Day 45: Freudenstadt to Metz, France

I wake to low mist, the air cold and damp. As I set out, rain begins to fall, then hailstones. I stop for a minute and wait for it to pass. Over the next hour, I ride down from the high forest in the clouds into the warm, sunny valley below.

I lean through bend after bend, braking hard for the sharper turns, each one revealing a new view: vista after vista. I leave the mists behind me. At one particularly panoramic view I pull into the verge to take a photo. There's a strong smell of hot brakes.

On the flat plains, a stork flies across the road directly in front of the bike. Low and slow it lands in the field to my right. Later, passing through yet another of the many little villages, I look up to see a stork perched, feeding its chicks on top of a telegraph pole, the ramshackle nest of sticks lying on the wires which spread in all directions to the buildings around.

The roads here are arrow-straight now.  I try to remember the feelings I had in this region when I was setting out on this journey. The French countryside is wonderful. A small bike is absolutely the best way to experience it. The smells hit you and instantly attach in memory to the things you see. Fields of cut grass, onions lifted from the soil, cows grazing; each has its rich association of sights, smells and feelings.

The fields are now ripening in the sun as Summer approaches. Wild flowers fill the view. A field full of yellow coltsfoot perfumes the air. There are still a few splashes of bright red poppies remaining.

Beautiful avenues of trees lead to romantic villages with adverts from a bygone era still showing in faded paint on the cracked plastered walls of old buildings.

I arrive in Metz, a large metropolitan city with old buildings, cobbled streets - and lots of traffic lights. The cars build up into great queues, drivers change lanes rapidly to get a few metres ahead.  Junctions are chaotic. Horns blare. I pick my way through it all, easing through the tight lanes between cars and eventually, cross a bridge and along a tree lined lane to Camping Municipal Metz.

There is a security guard at the barriers. I have to leave my bike and walk through to the reception hatch.  The woman behind the window speaks in rapid, disinterested French. She shoves a form in front of me and holds her hand out. "Passport."

I'm surprised. This is a campsite. I walk back to the bike and get my passport. I give it to her. Unsmilingly she asks for my registration number. I can't remember it so head back to the bike and photograph my number plate. I show it to her. She taps at her keyboard. The questions seem endless. Email address, home address, country of birth, age, colour of vehicle... It goes on. Eventually she thrusts a numbered plaque at me and points to where I should pitch. I ask how I pay and she looks at me as if I'm stupid.  It seems that you pay in the morning. She gives me a printed sheet which I take over to the security guard. He takes it and smiles, shaking his head slightly. He's seen all of this and clearly thinks its ridiculous as well. He opens the barrier and I ride through. Bureaucracy.

The site is untidy. Litter everywhere. There's a smell of urine around the tree near my bike. The grass is not cut. The toilet block is miles from the tents - that explains the urine smell. The ground is damp and muddy. There are puddles where the ducks dabble their beaks. I shoo them away. It can't be good for them. 

A young Spanish man next to me, tells me how he is walking barefoot from Belgium to Corsica, his home village. He left home a few years ago and eventually joined a community in Belgium. He's now heading home to his family and roots. 

We exchange beers, stories and later, I give him my sandals as his feet are sore from walking fifty kilometres the day before. His companion is a lovely collie cross alsation. Placid and ball obsessed, just like my Floss back at home. I throw the ball a few times, wishing that I could be throwing a ball for Floss, back on the sand in Fishguard. Not long now.