This is supposed to be a travel blog, but over the last two years there hasn’t been a lot of traveling, as you might have noticed.

I wanted to remedy that, but in the light of ever changing rules and regulations I didn’t want to hop on a plane to somewhere whence I might not be allowed to return, or forced to quarantine if I did, so instead I packed my car full of all the things I could think of that might come in handy (I’m more of a Thelma than a Louise) and set off with the vaguest of ideas about doing my own Tour de France, as I have seen embarrassingly little of the country.

At this point I wasn’t sure where I’d be allowed to go, or if the Covid pass would work, so first I went to the Belgian Ardennes (it’s on the way, after all). I repeated one of my favorite walks around the conflux of the two rivers Ourthes, at the Barrage de Nisramont, gloriously autumnal and devoid of people, and pretty on a scale that normally doesn’t apply to Belgium.

Then I went to Bastogne, and took in their excellent museum on World War II and the Battle of the Bulge, which raged through this area. It’s particularly poignant because it describes first hand what civilians had to live through – not only the immediate terror of war being waged quite literally in one’s backyard, but also the long lasting implications for societies where some chose to side with the invaders, and others with the resistance. Even long after the war, people still settled scores.

Not wanting to get caught in the crossfire, I drove on to Luxembourg, to hike their excellent trails. The joke was on me, because when I got there there was hunting underway everywhere. I still managed to get a couple of really nice day hikes in, through the lush sandstone ravines, where colossal cliffs form veritable mazes, around and through which the paths wind. The fact that the rugged rocks sometimes look like petrified trolls made me feel as if I was in a Tolkien story.

And speaking of children’s stories: After Luxembourg I set off for France, driving through Germany for a bit to get there. My next stop was to be Colmar, south of Strasbourg in the Alsace/Elsaß region, another of those bits of Europe that seemed to be forever changing hands whenever wars were waged – it’s stayed French after WW2, of course (thank you, EU), but it retains a very German look and feel. In fact it was like stepping onto the set of a Grimm fairytale movie, or would have been, if my arrival hadn’t coincided with an incongruous anti-vaxxer demonstration(!).

(It’s odd to me that people behave this way, don’t you think? No one writing horror stories – from Grimm to present day zombie apocalypses – ever imagined people fighting for their right NOT to protect themselves from the Big Bad Wolf/Virus. But I digress…)

Anyway, the demonstration/mass spreader event was soon over, and I spent the rest of the day happily marveling at the oddly organic, right angle-escewing architecture of the city, where every house leans on the next, like a bunch of oversized, 500-year-old, drunken revelers. No modern architect would build like this, and more’s the pity. Streets run hither and thither, little courtyards and alleys reveal their secrets gradually, so that the third time I passed a spot a tight passage appeared out of nowhere between two sagging facades, drawing me in to a small square with a wishing well. It felt truly magical.

Next day I visit the local art museum, Unter den Linden (set in a former nunnery), and then venture up into the Vosges, to Keysersberg (or “-beri“, as the French spell it, unable as they are to pronounce the German “G” sound!), a village high on an outcrop that has served as a lookout for barbarians ever since Roman times (they called it Mons Caesaria), with more of the same Disney-esquely twee houses; if Hansel and Gretel came skipping down the street arm in arm with Pinocchio and Cinderella it wouldn’t look out of place. I don’t think anything can top this around here, so I get back in the car and drive on – to the Jura massif.

It’s another three hours before I get there, and it’s beginning to dawn on me that I will never be able to do a full tour of France. But I’m driving through a beautiful landscape, as dramatic as it is bucolic, so maybe that doesn’t matter. Dusk will soon be falling, however, so it’s a relief to arrive at the b&b I’ll be staying at, only… the owners are not home. I have to try to find something else, and quick. These roads aren’t easy to navigate even when it’s light out, so it’s with some trepidation I set out again through a large forest, but as luck would have it, those pesky Romans got here before me, too: the 2,000-year old road is ramrod straight – it even has the original milestones left (pillars, more accurately), marking their, and my, swift progress.

I finally pull up next to a very old farm building – the kind where the animals are kept underneath the living quarters of the farmers. Luckily there are horses in there, or I would have thought the place abandoned. There are no people around tho, but I wait and eventually they show up, and invite me to warm myself by an enormous hearth, while the lady of the house rustles up a three course meal in no time and sits down to share a glass of red or two with me. Hands down the best living quarters of the trip, and only because the other place dropped the ball.

The next day I hike two gorges in Jura – one famous for its enormous cave system, the other for its many beautiful waterfalls. The cave is unfortunately closed for winter; I would have been fully prepared to bribe my way in, or even go in on my own, like Tom Sawyer, but there is no-one around, and the entrance is ten meters up a sheer cliff face with the stairs pulled up, drawbridge-style, so that will have to wait for another time. The waterfalls in the other gorge are as pretty as can be, however, and I have them virtually to myself, so my Jurassic experience is still a good one (even without so much as a hint of dinosaurs!).

On I go, further south still, always chasing the elusive sun, of which I see nothing but the merest glimpses. I go through Switzerland and finally arrive in Annecy, another gorgeous city with a beautiful Old Town. Here I stay longer, having given up on my initial idea of a full circular route around France, but more importantly because Annecy is a paragliding Mecca!

A friend of my sister has tipped me off about a paragliding school, where I roll up first thing in the morning, not particularly hopeful about my chances – it’s late in the season after all, and the clouds over Annecy as persistent as everywhere else – but within an hour I’m in the air, testing my dormant skills at take-off, navigating and landing! I spend three very happy days here, gradually getting back into the swing of things, and on the last day I clock up four good flights in the morning, flying out over Annecy and the lake and mountains, soaring like an eagle. How I have missed this!!

But all good things must come to an end, and so I reluctantly get back in my car. I do want to come home to see my kids, and not have to live out of a knapsack, but it’s a long way home. I drive as far as Dijon in one go, then decide it’s probably dangerous to continue (I have five hours’ driving left, it’s raining and darkness is falling). So I book a room online – rather too quickly – and find myself being invited into a semi-derelict building next to the motorway where junkies and homeless people probably shack up. Now, I’m ok with jumping off mountains, but this is too much. There’s a Holiday Inn up the road, and even though I normally abhor such establishments, there are times when a bland room with a bland breakfast seem quite heavenly. I check in, shower for a loooong time, then sleep like a baby – and I don’t have to share hypodermic needles with anyone!

Next day there is time for a visit to the impressive art museum of Dijon, housed in the palace of the dukes of Burgundy, and some quirky stores in the town centre, but my heart isn’t really in it any more. I drive on to Champagne where a couple of tips from friend Florian enables me to stock up the car with quality bubbly from small, local producers that never find their way outside to the rest of the world, and then I press on, eager to finally get home!

So. I was on the road for just shy of ten days, drove 1,200km, saw more things and had more experiences (nearly all outstanding) than I could have hoped for, and managed everything from paragliding school to discussing champagne vintages and vaccine policies and expressing my thoughts on proprietors of opium shacks who want to pass them off as romantic gîtes – all in French! I’d say that qualifies as a successful road trip. And even though I didn’t complete a Tour de France, I still feel that I was on my way to discover the country – c’est pas mal non plus.