The night was wet. Properly wet. Rain and thunderstorms swept over the meadow by the motorway, behind the strip of forest and the railway tracks. Cars hissed past in the dark, wind shook the tent, and sleep came in fragments. Still, by morning the sky had cleared to an improbable blue. Sunlight hit the fabric, steam rose gently, and the tent dried as if nothing had happened. We were tired, but functional.

A few people passed by, smiled, asked if we had slept well. Casual kindness, no curiosity beyond that. We packed up while everything was still slightly damp. Thick clouds were already gathering again, and we weren’t interested in repeating the experience. In Auxonne, the day reset itself. Warm, sunny, almost friendly. I went straight back to what France does reliably well: wine and cheese. Familiar territory. From there, the route felt almost routine, past Besançon, including that rest area with the free toilets, a small but memorable luxury, and on to Mulhouse.

One last round of shopping. Wine, beer, cheese. Enough to make the small SEAT Ibiza noticeably lower on its suspension. It looked slightly offended, but it carried on without complaint. Freiburg was close now. There, we would reorganize, redistribute, and finally leave France behind. And that felt oddly significant. France had been the surprise of the trip. We hadn’t planned for you. Spain had been the idea, the focus, the promise. But you slipped in quietly and stayed longer than expected. With your landscapes, your food, your small towns, your people – often reserved, often kind, rarely loud about it.

France, you weren’t the plan. You were the pleasant correction. À bientôt!

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