Had another late start as I slept badly because it was cold: not cold enough to go to the hassle of raiding the bags for extra clothing, but cold enough to make for a restless night. As the sun rose and warmed the tent I tucked myself in and had a couple hours sound sleep. Didn’t take long for the same chill wind as yesterday to pick up though, and start flapping at the tent. As I packed the tent away, the first few drops of rain. Did some work on my French square – the cock’s tail is coming along well. 
It continued grey, chill and drizzly. In Thibie (half way to Châlons en Champagne) I decided that, come what may, I would find somewhere warm to stay – with wifi (for the first time in three days) – and to catch up on myself.
​
There seemed to be a festival going on in the centre of town – with no traffic allowed and market stalls and music everywhere. There were posters around the place advertising Spring Jazz too. I finally found an Italian place called L’Annexe offering wifi. He wasn’t far off closing so he told me that there was just Pizza on offer, nothing else. They brought me the wrong on – with aubergine on it (and Steve knows I dislike aubergine). When I returned it, they must have just taken the wrong filling off and replaced it with what I’d ordered and reheated as it came back with burnt edges, but at that stage I really didn’t mind – and the rest of it was tasty. 

Looking online I found an Auberge de Jeunesse in town, and the address not 10mins walk away. Meanwhile the crowd outside grew larger as a waiters’ race took place. Yes- Waiters – Garçons – Manuel! Guys rushed to the finish line with trays holding bottles and a glass and teatowel over arm. At the same time, the bouncy castle was deflating as slightly discordant Jazz music played by a youth band in the background – better than Monty Python. 
After the crowd dissipated (and the bouncy castle re-inflated), I made my way to the Hostel. A sign on the door said that the reception should be open at weekends from 5pm. It was 4.15pm so I strolled to the river and sat on a bench and knit for a while.

When I got back to the hostel, I was soon joined by another traveller – a young man from Belgium who loved travel and long distance walking – and was walking a Pilgrim’s trail to one of the Caminoes in Portugal. He expected to be back home by July – especially as his parents had hired out a holiday place in Italy for August. He spoke English fluently (with hardly an accent) and told me that Belgium has three National languages: Flemish, Dutch and French. Alex was an advocate of exposing young children to different languages as he was. He has not long managed to acquire his dream job because of his language prowess – working for a tour operator, visiting small, family run hotels in far flung places to evaluate them and negotiate a deal for groups. He will be paid to travel! He was learning Greek at this time, as he expects to be sent there – but he wanted to complete this long walk so had said he couldn’t start until October. 

It was great to be able to have a proper conversation again and I took full advantage. We waited and chatted and 5.30pm came and went with no sign of opening. A car pulled up outside and the driver sat inside using his phone for a good 10minutes or so before getting out and coming up to us. In French he explained that the hostel was closed at weekends.  
Alex explained our predicament, explaining he had been sent there by the Cathedral and also pointed out the misleading English sign on the door. The guy went inside and seemed to be having a long conversation on the phone. After much dithering, during which time I started to reload the bicycle again, and we prepared to go look for alternative accommodation, the (incredibly tall!) man called us back and agreed we could stay. I felt like high fiving Alex (but restrained myself in English fashion).

For the grand sum of 19 Euros each, we had the entire hostel to ourselves – including a large cupboard full of ‘freebies’ and milk in the ‘fridge to help ourselves to at breakfast. 
So, after booking in to our very own hostel, Alex and I went off to explore the city. We strolled past the magnificent cathedral and another vast church and many, many medieval buildings – Châlons en Champagne is truly a beautiful place. It was all very quiet after the festival atmosphere of the afternoon. We went into a restaurant where a Jazz quartet were playing and drank Belgian beer – of which Alex was, of course, an expert. I had a very sweet and tart beer made by Lindemann’s. Alex’ beer tasted (to me) of root beer – he pointed out the map of France printed on the glass and said the French always liked to claim the Belgian beer as their own.

So, after booking in to our very own hostel, Alex and I went off to explore the city. We strolled past the magnificent cathedral and another vast church and many, many medieval buildings – Châlons en Champagne is truly a beautiful place. It was all very quiet after the festival atmosphere of the afternoon. We went into a restaurant where a Jazz quartet were playing and drank Belgian beer – of which Alex was, of course, an expert. I had a very sweet and tart beer made by Lindemann’s. Alex’ beer tasted (to me) of root beer – he pointed out the map of France printed on the glass and said the French always liked to claim the Belgian beer as their own. 

It was very easy to chat to Alex – he was a good listener and also told excellent stories. He told one yarn where he’d been on a 10 day silent retreat – one where not even eye contact was made with other retreaters (if that’s the right word). From 4am until 10pm they would meditate interspersed with meal breaks – very intense. In the middle of one meal a guy suddenly leapt onto his bench and started gesticulating wildly and making grotesque faces. The others all thought he must have gone completely stir crazy and were avoiding looking at him. It transpired he’d spotted a snake under the table! Much hilarity! Perhaps the moral of the tale was that there’s sometimes a good reason for direct communication. 

