Danny on the last lap - Paris to GK
I had my route well planned: it was straightforward and I expected no difficulty with it. One thing was certain: I aimed to bypass Brussels well to the south, for I'd heard alarming tales of that city traffic as being like one big Rond Pointe throughout, exacerbated by the fact that there was no driving test in Belgium in those days - you just paid the money and got the driving licence with no questions asked (as indeed was the case in UK till 1935).
And it would route me through the Ardennes, which I'd heard were worth seeing. The first thing that struck me was how quiet the roads seemed as I pulled away from Paris. Then it occurred to me: of course, the sacred Hour(s) of the Déjeuner ! - when every true Frenchman attends to the most important business of the day - food !
Unfortunately, I had to tighten my belt and put that out of my mind. The car rolled along smoothly and quietly. At a time when the home-grown variety came on the roads with instruction not to exceed 30 mph for the first 500 miles, the 403 had a running-in speed of 60 mph (no, I don't mean kph) - which was no hardship at all to me. The distance was about 220 miles, I reckoned on five hours on the road, I should get in at dusk, barring accidents. The tank was full, no worries there !
It was a lovely day in early spring, the countryside was looking its best, this was going to be a very pleasant drive. Laon was my first check-point, I passed it just to the south, a sort of inland Mont-St-Michel sticking up from the plain; a magnificent sight indeed. It was just after passing Laon that my first puzzle appeared - a triangular caution: "Attention - Grenailles !".
Grenailles ? Grenailles ? Didn't remember that road sign on my BFG test. Thought back 22 years to my dim French mental vocabulary. Only thing I came up with was "grenouilles" - frogs ! That must be it ! At certain times of the year there must be a kind of mass migration of frogs for some reason, they would be crossing the roads, braking distances would be greatly increased if you were running over a carpet of squashed frog. It made good sense.
Only for a few moments ! Then the first loose granite chip cracked under a wing, then a regular fusillage underneath the car. Same as the UK - dump the top-dressing on the road, and let the traffic roll it in. Broken screen ? Hard luck !
Not for the first time (and certainly not for the last), I blessed the continental system of roadside kilometer stones, showing the road number. This is an enormous help to the stranger navigating cross-country: it confirms that you are on the right road, and any mistake shows itself almost at once. With that, and a good road map, you just can't go wrong.
Recalling the thorough Customs and Immigration checks on the train the night before, I expected the same thing on the roads, but I seemed to wander from France into Belgium, and then into Holland without let or hindrance. I suppose, given the hundreds of minor country roads, it was simply impossible to guard more than a handful of main routes. Still, I had my passport, and the "ship's papers", at the ready and had nothing to fear in any case.
And then I was running through the winding hills and valleys of the Ardennes. All the hawthorn and fruit trees were in blossom in the sleepy little towns and villages as I ran through. In the peaceful afternoon sunshine it was hard to think back sixteen years to some of the most savage fighting of the war here in the bitter winter of '44, with the "Battle of the Bulge" (Hitler's "Last Throw" in the west) at its height.
I navigated to Heerlen, and it was plain sailing after that. Across the border into Germany with no trouble with Customs at the frontier. It seems that after "straining at the gnat" of a washing machine, the "camel" (in the shape of a brand new car) could be "swallowed" as being not worth bothering about.
I got in at last light. Dinner in the Mess had never tasted so good !
Goodnight, everybody,
Danny42C
Hunger is a good sauce.
Last edited by Danny42C; 25th Oct 2013 at 21:33.
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