Northbound, With Less Romance Than Planned

Northbound, With Less Romance Than Planned

olaf
City, Roadtrip
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October 3rd began with wind. Proper wind. Stormy gusts that stayed with us all day, pushing grey clouds across the sky at speed. Eighteen degrees at best. Summer was officially no longer interested. We left Millau and pointed the car north, grateful that the motorway in this sparsely populated stretch was free, at least until somewhere around Clermont. A small mercy.

The landscape shifted again. Still mountainous, but less dramatic now. Table mountains at first, wide plains in between, a scenery that felt more functional than spectacular. Grey clouds flattened everything. Occasionally a castle, a church, a château appeared, just enough to remind us that history had passed through here more elegantly than we were.

From the Clermont area toward Lyon, about 150 kilometers of rolling, wooded curves followed. Pleasant enough, but concentration was required. The last section of motorway was new and expensive, packed with bridges and tunnels, efficiently engineered and equally efficient at emptying wallets. It did get us quickly onto the A6, three lanes wide, dominated by trucks, loud, dense, tiring. No mountains anymore. Just speed and flatness.

Traffic eased only shortly before Dijon. Everyone else seemed to be heading for Paris or Besançon. We went for mustard. Which, in retrospect, wasn’t really about the city at all. Like Champagne, Dijon is more a concept than a place, branding over beauty.

The city itself was small, lively, and thoroughly confusing. One-way streets, erratic traffic, signage that simply stopped at some point. The tourist office didn’t help much. We drove in circles, grew steadily less patient, and after fifteen minutes agreed that seeing the old town in passing was enough. We wanted out.

Now the real problem began. We wanted to arrive somewhere, anywhere. There was no campsite nearby, no discreet spot to pitch a tent. We tried hotels. Too expensive. Seventy euros felt offensive at this stage of the day. We kept driving. Forest roads followed, but there was nowhere to stop. Just narrow lanes, stacked logs, managed woodland. Not exactly inviting. Who knows when timber transport would start.

Eventually we spotted railway tracks, a gravel road, and then – almost magically – a small meadow. A few benches. The motorway humming behind it. Not ideal, not hidden, but available. Darkness was approaching, and we accepted the offer.

Tent up. Beer out. Food improvised. Sometimes you don’t get what you were looking for. Sometimes you get what’s left. And sometimes that has to be enough.