Yes – he was an interesting chap all round. He went for kebab after we finished our beer. The owner of the kebab shop took pity on me not eating while Alex devoured a mound of food and gave me a J shaped vanilla doughnut and a coffee, gratis. 
I thought Alex had overlooked a half lemon on his plate – so went to pick it up and was amazed when my fingers sank into a sort of mustardy mayonnaise – very amusing, and that’ll teach me to interfere.

I stayed up too late, making the most of the wifi (pronounced whiffy in France) and getting up to date.

Well, the campsite wasn’t free, but only 3 Euros. A lady walked across from the what I’d thought was a sports complex to clean the shower block – and then came across to wish my ‘bonjour’ and asked me to walk across to ‘L’ecole’ to fill in a form. But she obviously took pity on me (in the drizzle) and came back with it, with the invoice. Cheap at half the price, I thought – and what an excellent way for a school to raise revenue. The hot shower was bliss – even if one did have to keep pressing the button to keep the water flowing.
It had rained all night – so another slow start for me – nutella porridge (could get used to that), an apple and du pain for brekkie and a daily draw.  
It’s still overcast and a bit brisk as I pack up. 
I forgot to mention – yesterday in the bar with the friendly bar lady and her golden Labrador, I came upon my first ‘squatting’ French loo this trip. There were more at this campsite. I think they’re very sensible.
For most of the day there’s a brisk North Easterly impeding my progress - that’s a head wind, folks! It’s also a tad chilly. So I was hoping to find somewhere warm to get something to eat for lunch, preferably with wifi. In Orbais it was nil on both points – though the smells emanating from one café were mouth watering it was ferme. And I missed the boulangerie by 5 minutes. AND the fruit and veg I bought at the small supermarket completely contradict what I said in yesterday’s post about the groceries being tasty in France – the tomato, apple, Satsuma I bought today just weren’t up to scratch.
From there, having consumed a measly banana for lunch, I took the road towards what I hoped would be a river valley like yesterday’s, and came upon the road of the russet brown slugs. (I guess I might include myself in that description, but I’m wearing a purple down jacket). There were dead slugs, squished slugs and live slugs who appeared to be playing chicken at the side of the road.  
First slug: “you go”.  
Second slug: “no, YOU go”.
First slug: “chicken!” and sets off gaily.
SQUELCH. Second slug: “told you so”.  (I'd like to point out that at no time did I do the squelching).
These slugs are maybe big and long enough to rival the Great Dartmoor Black (Beast) Slug. Or maybe not.

Besides the entertainment of the slugs, the wildflowers crowding the roadside verges and heralding spring have given me great pleasure: cowslips (in vast numbers), primula, violets, wood anemones and kingcups today, and, occasionally, bluebells just starting to open in woodlands. 
There were lots of woodlands today, but the hills were getting a little steeper than previous days. I could tell by the way cars that passed me by would disappear completely then reappear several hundred metres or so later, inclined at an acute angle.
I feel so pooped, I actually lie down in a bank under the just budding trees and have a kip, waking an hour or so later feeling slightly disorientated and wondering where on earth I am… and I’ve only done 29miles so far today!
I finally find warmth, and un café (grand) in Vertus. The road to this town was truly spectacular and made up for all the ‘ups’ to get to it- it snaked in curves for a over a kilometre down a steep slope lined with vineyards and an imposing view. I am well and truly in Champagne district now. Every other person in Vertus seems to be selling Champagne. 
I move on from the warm tabac (sans wifi) reluctantly, and get onto the main road for Châlons en Champagne. Not far up this road, well away from any habitation, I spot a deserted farm complex surrounded by probably 500 square metres of woodland. This will do nicely as a camp spot, I decide. As I am sat in my tent munching on cheese and baguette, I spot a strange light reflected in my bicycle bell. I look behind the tent to witness a spectacular sunset – the photo doesn’t do it justice. Hope the red sky at night prophecy holds true.

MMMMm nutella flavoured porridge for breakfast with raspberry chilli tea! Good start. Also finished a little more of the Shetland spinning. Only two little nests left and all the fluff will be spun (until I pick up some more, that is).
The place still didn’t look open – just as I was loading the bicycle up, a small digger went into action – and when I rode past the reception – it looked deserted, with boxes all over the place – so I assume the site isn’t open yet for the season. Since I hadn’t used any of the facilities (not even a tap for water) I didn’t feel guilty about not paying and cycled out (whilst whistling nonchalantly) and on to Coulommiers – where I stopped for coffee and to buy something for lunch. 
There was a really lovely Fromagerie in Coulommiers – and an excellent greengrocers. All the fruit and veggies I’ve purchased have been really tasty – it’s lovely to know that a tomato is going to burst with flavour when you bite into it, rather than the soggy, watery nothingness that happens sometimes with English tomatoes. 
I also managed to have half a conversation with the lady who served me coffee. She has a yellow Labrador, so I got a dog fix too.
The day evolved: I spent a couple of relaxing hours in Bellot (I think it was) having the lunch I’d bought: cheese, bread, tomato, and an entire punnet of strawberries, which tasted divine. Worth doing the exercise to build up an appetite. I also took out the tent to drape over a railing to dry. 
The bar where I went to have coffee seemed to be a magnet for waifs and strays - there was one guy who'd evidently had a stroke, another had severe scoliosis and a woman who looked very thin, smoked and drank like the proverbial trooper so who, I wasn't at all surprised to see, had an arm in a plaster cast. I couldn't understand a word of the conversation, but I did understand when they asked me what i was doing, as I sat there andean-plying my handspun from that morning. I was, however, completely bemused when two of the guys lifted their shirts and started comparing bellies.
After I left Bellot (must have spent a number of hours there, but who's counting?), I wound my way along a stunning and lush valley, following the River Morin. Thick green grass, hedgerows, woodlands and beautiful farmhouses, with cows and their young calves, and lots of horses too - all absolutely gorgeous. I also saw lots of birds of prey -don't know what they were - they had red/brown bodies and darker tips to their wings, and the same dart like shape, built for speed and slightly larger than kestrels. Looking online, the closest to colouring seems to be red kites - but they didn't look like the red kites I saw in Mid Wales?
After the flat of the valley, there is inevitably an 'up' and so there proved, to the pretty town of Montmirail. I have been reliably informed by two different people (if I understand correctly) that there is camping just up the road - 2km. 
In reality it was a much shorter distance. I soon came upon the camping sign and followed them to a Sport's ground, where a shower block was parked amongst picnic tables. There was hot water! I couldn't see any reception - could it possibly be free? Incroyable!
It's raining. Time to tuck myself up. Did two sections of the border on Gill's Shawl before sleep. (The mat is staying inflated after it's repair, thank goodness).

