Traveling is a brutality. It forces you to trust strangers and to lose sight of all that familiar comfort of home and friends. You are constantly off balance. Nothing is yours except the essential things – air, sleep, dreams, the sea, the sky – all things tending towards the eternal or what we imagine of it.
Google said we had 870km of driving in front of us to reach Calais, and then another 180km in England.
A grand aristocratic country house which has been converted into a museum celebrating the Revolution.
You can’t beat a fortress on top of a mountain. That’s why they built them there. Grenoble’s one is great.
A relatively short day of driving from the Ardeche up to Grenoble, a city I grew fond of when I was younger.
Sur le Pont d’Avignon, l’on y danse, l’on y danse. Sur le Pont d’Avignon, l’on y danse tous en rond.
Whatta lotta notta lot. Every holiday has a day like this. This holiday had more than one.
Paddling down the Ardeche river on a beautiful sunny day, accompanied by lots of French people.
A small town in the Ardeche across from Vallon Pont d’Arc, where we stayed for most of a week.