I just love France and the French - the women tend to be sexy and chic, they produce some great cheese that upsets everyone in the office when I eat it for dinner, they drive like bloody maniacs in their battered little French cars and last but not least it contains Font!
Just in case you missed the point I was trying to make there I went to Font for the first time to celebrate my 40th year of not dying and it was bloody awesome.
Day 1 consisted of getting to Font on my own which was a somewhat daunting task it has to be said. I left my brothers house in Nottingham at the optimum time to catch not only the early morning lunacy around that fair city but also the full on rush hour lunacy somewhere around Luton. The standard of driving was at its usual best but with time on my side I just sat out the worst of it and proceeded down to the ferry with time in hand. Nice easy ferry journey and then a brief while to get used to driving on the wrong side of the road and hit the A1 to Paris until I saw the first sign for Bordeaux which marked my turn off point at which point which it all went mental.
Important life lesson number 1 - do not plan to be anywhere near Paris at the time of rush hour. It was hideously intense to say the least - there I was sat behind the wheel trying to focus on what was happening all around me, trying to figure out where the next junction was and reacting to the onslaught of battered French cars complete with their chain smoking drivers appearing from all directions at high speed. As this is France though it is simply not enough, you have to add in the motorcyclists who, judging by my observations, are either built of some indestructible material or are completely and utterly bonkers such is their disregard for any notion of road safety. To top off this experiment in mental stress I had Sloper's (from here on known as le grand ventre) shat nav to "advise" me on my route. It should come as very little surprise that it took after its owner: years out of date, cantankerous and bloody annoying after a while would sum it up nicely.
So how did I manage to negotiate the torturous drive across the North of Paris without getting at least one dint in the van? My theory is that it was down to opening the windows, cranking up the stereo and playing some French free jazz that was even more mental that the occupants of the little tin cans and motorbikes that surrounded me. There was no driver skill involved at all of that I am quite sure.
Having survived the drive round Paris and despite the "assistance" of the shat nav which was hopelessly predicting roundabouts and left hand turns where none existed I somehow arrived in Font. With a great sense of relief I parked up at the station to wait for the arrival of le grand ventre, something he duly managed with his usual lack of sartorial elegance. From there it was a quick drive down the road to dump the van off at the camp site and then a long walk back into Font to have a few beers and chill out.
It had been a long day but I had arrived...
Just in case you missed the point I was trying to make there I went to Font for the first time to celebrate my 40th year of not dying and it was bloody awesome.
Day 1 consisted of getting to Font on my own which was a somewhat daunting task it has to be said. I left my brothers house in Nottingham at the optimum time to catch not only the early morning lunacy around that fair city but also the full on rush hour lunacy somewhere around Luton. The standard of driving was at its usual best but with time on my side I just sat out the worst of it and proceeded down to the ferry with time in hand. Nice easy ferry journey and then a brief while to get used to driving on the wrong side of the road and hit the A1 to Paris until I saw the first sign for Bordeaux which marked my turn off point at which point which it all went mental.
Important life lesson number 1 - do not plan to be anywhere near Paris at the time of rush hour. It was hideously intense to say the least - there I was sat behind the wheel trying to focus on what was happening all around me, trying to figure out where the next junction was and reacting to the onslaught of battered French cars complete with their chain smoking drivers appearing from all directions at high speed. As this is France though it is simply not enough, you have to add in the motorcyclists who, judging by my observations, are either built of some indestructible material or are completely and utterly bonkers such is their disregard for any notion of road safety. To top off this experiment in mental stress I had Sloper's (from here on known as le grand ventre) shat nav to "advise" me on my route. It should come as very little surprise that it took after its owner: years out of date, cantankerous and bloody annoying after a while would sum it up nicely.
So how did I manage to negotiate the torturous drive across the North of Paris without getting at least one dint in the van? My theory is that it was down to opening the windows, cranking up the stereo and playing some French free jazz that was even more mental that the occupants of the little tin cans and motorbikes that surrounded me. There was no driver skill involved at all of that I am quite sure.
Having survived the drive round Paris and despite the "assistance" of the shat nav which was hopelessly predicting roundabouts and left hand turns where none existed I somehow arrived in Font. With a great sense of relief I parked up at the station to wait for the arrival of le grand ventre, something he duly managed with his usual lack of sartorial elegance. From there it was a quick drive down the road to dump the van off at the camp site and then a long walk back into Font to have a few beers and chill out.
It had been a long day but I had arrived...