Sat around in Charles and Marie-Cécile’s flat trying to get up to date with blogs, photos, daily draws. I had huge difficulty trying to ‘identify’ myself to SFR in order not to have my mobile cut off – but failed to sort it, as I couldn’t enter an English Address and couldn’t contact them without an ‘identity’ - now THAT’S a Catch 22 for sure. Anyway, leave at my leisure I did – by the time I’d sorted things (making the most of the wifi -which, I'd like to point out rhymes with 'whiffy' in France!) it was late in the afternoon.  
Another squiggle trying to escape the confines of Torcy/Lognes then onto the D406 for a long time, through Serris and starting to see farmland again and a lot of building plots out along the Marne Vallée. 
After a few days in Paris, I’d forgotten how pervasive the smell of Rape is: a strong smell – slightly perfumed, not offensive, but not pleasant either – like cheap cleaning fluid. 
I do believe I’m heading towards Disneyland! Think I’ll give it a miss.
At around 7.30pm, I spotted an Italian restaurant and decided to treat myself to a hot meal: Pasta Sicilienne (bit stingy with the olives but otherwise very tasty) and a beer went down a treat.
Took advantage of the free wifi to look up campsites – and there just happened to be one up the road. On arrival, apart from one or two cars, the place seemed shut up and deserted. I found a suitable place to pitch the tent and camped anyway. Went to sleep with the sound of an owl hooting and dog barking in the distance.
At around 5am, I woke for a pee – and was greeted by a perfectly clear sky with a full moon beaming down and lighting up the trees – beautiful and very peaceful.
NB - didn't take any pics today - but did a couple of daily draws - The Penguins are Charles and Marie-Cécile's salt and pepper pot - and the watering can is also theirs - I left them as a 'Thank-you'.  The last one is of Sophie and Farid In Paris - having a post meal fag.

​It looks wet and cold still, out there so I hang around pottering, in the Youth Hostel (Alex had made me porridge – nutella and banana flavoured – and I was therefore washing up – he’d left an hour before).  Finally – “Allons-y!”.  I have emailed a Warm Showers host with a request to stay this same night, with faint hope of a reply – deciding (in my vague fashion) to rely on finding wifi on the way, to see if there’s a reply, and aiming for the village of Le Chemin anyway.
 
Most villages or towns initially make themselves known to me with church towers or spires aspiring to heaven. L’Épine did not disappoint – with TWO spires thrusting up into the sky.  The spires belonged to an impressively gothic building called (if I remember) La Basalique.  (and I’ve just looked it up and it’s full moniker is La Basalique Notre-Dame de L’Épine – and it’s only a small place!).  It had fabulous gargoyles – even a bear playing a harp, if my eyed did not deceive me.   I took a picture of the entire building, but really it’s too grey for a photograph that does it justice.
 
It’s chilly and the sky has been chucking hailstones at me – but I thank the goddess that there isn’t the cold wind blowing right into my face like yesterday. 
 
I ride past great ribbons in green, brown, yellow, stretching as far as the horizon before arriving back into an area with woodlands again.  I start to look around for somewhere to shelter for lunch as the rain starts to plop – and spot a huge barn that looks accessible.  It’s filled to the high roof with hay and straw bales – which is ideal and well timed as the rain gets heavier.  I find a plastic sack to sit on, while I watch the drops make rings in the muddy puddles outside. 
 
As I tuck into my cheese and bread, I hear an odd noise, a chittering urrurrurr sound.  Then I spot it (and take a very blurry picture) – a baby – what?  Pole cat?  I think so – as it looks at me, then totters off into the space between straw bales.  It’s cute, brown, furry with a squished face, short legs and a runty tail.  The baby’s mother and me have the same idea – we’re protected from the elements as it’s pouring down out there.  I think I hear the mother making chirring noises from another direction – probably reassuring the baby that she will emerge once I’ve vacated the premises.  The baby comes out to quest once more before I go. 
 
