France – southbound, slowly

We started again in Chamonix, which felt less like a beginning and more like a reluctant release. Mountains don’t really say goodbye; they just allow you to leave. Heading south, we stocked up on cheese – serious cheese, the kind that already smells like commitment – and merged onto the motorway with the quiet confidence of people who know they will not be in a hurry.

France unfolded in layers. Mountain chains softened into hills, valleys opened and closed again, rivers appeared briefly and then disappeared as if they had other appointments. Everything looked different, and yet convincingly French. Somewhere along the way, two nuclear power plants rose from the landscape, calm and immovable, modern monuments among castles and fortresses that had clearly peaked earlier in history. Old stone walls, new concrete towers, apparently both qualify as landmarks.

By late afternoon, Orange became our vague target. Not because we needed to be there, but because night was approaching and sleeping somewhere felt like a reasonable ambition. We kept driving a bit longer and eventually turned off into the countryside, where vineyards took over the job of orientation.

In the Provence, we found a place to stay among the wine fields. No signs, just land that tolerated our presence. A short sunset followed, slightly filtered by clouds, doing just enough to mark the transition from driving to not driving. The light faded gently, as if aware we had already seen enough for one day.

The tent went up on stubborn, compacted ground that had clearly never been asked for permission. Pegs protested, the surface refused cooperation, but eventually everything stood more or less as intended. We sat quietly for a moment, cheese within reach, surrounded by wine and the fading colors of the evening.

It wasn’t dramatic. It didn’t need to be. The road had done its work, and the day ended exactly where it should have, somewhere between places, firmly pitched, heading south.