Lost in France

We are lost in France. We are supposed to be following in the footsteps of Van Gogh to Arles, Rick Stein along the Canal du Midi, and the Cathars to Montsegur, but already we are in disarray. 

On our first night out of England – sodden, grey, depressing England at the moment -- we find ourselves parked for the night in a patch of late evening sunlight in a tiny village in an obscure little commune somewhere south of the Dover-Calais ferry yet north of Paris. 

We know that much. We are not where we intended to be, as we didn’t book ahead, and it is summer, and everyone is on the move, so when we arrived ad hoc at our selected nightspot Madame was fully occupied with other camping cars, so off we ambled following her directions in voluble French to find parking in this quiet village square but a few kilometres away where we are to spend the night.  

North, south, east or west we have no real clue where we’ve actually ended up. 

There is an Alimentaire, a pharmacy, opened onto our square, just steps from where we are parked. Its green light, in the shape of a gentle cross, is always a comforting sign. To the nearside of us there is an ecole, closed yet for the summer, pour l’enfants. Kitty-corner sits a very dignified Mairie (Mayors office)– not opened this night, as it is August, and the mayor, and and all the rest of France, are still on their summer holidays. 

Except the local farmers in their tractors who are now heading home to roost, buzzing around our square, one after the other, with a nose to the breeze sniffing our supper of fat caramelised pork chops and Bramley applesauce that we have brought across on the ferry.  

Our village church at the corner tolls the soft, gentle, rhythm of life, tapping away the hours we are awake, then as we sleep, it, too, sleeps, setting up its charge again in the early morning hours. J’approve. 

The name of our village we soon discover is Neuville Saint Vaast. We have never heard of it.

We didn’t know there was a Saint named Vaast until this morning when we unearthed our stored French guide books from the box underneath one of the dining seats to find out where we were. Nicholas, was his name.  He may well be looking out for us.  

Bless you, Nicholas: we slept like logs, wrapped in the quiet of our placid village square, encircled by tall-trunked green trees dripping with seeds and nuts.  Sometimes it is lovely to be lost.

Our spot of the night

The Mairi and the Church