It has almost stopped raining by the time I leave, and I continue through very small villages on a practically deserted road with no bars or public amenities, let alone wifi.  I’m not sure why I keep heading to Le Chemin, but it seems as good a destination as any.
 
When I get there, it is another small village.  I don’t see anyone around to ask if they know Yann, and after a short while I decide to head for a bigger town to see if I can get wifi to check his response.  (Well – that’s not quite true – I do see two men in a garage, and there are lights on in the wood-worker’s studio but I feel shy about approaching any of these as my French is just not good enough).  It’s 5pm at this point.  As I set off down the road, a white van pulls over – it’s Yann, who comes over and asks if I’m Terri, and I can’t quite believe my luck!
 
He was just off to post some letters – and has been waiting around for me, just in case I turned up on the offchance.  He’s not working at the moment (the past two weeks) as he’s damaged his back and has severe sciatica.  He speaks great English – if with a fabulous French accent.  He takes me back to his house (not far from where I was mooching) and gives me a whistlestop tour of everything – including introducing me to a great soppy Golden Retriever called Dune (female) before whizzing off to post those letters. 
 
When he gets back – I discover he can ‘talk for England’ – and maybe France too.    
He soon tells me the sad and tragic story of his ex-marriage and his two sons.  He married a woman much younger than himself but learned to regret it, as she became very paranoid about their neighbours and unhappy with her life with him.  They had two sons, who were 2yr and 8yrs old when they split up (I think – and he’s given me permission to pass the tale on).  She (and her mother) didn’t want anything to do with Yann when she left and made up stories about him being cruel and violent to her and the children.  The children were quizzed and agreed with the stories (and Yann finds this hard to believe, but thinks their mother bullied them into it).  The upshot was that he could only see them for supervised visits in an institution (“like a prison” he said), and the younger one, who was hardly old enough to remember him seemed unhappy about seeing him now and the older one seemed inhibited and unable to loosen up so he stopped the visits as being too miserable all round for everyone.   He says they have been poisoned with ‘false memories’ of him – that the younger one told authorities that he used to put him in boiling hot then freezing cold water, and he finds it hard that the five year old could supposedly remember such things in such detail from when he was only two years old.  That he misses them dreadfully is evident and painful to witness.  He showed me their photographs from happier times – of him teaching them to cook, of him teaching them to ride, of them out enjoying the country side and catching frogs.  There are climbing frames in the garden and children’s books and toys around the house still.  The boys are now 5yrs and 11yrs old and he doesn’t see them at all, even though they live in the next village (his ex wife remarried). 
He says there are toys in the garden but the boys are rarely seen outside the home.  The step father is seen at the bar though, he couldn’t help mentioning with slight bitterness. 
 
Dune the dog belonged to his wife (though he says his ex wife rarely cared for her, fed her or took her out, to the point where he used to have to try and push Dune away and encourage her to spend more time with his ex wife as she got jealous of their relationship).  Dune was left behind – but when she saw the exwife from the car – she wagged her tail happily in recognition.  Yann found this a good lesson and has tried to be a ‘good dog too’ – like Dune, in forgiving his ex wife for her behaviour and trying to move on, keep going.  It all seemed a tragic waste and terrible for the boys to have lost not only their father but also their grandparents, as the ex wife won’t allow them to see his parents either. 
 
I know it’s hard to be objective when hearing just one side of a story –but I found it hard to credit that a man could be cruel to his children, yet invite strangers into his house, feed them and care for them as hospitably as he did me, and also care for all his animals as well as he does too.  Yann has one horse (and one who he is caring for – he is a ‘horse whisperer’ and is often asked to sort out horses with psychological issues), Dune the dog, chickens, a cat and numerous inhabited bird houses set up in his extensive sheds and gardens.  Sean would love what he is doing to his old cob house – there is wood everywhere. 
 
Yann fed me and ran around taking care of me and showed me his garden full of veggies, fruits and herbs.  He talked of his plans to continue the renovation of the old houses and barns – always so much to do, he said.  He was as excited as a young boy himself to show me all his treasures – and I was pleased to see them – paintings, metals found with a detector- coins, lead shot, cannon balls and artillery shells (this place was heavily involved in the wars with Germany as it’s not far from the border).  Strangest were a collection of smashed ceramic doll’s parts dug up from the garden.
His friend Jacques – a retired ambulance man (iirc) who breeds Ardennes Horses (one of the oldest breeds of Draft Horses apparently) – came to supper too – as Yann wanted him to take care of his animals while he was away.  We had quiche Lorraine – and then tried out some sort of liqueur that Yann makes from the quince in his garden – a great demi john of it.  
What was even more interesting from my point of view, is that Jacques turns out to be a spinner!  He has a ‘rouet’ called (we worked out) an Ashford Traditional.  OH yes.  And he had pictorial evidence, as we found on a website called Tricotin, of him at a woolly meetup in Paris.  Oh, small world and such synchronicities – I love them. 
 
I was yawning as I went up to bed – and slept the sleep of the dead, not waking until gone 09.30hrs (I was THAT warm!).

