Reggie Thomson’s Diary

I had a cup of tea in bed this morning, and when I was up, a full English breakfast. I took a photo of the old stove in the fireplace in the diningroom, though now it is used as a cupboard. The wood around the sides was old mine shaft blocks, so I was told.

We drove up the road to fetch Naomi. I see from my room that she is capable of some remarkable paintings, and Aunty Rachel informs me that she has a very good memory for dates. She remembered who I was, and that I had visited after Morag’s wedding, some 23 years ago. She had also come to stay in Northern Ireland, when we lived in Londonderry in 1969. Today, she was going to OT (Occupational Therapy) to learn to paint (I think). Aunty Rachel then took me to Pleinmont point. The roads are very narrow, but the hedgerows are all well trimmed. The landowners have to cut them twice a year - June and September. They are inspected, and if found to be untrimmed, the owner can be fined the sum total of one pound.

I made my way down the cliffs. The lighthouse was too far away for me to photograph. I walked round the coastline to Fort Pezeries. I hadn’t realised that some of the forts were built to keep out Napoleon. I looked in the rock pools for interesting pictures, but many seemed to have an ugly purple tinge. I couldn’t see where that came from. A sign caught my eye - “Danger - Sheep drop to beach.” At first, I thought it was supposed to be “steep,” but another sign said: “sheer.”

From Fort Grey, I headed inland towards St. Peter’s Church, following a road sign. However, I spotted a spire and went towards it. It was the Parish Church of St. Philippe de Torteval. Inside, I rested for a while. Then I went to St. Pierre du Bois. It had an interesting sloping aisle - giving “Walking up the Aisle” a literal, as well as figurative, meaning.

At a nearby garage, I bought a Yorkie bar, a packet of Rolos and some Coca-Cola. Later on, I supplemented my diet with some Fruit-and-Nut. I was surprised at first that chocolate seems to be fairly cheap, but since the market is so huge, and competition strong, I guess prices for such luxuries must be keen.

I followed the coast road up to Richmond. The beach was not so pretty, though used as a bird nesting place, I didn’t go on to it. Further up, the sun broke through the clouds. I ran down to the sea, but I wasn’t in a good place for a photo. Still, I like photos of the rays of light, so put one on the homepage.

There wasn’t a sunset - it clouded over. I got a little lost trying to find the way home, going straight past the house without initially recognising it. On the way back, I found it, just before the rain started.

I joined Donald (I’ll call him that, but I’m not sure of his name, and maybe it is better to use a pseudoname) in the boat. It made the two hours pass quickly. He was returning to his wife and children in Jersey after spending three weeks in Bordeaux. He slept in a hall, and lived off soup kitchen handouts. He even tells me that in France there are some churches where you can work (repairing TVs, semi-skilled) for up to six months, get paid pocket-money, and have all your meals and a place to stay provided.

He met up with another guy, who later stabbed a 73 year-old man for his money. The police assumed they were together, and he was in jail for three nights. At the same dossing hall, several junkies had died of an OD (overdose). He was returning home to get away from it all.

He had come to St. Malo by train without paying. I didn’t ask how he managed it. I suppose a train is going that direction whether he travels on it or not. Still, it’s back to British values again - cheap or free, at any cost - even if it is illegal. Maybe I was wrong to “steal” ten centimes worth of electricity. It’s giving the impression that I condone theft. I suppose my reluctance to say anything to Donald is a far greater condoning of theft. His wife bought him a ticket for the ferry in Jersey, though.

I wondered why he was travelling, though. He had chosen all this independence - travelling without paying, living off soup kitchens, and had run into problems. I had chosen so much dependence - depending on the kindness of people to give me lifts, and found so much to be grateful for, sleeping three nights out of five in warm, comfortable beds (not including when I stayed with my sister.)

He is also a wood-carver, and told me about some of his creations. A rocking-horse, which he made in three parts, has now begun to split in a centrally-heated house. Now, he slices his planks, adjusts them to a controlled environment, and puts them together again before carving. He would love to visit Hokkaido, to buy some of the tools that the Japanese (Ainu?) use for their woodcarving - very light, unlike the heavy English ones.

A further hobby of his is cracking codes - breaking into computers and retrieving password files to decode. He says its only to prove how insecure the systems are, but the operators rarely take any action. He has several computers at his home. He is also familiar with some of the viruses - even ones that can send information from a web-camera to his email address via the internet.

“Don’t you want to take a photo of Jersey?” he asked, as we sailed past in glorious sunshine. “No. My aim is ‘In Search of Beauty.’” “Ah! Jersey isn’t beautiful!” he exclaimed. “No. Not true. It’s just that if I take a photograph when it is so far away, it won’t look beautiful - it will just look like any other distant island.” It not only has to be beautiful, it has to be made to look beautiful, too.

