Before I left Orange, and not knowing when I’d be back, Pedders and I went for a hack around the town.
I’d had a fantastic night of sleep. Cold outside and all my windows open. Duvet up to the chin. Just my coconut skull showing.
It was a stunning morning with just a wisp of mist. Peds started up ok but there was that judder from the clutch. He’d be fine once he’d got the blood pumping.
Away from the main drag it was really lovely and obviously wealthy. Nice – and carefully looked after – verges and avenues of pollarded trees. Elegant boxy villas all very beautiful in the perfect morning.
We found the triumphal arch on the outskirts. Once this place had been on the Agrippan Way. What must it have been like then? So fascinating to think about those times. What for that matter would Londinium have been like? On that mound where the City of London sits today. However you approach the City, you always have to walk uphill.
A longish drive of 476km. But on these roads not a problem. Right at the end I had a mishap with the final toll. It wouldn’t accept my ticket.
I pressed the button for help which alerted all the other drivers in the queues alongside to gape at this idiot Rosbif. Including a very charming blonde lady to dismount from her Range Rover, nimbly hop over the barrier and berate the man on the intercom.
He was saying something about moving my car forward. I looked at the blonde. We both knew this was BS. Then he said something about a blue light. This light always flashed to show where to put your ticket. She told him ‘no blue light.’
Meanwhile I was at the back of the car chopping fingers across my neck to stop other cars entering my lane. The drivers would see me at the last moment and comically swerve to another lane. All very Jacques Tati, Traffic.
Now the drivers in her lane were honking their horns because she was holding them up too. But she was too cool to worry.
Finally the operator must have reset the booth because the blue light came on. Madame wished me well, blew me a kiss on both cheeks and hopped it to her motor before I could even thank her. The barrier was up. I hadn’t paid. The man was shouting on the intercom but Pedders flew out of the gate like a greyhound after the rabbit. I couldn’t stop him…honest!
We’d passed Lyon to the south. A stunning road crossing the Rhone twice. I’d been on this route before but couldn’t remember all this. Must have bypassed somehow.
Pedders was getting thirsty, (as was I) as we passed signs for Beaune and Gevry Chambertain and Nuits St George. Then a sign saying welcome to Dijon…’cite de gastronomia et vin.’ I didn’t need any more urging.
Dijon. A truly beautiful town and mostly closed on a Sunday. Local ordinance? In the hotel it was as hot as the hobs of hell. I asked at reception. They said all AC was now off until next summer. But would you like us to turn the heating down?
‘Would I..?!’
The main square was where I found a brilliant meal. Ouefs a la muerette (poached eggs in a white wine and epoisses cheese sauce) and a confit duck and lentil salad.
The dog owners of the town were having a little Sunday training outing. Some of them dressed for Halloween.
I popped into the ‘Rude museum’. It had plaster casts of some giant sculptures. The biggest was impressively rude.
The actual sculpture was to be found on the side of the Arc de Triomphe in Paris. Apparently Monsieur Rude was a home boy.
Then I went into the cathedral and lit yet another candle for Millipede.
Typically big old gothic job but some flooring to die for.
I just wandered around until my room cooled down and I could rest without sleeping in the shower.