​It looks wet and cold still, out there so I hang around pottering, in the Youth Hostel (Alex had made me porridge – nutella and banana flavoured – and I was therefore washing up – he’d left an hour before).  Finally – “Allons-y!”.  I have emailed a Warm Showers host with a request to stay this same night, with faint hope of a reply – deciding (in my vague fashion) to rely on finding wifi on the way, to see if there’s a reply, and aiming for the village of Le Chemin anyway.
 
Most villages or towns initially make themselves known to me with church towers or spires aspiring to heaven. L’Épine did not disappoint – with TWO spires thrusting up into the sky.  The spires belonged to an impressively gothic building called (if I remember) La Basalique.  (and I’ve just looked it up and it’s full moniker is La Basalique Notre-Dame de L’Épine – and it’s only a small place!).  It had fabulous gargoyles – even a bear playing a harp, if my eyed did not deceive me.   I took a picture of the entire building, but really it’s too grey for a photograph that does it justice.
 
It’s chilly and the sky has been chucking hailstones at me – but I thank the goddess that there isn’t the cold wind blowing right into my face like yesterday. 
 
I ride past great ribbons in green, brown, yellow, stretching as far as the horizon before arriving back into an area with woodlands again.  I start to look around for somewhere to shelter for lunch as the rain starts to plop – and spot a huge barn that looks accessible.  It’s filled to the high roof with hay and straw bales – which is ideal and well timed as the rain gets heavier.  I find a plastic sack to sit on, while I watch the drops make rings in the muddy puddles outside. 
 
As I tuck into my cheese and bread, I hear an odd noise, a chittering urrurrurr sound.  Then I spot it (and take a very blurry picture) – a baby – what?  Pole cat?  I think so – as it looks at me, then totters off into the space between straw bales.  It’s cute, brown, furry with a squished face, short legs and a runty tail.  The baby’s mother and me have the same idea – we’re protected from the elements as it’s pouring down out there.  I think I hear the mother making chirring noises from another direction – probably reassuring the baby that she will emerge once I’ve vacated the premises.  The baby comes out to quest once more before I go. 
 
It has almost stopped raining by the time I leave, and I continue through very small villages on a practically deserted road with no bars or public amenities, let alone wifi.  I’m not sure why I keep heading to Le Chemin, but it seems as good a destination as any.
 
When I get there, it is another small village.  I don’t see anyone around to ask if they know Yann, and after a short while I decide to head for a bigger town to see if I can get wifi to check his response.  (Well – that’s not quite true – I do see two men in a garage, and there are lights on in the wood-worker’s studio but I feel shy about approaching any of these as my French is just not good enough).  It’s 5pm at this point.  As I set off down the road, a white van pulls over – it’s Yann, who comes over and asks if I’m Terri, and I can’t quite believe my luck!
 
He was just off to post some letters – and has been waiting around for me, just in case I turned up on the offchance.  He’s not working at the moment (the past two weeks) as he’s damaged his back and has severe sciatica.  He speaks great English – if with a fabulous French accent.  He takes me back to his house (not far from where I was mooching) and gives me a whistlestop tour of everything – including introducing me to a great soppy Golden Retriever called Dune (female) before whizzing off to post those letters. 
 
When he gets back – I discover he can ‘talk for England’ – and maybe France too.    
He soon tells me the sad and tragic story of his ex-marriage and his two sons.  He married a woman much younger than himself but learned to regret it, as she became very paranoid about their neighbours and unhappy with her life with him.  They had two sons, who were 2yr and 8yrs old when they split up (I think – and he’s given me permission to pass the tale on).  She (and her mother) didn’t want anything to do with Yann when she left and made up stories about him being cruel and violent to her and the children.  The children were quizzed and agreed with the stories (and Yann finds this hard to believe, but thinks their mother bullied them into it).  The upshot was that he could only see them for supervised visits in an institution (“like a prison” he said), and the younger one, who was hardly old enough to remember him seemed unhappy about seeing him now and the older one seemed inhibited and unable to loosen up so he stopped the visits as being too miserable all round for everyone.   He says they have been poisoned with ‘false memories’ of him – that the younger one told authorities that he used to put him in boiling hot then freezing cold water, and he finds it hard that the five year old could supposedly remember such things in such detail from when he was only two years old.  That he misses them dreadfully is evident and painful to witness.  He showed me their photographs from happier times – of him teaching them to cook, of him teaching them to ride, of them out enjoying the country side and catching frogs.  There are climbing frames in the garden and children’s books and toys around the house still.  The boys are now 5yrs and 11yrs old and he doesn’t see them at all, even though they live in the next village (his ex wife remarried). 
He says there are toys in the garden but the boys are rarely seen outside the home.  The step father is seen at the bar though, he couldn’t help mentioning with slight bitterness. 
 
Dune the dog belonged to his wife (though he says his ex wife rarely cared for her, fed her or took her out, to the point where he used to have to try and push Dune away and encourage her to spend more time with his ex wife as she got jealous of their relationship).  Dune was left behind – but when she saw the exwife from the car – she wagged her tail happily in recognition.  Yann found this a good lesson and has tried to be a ‘good dog too’ – like Dune, in forgiving his ex wife for her behaviour and trying to move on, keep going.  It all seemed a tragic waste and terrible for the boys to have lost not only their father but also their grandparents, as the ex wife won’t allow them to see his parents either. 
 