We arrived in St. Peter’s Port, which was covered with a blanket of clouds. An announcement told all foot passengers to remain in their seats. I sprang to my feet! After a few minutes of waiting, though, with nobody but Donald in the lounge, I thought I had better go. I was ushered down to the car deck and walked off, not quite sure where I was supposed to go. Donald suddenly caught up with me. He had been told to check through immigration here, too. “One of us will get stopped.” He was right. After I had shown my passport, an officer asked me: “Are you two together?” He wanted to speak to me. Why was I coming to Guernsey? Where did I live? What did I do? Was I carrying any drugs?

I couldn’t even remember Auntie Rachel’s surname. I think it was “Wood” but wasn’t sure. At a Condor office, I found out the times for the boats to Portsmouth (18:00) and the cost (47 UK pounds with reclining seat!!!!) and changed all my franks into pounds (charged one pound, or 5%). I’m back in a very expensive society.

In the tourist office, I bought a phone card for six pounds, not realising t hat it is only Guernsey Telecom. The lady told me where Thomas Cooks is. I wanted to confirm that I knew the directions, and started to recap, but before I could get past the first street, the lady had butted in to repeat the same information. It wasn’t difficult to remember. I think English culture emphasises lecturing, not learning. If she had listened to me, she would have found out if I had really remembered and learned the instructions. By merely repeating them a second time, she has no idea if I know anything - it’s my fault if I have forgotten.

I changed a further 100 US$, so that I can afford to leave the island. Then I went down to Barclays to find out if I have any money left in my account. I’m in luck - just six hundred pounds in credit (enough to last me until the new year, though it will be better if I can get some lodgers in quickly.)

At a phone booth, I phoned home to get Auntie Rachel’s phone number. It only cost 10p for the first call, and a little more for the second. Auntie Rachel was in, and though a little inconvenient for her, told me to wait where I was, at the bottom of High Street, and she would collect me. I went off to find a frame for a photo. In a photography shop, there were lots piled up on a shelf, including one the right size with a border. I had to pull out the photos to see if it was the right size. The lady admired the pictures. I showed her the calendar, too. “Are you going to sell these?” No, I guess this year I will just keep them as personal presents.

I waited by the church until Auntie Rachel arrived to drive me to her home near Cobo bay. Unfortunately, a neighbour died recently, so she is putting up some of the relatives in the spare room. I am sleeping in Naomi’s room. She now stays in a hostel nearby. I was offered a cup of tea, to drink before a hot fire, and some delicious biscuits.

I gave the photograph and the calendar before the evening meal. We chatted about some of my adventures. Mum and Dad phoned. It seems there will be a family reunion in Heathrow on Monday night.

Later, we watched the BBC News before retiring for the night.

Fiona had to leave early to go to Switzerland. There was just time for me to wash and pack, and to have a quick breakfast. She gave me a small parcel for lunch and drove me to the junction at Quimper. I was there for half and hour, when a gentleman said he could take me to Bannalec, if that was any good. I decided to accept, rather than turn down the offer of kindness. I think he was going hunting. He wasn’t interested in postcards.

I was in the middle of nowhere, with few cars on the main road, and hardly any on the sliproad. I gave myself a time limit - if nobody stopped by 9.15, I would walk along the dual-carriageway, holding my sign out and hoping the police didn’t get me first. At 9.14, a gentleman drew up. He could take me to Lorient. He had hitched in Scotland with a friend.

From Lorient, a lady gave me a lift all the way to Rennes. She had also hitched - to Singapore for a wedding! In Rennes, I got a lift with a retired gentleman going to his second home in St. Malo. Thus, having set off from Douarnenez at 7.30, I was in St. Malo by 12.30.

A man in a shop in the terminal told me the times of the boats to Portsmouth, but couldn’t tell me the costs. I went into town to buy some bread for my lunch, and bought two half-baguettes. The shop was open until four that afternoon, I was told. I ate both baguettes at the bar in the terminal, which was shut up. The enquiry desks for the shipping companies opened up in the afternoon, so I found out I could go to Guernsey for 165F or Portsmouth for 190F - but tomorrow. At any rate, I had a night to spend in St. Malo.

The bar opened for a while, in the afternoon. I went out to get some more bread just before four, but the shop had already closed. It was just as well, for there was a much better bakery further up the road, with bread that was still warm.

A boat was sailing to Jersey at 5.00, but it wasn’t possible to stay in Jersey, and would cost double, anyway. When the bar closed down, I plugged my computer into one of the sockets, and started typing my diary.

