We disembark in Dunkirk. Well, not quite, somewhere between Dunkirk and Calais. And then we ride like the wind along the coast eastwards with the intention of camping outside Bruges. This is a dream, because it all takes longer than we imagined.
This part of France is a string of villages that have become towns and all look modern, clean and bland in that comforting European way. No grit or grime, no grey or grizzle. Everything looks spic and span. At every crossroads there are only directional signs at the junction. This seems quite bizarre. We have to stop at every junction to read the signs which are placed on all four corners, pointing down their respective routes. It is from the age of horse and cart.
Our time in France lasts about as long as a packet of biscuits.
This part of France is a string of villages that have become towns and all look modern, clean and bland in that comforting European way. No grit or grime, no grey or grizzle. Everything looks spic and span. At every crossroads there are only directional signs at the junction. This seems quite bizarre. We have to stop at every junction to read the signs which are placed on all four corners, pointing down their respective routes. It is from the age of horse and cart.
Our time in France lasts about as long as a packet of biscuits.