I know it’s hard to be objective when hearing just one side of a story –but I found it hard to credit that a man could be cruel to his children, yet invite strangers into his house, feed them and care for them as hospitably as he did me, and also care for all his animals as well as he does too.  Yann has one horse (and one who he is caring for – he is a ‘horse whisperer’ and is often asked to sort out horses with psychological issues), Dune the dog, chickens, a cat and numerous inhabited bird houses set up in his extensive sheds and gardens.  Sean would love what he is doing to his old cob house – there is wood everywhere. 
 
Yann fed me and ran around taking care of me and showed me his garden full of veggies, fruits and herbs.  He talked of his plans to continue the renovation of the old houses and barns – always so much to do, he said.  He was as excited as a young boy himself to show me all his treasures – and I was pleased to see them – paintings, metals found with a detector- coins, lead shot, cannon balls and artillery shells (this place was heavily involved in the wars with Germany as it’s not far from the border).  Strangest were a collection of smashed ceramic doll’s parts dug up from the garden.
His friend Jacques – a retired ambulance man (iirc) who breeds Ardennes Horses (one of the oldest breeds of Draft Horses apparently) – came to supper too – as Yann wanted him to take care of his animals while he was away.  We had quiche Lorraine – and then tried out some sort of liqueur that Yann makes from the quince in his garden – a great demi john of it.  
What was even more interesting from my point of view, is that Jacques turns out to be a spinner!  He has a ‘rouet’ called (we worked out) an Ashford Traditional.  OH yes.  And he had pictorial evidence, as we found on a website called Tricotin, of him at a woolly meetup in Paris.  Oh, small world and such synchronicities – I love them. 
 
I was yawning as I went up to bed – and slept the sleep of the dead, not waking until gone 09.30hrs (I was THAT warm!).

(The recorded mileage is odd and illustrates how well I go off piste as, according to google, the journey should only have been 25km)
Leaving Sophie’s felt like a fledgling being thrust out of the nest.  
I have felt like Mary’s lamb following her around – and now I am bereft of Mary.  
I finished all the administrative things like sending Servas forms off and paying them via Internet banking. Also sent a small package of unwanted clothes back home to Steve. Didn’t leave until after lunch – more like 3pm. And by the time I’d finished queueing in La Poste it was gone half 3. Following hand written google map instructions had the usual pitfalls – but didn’t do too badly.
The sun was very warm as I cycled to the Bois de Vincennes and past parks and woods heaving with people all making the most of the balmy weather.
I then cycled along the River Marne – equally lovely, flat and wide but fast flowing – saw a young girl in a fibreglass kayak practicing paddling through slalom gates.
I ended up in a huge park and had to cycle up hill to exit it – think I should have come away from the River before – always in hindsight). I then did the usual scribble route around Lognes trying to find my Warm Showers’ host’s address.
I eventually went into a bar and had a quick, refreshingly cold beer while I watched, with amusement, the barman and two customers argue about the best direction for me to take. I got there in the end – around 8.30pm which was a tad late for dinner (though the couple don’t get home until 7.30pm).
Charles and Marie-Cécile are young newly weds (their second anniversary approaching on 3rd May) and had made a sumptuous feast. There was another couple – François and Claire – invited to supper also. Claire spoke fluent English, having lived in Australia, Canada etc in the past. Charles spoke good, but heavily accented English which my deaf ears found difficult to understand at times. They were all very curious about my travel plans and the journey so far. I also ended up telling a few birth stories, and none of them have had children yet so I hope I didn’t put them off (delivered some home birth propaganda of course!). I think they are all committed Christians – and Charles is involved in organising a international gathering/festival – but I might have misunderstood. 
Marie-Cécile is a housing officer (I think) - she called herself a Social worker getting people accommodation - Charles is an Engineer working in the Printing trade. Franćois works for a Bishop(!) and Claire - argh, I've forgotten this morning what Claire does for a living, but it also sounded high powered. 
There was a 4 course supper: Something like bruschetta to start, Spaghetti Carbonara for the main meal, cheese then eggless chocolate tart. Wow, I am certainly NOT losing weight – and they were ALL so slim I can’t believe they eat like that every night – so thank you, Marie-Cécile, for the wonderful food.
Charles and Marie-Cécile departed early in the morning and left me alone to sleep and see myself out. Such generosity and trust! It’s so wonderful to peek into the lives of people who live in a locality – HUGELY superior to anonymous hotels in every way. Time to get going again – and I have no set destination – apart from towards Germany in a straightish line.

​Last time Sophie and I got together was 16years ago.  Her daughter Noémi and my son Seth have grown up in the interim and it is evident we are very proud of both of them.
 
