The idea of a camping ground appeals to neither of us for so many reasons. A tent is okay but getting up from ground level is becoming very difficult, especially when the loo is an outside walk away.
But these grounds often have chalets, your own little 2 storey house – in this case, a long fishing line cast to the river. A small grocery store, doubling as a boulangerie, meant we could cook our own pasta dish and have fresh pastries for breakfast.
Our neighbours in chalets, tents, caravans (2 sleeping in their yacht) were nearly all English. Two French men wanted to swap their chalet with ours ‘cause the fishing was better?, and a Dutch biker couple who were happy with their tiny igloo for two.
Today was back to railway lines, but this time, ones with trains, so we tracked these instead of walking on them. Mostly through open fields, and one that was not supposed to be open. The guide book told us to head toward the forest but there wasn’t one. Well actually there was, but it had recently been cut down as noticed by my keen eyed co-navigator.
Other changes that need to be watched for are: grass tracks now tarmac, and vice-versa; Canola fields that are now potatoes; removed signs; demolished buildings. But there are sometimes, other clues.
Then it’s on to the St Quentin ‘3-barges wide’ canal which quietly joined us on our ‘1 car- wide’ roadway at its edge. Another singing forest nestled up against us, its ‘4 large tree- high width’ timbered area being the home for constantly chattering neighbours.
In the distance there are always church steeples and wind farms, framed by farmlands, but not a hill or a mountain in sight.
All the while the refreshing sight of St Quentin reflected the mood from 150 years ago when it was the only route that serviced northern France. Today I believe it is still in use but the only life we have seen are the workers in their lock stations, a dozen fishermen (one woman), a jumping fish and a few cranes gliding close to the water
Counting the locks, the bridges, and roadways over the canal, I can sense that home is not far away. Arriving where the book’s daily guide ended did not prepare us for a long hike to our small hotel, the only accommodation, we were told, in this town. We must have looked a little frazzled and as though we might need to lie down in a hurry, because a mother and daughter car pulled up offering us a lift. Ahhhhhh.
