
An area near the village Mairie has been purloined as an informal moho overnight stop, officially it functions as the cemetery car park but it is listed and reviewed on Park4Night, though it doesn't feature on Campercontacts or Searchforsites as an officially sanctioned aire.
Generally we avoid ad-hoc sleepover spots, but we make an exception with this one as it's only five minute walk from Jackie's house. The last time we stayed here back in April a planning notice had been nailed to a nearby telegraph pole announcing that part of the area was earmarked for redevelopment as a depot for the municipale. We wondered if that might put the kibosh on the motorhome parking, but no, only the area adjacent to the parking bays has been excavated and filled with big piles of hardcore. Indeed, at 5.40am my slumbers were disturbed by the arrival of an articulated tipper truck which emptied a few tons more about 20 metres from my head. Come 7.30am a white van arrived, the driver strolled across to the excavator nearby, sat in the cab and flicked laconically through his phone. By law noisy building work is banned before 8.00am. in France. We decided to exit before then heading about 4km up the road to the official aire in Bavay to breakfast in peace.
We were clear about our route south, one night in the capitainerie at Pont-a-Musson in Lorriane, two nights at Camping le Medieval in Turckheim then through Switzerland via the St Gothard tunnel. One question remained - how to get from here to Lorraine, there were three possibilities all more or less equidistant - straight south towards Laon and Reims, or a short hop north to join the Belgian motorway at Mons then onwards to Luxembourg, alternatively there's an N road from Bavay to Mauberge then onwards through the Ardennes to join the motorway just beyond Dinant. We opted for the latter route for no particular reason, though it could be marketed as 'la route de biere', as we passed signs to Chimay, Abbey de Leffe and Orval.
Both the main roads and the motorways through southern Belgium were quiet. We passed a sign saying 'Luxembourg Belge'; both Germany and Belgium have areas called Luxembourg, it's a tad confusing, I guess the Grande Duchy must have been grander still in the past. As we approached Luxembourg city the traffic became denser and the cars posher. It must be quite frustrating to own a high end Merc. with a top speed of 155mph yet be doomed to drive it on a crowded urban motorway where you rarely get to go over 50mph. It leads to collective minor frustration with lots of shiny saloons and SUVs jostling between lanes with inches to spare. We sailed through with a lumbering grandeur you might associate with an elderly walrus swimming slowly through a frenetic shoal of mackerel.
We followed the signs to Metz, heading back into France. Pont-a-Musson is a small industrial town on the Moselle.
Though big barges still pass occasionally they are out-numbered by leisure craft. As well as managing the large marina the town's capitainerie has places for 30 motorhomes.
There were a few places left when we arrived around 4.00pm. By evening the 'complet' sign had gone up.
It's a laid back place. We unloaded our folding chairs and joined the other motorhomers relaxing in the shade of the trees on the river bank. Evening fell, the cloudless sky went orange, it cooled a little, but the temperature remained around a somewhat sticky mid-twenties all night.
The couple next to us were Swedish but had re-located to Rousillon just before the pandemic. We chatted about our travels, they had British friends who owned houses in the south who were struggling with the Schengen rules. We explained the complications we had experienced. 'You did vote for this though' they observed. I suppose in the eyes of Europeans we are all tarred with the Brexit brush, the situation of the disenfranchised 48% now a footnote in history, disregarded both at home and abroad.
Onwards! A shorter drive of 175kms or so to take us to Turckheim in Alsace and a two night stay in Camping Medieval, all familiar territory. It was motorway to Nancy, then south towards the wooded hills of the Vosges. We found a pretty picnic aire with vacant tables but we opted to eat in the van. The sun was fierce and temperatures in the mid-thirties. After a couple of hours of cab aircon inside was much cooler.
Usually we use one of the cols - Bonhomme or Bussang - to cross into the Rhine valley. However, with scorching temperatures and the van fully laden the long climbs and hairpin bends risked overheating the engine. We opted to use a tunnel just to the east of St-Die, it's narrow, badly lit and costs €12, but in the circumstances it was the sensible choice.
We are used to Camping le Medieval being half empty out of season, at this time of year there is a bit of a scramble for emplacements and the booking system almost guarantees that the place you have chosen has been allocated to someone else by the time you get back to reception. In 34° degrees this results in grumpy campers prompting an officious approach from the staff. It's a shame, it's a nice site next to a pretty wine village.
Our last visit was in springtime. The site was besieged by nesting storks. They are not nesting any more but haven't all headed back to the Sahara yet. The remaining few strutted about between the pitches. Up close they seem surprisingly tall.
Next day it was not quite so hot, but a bit cloudy and humid with a thundery forecast. We decided to take a quiet stroll around the village then find somewhere to have a relaxed lunch.
Turckheim is one of those impossibly pretty places, consequently gets packed with tourists. What saves it from being ghastly like Grasmere or Bourton-on-the-Water is the fact it is also a flourishing wine town. This gives it a reason to exist over and above its undoubted Instagrammable charm.
For some reason I find super-cute half-timbered Germanic looking places a tad creepy. As a child I remember being terrified by fairy stories, maybe the pictures in the book looked like Turckheim or Titisee in the Black Forest.
At least Turckheim doesn't have cuckoo clock shops, for me they are truly the stuff of nightmares.
After a bit of on-line research Gill concluded that 'L'Autrefois' was the best place to have a tarte flambé. They were very good, we opted for a goats cheese with honey variety rather than the traditional one.
Two other memorable things about our lunch, firstly, our choice of Alsace wine to accompany the tarte was perfect, Gill had a pinot blanc and I chose pinot gris, or maybe it was the other way around, in truth you would need a more sophisticated palate than ours to differentiate between the two.
The final memorable things about lunch - the lovely Polish waitress, friendly, attentive and charming. The impressive young people from Eastern Europe who staffed British hospitality - another sad loss due to Brexit, we mused.
Here endeth the eurosarnie, our final slice of France. Over the Alps tomorrow, not that we are likely to see them, low cloud and thundery showers are in the offing, it's a relief though when the thermometer drops into the mid-twenties - a cooler interlude.
Temperatures in the southern Adriatic are still in the mid thirties and forecast to stay that way. Still, at least I should be able to take a dip to cool off.
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