ON Saturday we tried to get a connection for the Macbook to the Voltaic Solar panel/battery – no can do.  So I ended up carting the whole thing around with me to the Louvre – where we dashed into the Orangerie Gallery/Musee to avoid rain and had a delightful afternoon perusing the Apollinaire Exhibition (Guillaume Apollinaire invented the word ‘sur-realism’ and wrote and illustrated Le Bestiary as well as being a prolific poet, writer and art critic) and the Paul Guillaume collection of paintings by Soutine, Modigliani etc.  
Sophie cooked supper and we talked into the night.
On Sunday, it was overcast, so I spent the day painting daily drawings and catching up with blogging, whilst Sophie battled with the head cold she’d been developing since stopping work on Friday (she’s on her Easter holiday from the inner city school she teaches English at) and cleared her apartment and read. 
In the late afternoon the sun came out, so we did too, and walked along the old, raised railway line converted into the Coulée Verte René-Dumont – a 4.7km linear garden walkway which runs opposite Sophie’s apartment and overlooks the city buzz.  We walked past Sophie’s old apartment block (on the same road) and could look down into the guts of the Bastille Metro station.   We had a beer in the wonderful Place des Vosges (where Maison Victor Hugo is) and watched the sun fall behind the grand buildings.  From there, we went on to Le Place de la Republique where the shrine to the Friday 13th Paris bombings and shootings is situated and also where hundreds gather every night in Nuit Debout to discuss democracy and how to avoid a repetition of such atrocities and end war.  Sophie hasn’t had the time to go there, when she’s working – but she said I could not be in Paris and not go.  I might not have understood the speeches, but I could feel the passion.
 
ON Monday we walked past the Bibliotéque Nationale de France to find an arts centre where Sophie’s old friend works in a café based in a gallery – we had a three course meal which was heavily subsidised – Farid treated us to our drinks and dessert.  (We shared a starter and pudding, but emerged feeling very full and loosening belts).  The centre is covered in graffiti and is an old building surrounded by brand new buildings as much of the surrounding area has been developed in the last 10 or so years.
I bought some lights for the bicycle (thought this just might come in handy) before we walked home to watch Au bout Le Darjeeling limited by Wes Anderson (another in the same vein as the Royal Tenenbaums) – I dozed off during the denoument.  Tut tut.
 
Tuesday and it is hot and truly Spring in Paris – with abundant blossoming of trees all round.  Sophie and I went to the market at Place d’Aligre, which was just closing but which I remember so well from my first visit to Paris all those years ago.  I bought a couple of ancient cartes postales (last of the big spenders) and Sophie found a pretty necklace for 2 Euros.  Then we sat in a bar having coffee and were joined by an old friend of Sophie’s , Marie and then her friend Isabelle came and joined us too.    A flying visit to Jardin des Plantes before zooming home to greet Farid at the door – he came up to play a little guitar (he’s a talented musician) and to drop off some Moroccan Olive Oil – some of which I now have in a small bottle to take with me.
 
Our time together comes to an end so quickly.  It was a fabulous interlude in the great adventure – Sophie goes off to Switzerland to be with old friends (in her beloved mountains) for the remainder of her holiday, and I continue on to a Warm Showers Host just outside Paris (pas loin) in Lognes.   I thank her HUGELY for her hospitality and gifts and entertainment over the last few days.  Stay well, my friend.
 
And now It’s as well to get back into the rhythm of the journey slowly I think. 

​This time  I tried to write down the instructions verbatim from google maps.  No difference – still nonsense when put into action and the usual nightmare when trying to escape a large town – in this instance, Maurepas (though they did come in useful later that day and on getting into Paris).  An elderly chap on a bicycle tried to show me the right way – then zoomed off so quickly, I couldn’t hope to follow him on my laden Rowenna.   I wander what he thought when he turned around and noticed I wasn’t actually there any more?  I thought it was quite funny but sweet of him to have tried.
 
IN the meantime I was squinting at maps trying to make out which way to go, without being able to travel on the N10.
I actually took all the panniers off my bicycle to get down a long flight of steps to reach a road squashed between the N10 and where I was (besides a railway line - I couldn’t see any other way to get to it).  A young guy saw me struggling and brought the last of my bags down while I brought the bicycle – people are really very kind. 
I continued along this road for several km before reaching a place called ‘Trappes’ – yes, I thought “Trapped”, especially as there was a sign of a bicycle with a slash through it.  I exited the road I’d been following, found a Boulangerie and bought a filled baguette for later and then noticed a road I’d written down on my instructions earlier – Lo!  There was a sign by the Rue de Pont Royal pointing in the right direction and the D36.  Fortune smiled and I’m on my way to Paris.
 
There was even a designated cycle path alongside the D36, though it was a bumpy ride as there were tree roots running along under the tarmac, which reminded me of the lumpy, bulging veins of the old men’s arms on which we got to practise cannulation in my previous life as a midwife.  At least I managed to stop one of the front panniers from flying off at every jolt, like it did yesterday. 
 
There was a heavy, thundery shower later that day, and I took shelter in the awning of an apartment block to put waterproof trews on.   I continued sweeping around Paris in a wide arc to the South – taking a longer, but supposedly flatter route in.  I still found a few hills to climb, but I guess the down hills zoom past so quickly they aren’t so noticeable, though enjoyable at the time.   I never saw a left turn to Massey that was supposed to get me on the spoke turning into the centre of the wheel which is Paris, so ended up cycling through the town of Palaiseau.  It was interesting and not too hard to escape.  From there I headed to Antony, which was a large town and horrible to get out of.  The compass on my smart phone came in handy as I was initially heading East and wanted to go North, so I backtracked and saw a sign for Sceaux and glad I did.  I went that way, and got a peek through Park gates where I could see tall fountains in the distance, and the Chateau is enormous – there’s a lot of history around here!
 
