I crawl out of my tent into the rain, throw my fleece on and walk to the far end of the camp for a shower. Feeling a bit more awake, I make the ritual tea and then shelter from the drizzle in a little wooden 'information centre', a bit like a bus shelter with leaflets. The Spanish guy wakes and immediately takes the lovely dog for a play with the ball. He really cares a lot for that dog. I'm sad to say goodbye when I leave; we got on. A final selfie together then I face the bureaucratic window again, get another printed sheet and head to the barriers. The guard starts to wave me through then notices that he's being watched from the office. He glances at the sheet, which is what he is supposed to do, smiles, which he clearly isn't, and presses the button to open the barrier. All day, he looks at sheets then presses the button. Despite seeing every single person go to the counter and hand over money, he still has to pretend to look at the sheet before pressing the button.
I head out of town and into the warm countryside. I pass cows, lying lazily in the sun. Everything is calm, enjoying the sunny morning. I watch the wind make waves in the vast seas of green barley.
I stop in an aire for lunch. Its a secluded pull in with benches and seats. This one is really beautiful with trees, shrubs and flowers that make it appear like a well tended garden. It's hot in the sun. My hat is packed away so I throw a paper carrier bag on my head. It does the job. I look at myself in the phone and laugh out loud at myself. Ridiculous. I lay my lunch out on the table. More bread, tomatoes and cucumber with morbier - a local mature cheese that has a strong fermented taste. I cut a little saucisson. It has walnuts in it which makes it crunch as you bite into it. In the warm sun with the sound of crickets and small birds around me, I decide to lie down on the grass and wait for my lunch to go down before heading off...
I wake to the sound of strimmers. The council workers are working around me. I still have the bag on my head. Feeling just a little embarrassed, I snatch it off and fill it with the remains of my food. I stand and pack away my things and wave as I ride back on the road. They wave back with a smile.
I'm riding through the Ardennes region now. The land around me is agricultural with open fields and ancient farms. A breeze has appeared and in this flat landscape, it pushes me from the side. I lean slightly into the wind.
Suddenly, I see a snake on the other side of the road, winding it's way across the hit tarmac. I stop and turn, hoping to get a photo but just as I get back to the spot, it slithers into the grass verge. I put my phone away, turn back and carry on.
I approach a roundabout. Satty tells me to 'take the first exit' but I glance down at her display and it clearly shows my route as turning left - the fourth exit. I think she's over-excited about getting home and has decided to treat roundabouts UK style, as if I'm riding clockwise. Another junction. "Turn right." I look at the display and turn left. Oh Satty! I'll have to keep an eye on her.
I arrive in the Camping Municipal in Charleville Mezieres. It's very nice indeed. No bureaucracy and I can choose anywhere I want to pitch my tent. I find a sheltered space under tree and set up the tent.
An hour later I'm at a table outside the restaurant watching a group of old men playing boules in the sand. With a glass of cold Belgian beer in front of me, I spend a while chatting with the proprietor's father, who's looking after the place. I tell him about my journey. He claps. "Bravo!" I laugh. We compare ages. He tells me that he's retired but his daughter goes for sleeps or shopping, leaving him in charge. He tuts at his absent offspring. His wife cooks me the most perfect lamb chops with salad.
I'm waiting for his wife to bring out my côtes d'agneau- lamb chops, lightly seared, with salad, a pitcher of red wine and because I can- a tarte au citron for pud. This is wonderful. I'm in the evening sun and I revel in the moment. There's nothing I need to do except enjoy my time. The tent is all set up, the laundry is finally drying on a line slung between the bike and a tree.
The food arrives. The lamb is pink and delicious. I savour every mouthful. I remain until the last old man leaves with his deckchair and the sun finally hides behind the old buildings of Charleville Mezieres. The breeze starts to pick up and flutters the advertising flags around the restaurant. I shake hands with my companion and make my way happily back to the tent and my welcoming sleeping bag.
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