From Sceaux it was relatively easy to get onto the D920 which took me all the way to Montrouge and beyond.  As well as the written insructions, maps at bus stops became very helpful in navigating.    Cycling through the suburbs and into Paris is much easier than one might credit as, since 1995 (so I’ve read) the local government have invested huge sums in creating a city-wide system of cycle paths, and I reaped the benefit.    I also noticed lots of people using the equivalent of ‘Boris Bikes”, called ‘velib’ , which can be unplugged and ridden to another part of the city and reparked. 
 
Getting into Paris was very exciting – there were huge sky-scraper apartment blocks and office blocks.    I wish I’d taken a picture of one which appeared to be covered in squares of green foil shining in the sun – the same colour as the green foil that covers the triangle chocolates in a tin of Coronation Street.   
 
With a few hiccups, I finally arrived at Sophie’s address in Rue de Charenton at 7.30pmish.  At which point I realised I had no way of attracting her attention.  There is no doorbell.  (I didn’t realise at the time that pushing what appeared to be a call button on a key pad to the right of the communal entrance was actually a switch to open the door, at least up until 8pm – would have saved a lot of stress on my part).
 
How I wish I was more organised!  I  was sure I’d written down her phone number but couldn’t find it – and this wouldn’t have helped as it transpired, as Sophie had changed her phone number from the one I had on record. 
I tried to accost a woman I saw using the keypad to enter the building, but she looked at me like I was a madwoman and shrugged me off.   (Well- wouldn’t you?  -some sweaty, wild haired Madam Mim type who can’t even speak the lingo?).
So I decided to try the internet and found a cyber café up the road: not only could I not get my laptop to connect but I couldn’t get to grips with the strange layout of the computers there – eg, one had to use the shift to reach the numbers.  WTF?  This played havoc with entering passwords and I soon gave up in disgust.  (Well I WAS tired).  I threw all my small change at the guy behind the desk for the little time I’d used (90 cents I think) and stomped back to Sophie’s determined to camp outside until something occurred to me.  About one hour after I’d arrived a woman emerged who was much more helpful and let me in to press the doorbell.  I was VERY pleased to see Sophie!  I had finally arrived!  Woohoo!  4 days rest and recuperation. 

​Will have to look for a hostel or cheap hotel tonight I think.  Three days without a shower and my hair feels greasy and I smell rank.  Not only that, I can’t be sleeping in a tent without a mat.

​I made it out of Dreux, via a coffee shop and boulangerie and onto the right road after the usual fight with maps disagreeing with road signs.  There are houseboats surrounding a series of lakes around Chérisy, but I took a picture of a cat looking completely at home on a windowsill in the sun instead. 
 
I ride across more great plains of wheat and rape, with the occasional tractor with enormous insect-like wings spreading clouds of what?  Fertiliser?   Pesticide?  And I rode under lines of huge, metal monster pylons striding across these fields dwarfing the occasional, orderly line of lollipop trees.
What is that one man in the orange coat doing in the middle of that great expanse?  I thought he might have been a scarecrow but he moved a step or two every few minutes, and I could see his car parked a way behind him.  I pass on and shall never know. 
 
Stopped for lunch in Boutigny-Provais and dried out the tent again – good breeze made it happen quickly (this is becoming a daily routine).  There are beautiful modern, stained glass windows in this 12 century church (L’eglise Saint Pierre) which was rebuilt 10yrs after being practically demolished in September 1947.  Like any stretch of open grass, mind the dog poo!
 
To get here took a while – I did a scribble route around Marolles before getting the direction right (the direction I decided was wrong first time round turned out to be right).  These google maps are just too small and faint to read properly when detail is needed and just don’t have all the place names on.  I know I get boring saying this.  I mourn OS maps.  
 
After getting a wee bit lost, I make it to Maurepas – which means there are only about 48km – or 39.2 miles to Paris and Rue de Charenton tomorrow.
Easy peasy!  Except the minor matter of negotiating the outskirts of Paris!
 
It rained today – but it was warm and zip-off trousers got soaked but proved their worth by drying quickly in the breeze. 
 
I guess I’m getting close to Parisien suburbs now, as there are some very snazzy, big houses around.   There are also lots of ‘proper’ cyclists whizzing past me, dressed in lycra and sporting aerodynamic helmets in Tour De France style.  Some acknowledged me with a smile and a wave, but most zoomed on looking stern and concentrated. 
 
I found a cheapish hotel on the outskirts of town – to use wifi, shower, sink and get a good sleep.   I am booked on the supposed non-smoking floor of Hotel F1 and the person in the room opposite has his door propped open and is chain smoking so much the corridor reeks of stale smoke.  EEEEe it makes me SO mad –and me an ex-smoker and all.  I take myself out for a pizza after a lovely shower – my face is beetroot red after the wind and sun exposure so slap on the moisturiser – thanks Cath! 
Washed clothes while I had a shower – which, in hindsight, is probably a mistake as they won’t dry by the next day and will weigh more on the bicycle – but it’s really not that far from Maurepas to Sophie’s.