By nine thirty, I was getting tired. I decided to settle down in a corner in the cleaning room, hiding away behind a floor-cleaning machine, and a large board. Someone came in to switch off the lights at about ten, so I just kept quiet. The new mattress is good.

Fiona left early in the morning, but needed to retrieve some books from boxes in my room before she departed. I arose later on, and went out to find some croissants and chocolate bread. I briefly wandered round the town, noting a sardine shop. I made some hot chocolate instead of coffee, to dip my croissants into.

I did my washing the conventional way - by hand. It was windy outside, so I first hung everything on the line. However, the clothes didn’t seem to be making progress by the afternoon. I removed Fiona’s washing and put mine over one of the radiators. I did a little work on the computer, but soon got bored.

For lunch, Fiona had recommended a small restaurant round the corner. I ordered a salmon crepe, a Roquefort, and a Crepe Suzette, together with a white wine. It was delicious - and also at 110F (18.33 US$), the most expensive meal I have paid for during the entire trip.

In the afternoon, I watched a Hitchcock movie - “The Man who knew too much.” It was quaint, but I didn’t think it was one of his better movies. I put on some music from the Chieftains, and then Edith Piaff. I hadn’t done much computing before Fiona returned.

Thinking she might like to see my photos I offered her the choice - the 5 photo version, the 35, the 206 or the 345 versions. I showed the 206 version, adding some of the stories and explanations, though I noticed that Fiona looked quite tired. We phoned mum and dad - the first time I had spoken to them since Japan. They are planning on having a meal with Rona, Tony and perhaps Hamish, in Heathrow, before they depart for the Galapagos next week. Fiona said she had had the one and a half hour slide-show, so mum and dad could expect the three hour version.

It was a touch cold, since I couldn’t get completely out of the wind. When the lights went on in the building behind, I decided it was time to rise - 6.30. I was lucky it hadn’t rained. I put the polystyrene back in the bin, but decided to squeeze the foam into my rucksack. Unfortunately, I forgot to remove the piece of cardboard from the door!

First, I went back to the ring road, trying to hitch on the corner before the Lorient road. I gave myself a limit of 8.15, and when that passed, started walking down the dual-carriageway. I called into the first filling station, which had a shop and restaurant. There I bought a sandwich and some orange. I was just about to start eating, when I asked two people who were leaving if they were going to Ploermel. They were! Indeed, they took me as far as Baud, about 30 km from Lorient.

The next lift was with a gentleman working in Lorient for the forestry commission, I think. He chose the postcard of the palm leaf in Malaysia, and took me to a roundabout. As I was getting out, he asked if I was a believer. I said yes, and he gave me a blessing - he was a part-time orthodox priest!

A family gave me lift to Quimper. By now, I’m down to three different postcards. They were quite impressed, so I also showed them the name cards, saying they could have one of each. The daughter couldn’t decide between two of the namecards, so I suggested she take them both. It was the “Japanese” solution. They drove me round the town, and since I was in no rush, I decided to stop and take some photos. It was beautifully sunny.

The sun didn’t last, though. No sooner had I rearranged my bag, and retrieved my camera, than the clouds rolled over. Perhaps I should just enjoy the place for a while, eat lunch here, and then go on to Douarnenez. However, there were some gaps in the clouds, permitting me to take some photos of the old town square, some of the windows, and the cathedral. For lunch, I went into a shopping centre and had a cheap crepe with ham and cheese. A stout lady fell over, nearby, but there were lots of people to help her - she had a nose-bleed.

I found a photograph shop with the A4 frame that I was looking for. As I was packing everything away, a gentleman and a boy came up and stood either side of me. I was afraid they might try to steal my camera. I hurriedly put it in my bag. “You don’t speak Bretagne, then?” It was an odd question. I think my suspicions were correct. They walked away. Perhaps I need that whistle nearer to hand.

Then I started walking in the direction of Douarnenez. I had to confirm the way. A Renault stopped for me. The lady could take me all the way to Douarnenez. They dropped me on the roundabout. A lady in a garage told me how to get to Rue Victor Hugo. Fiona wasn’t home. A gentleman with his foot in a strange plaster told me there was nobody there - the shutters were drawn. I was about to believe him, but realised that Fiona’s name was still on the postbox. I left her a message.

There is a little island of Tristan opposite Douarnenez. I took some snaps of it, then crossed the bridge to another part of the town. A store wasn’t able to sell me a phonecard, so I went to a Tabac. The cheapest was 50F. The setting sun cast a warm light on the Island of Tristan. After a few more photos, I telephoned Fiona. She arranged to pick me up.

It was the “English” welcome when she arrived - a handshake. We caught up on the news as we drove to her new house along the coast. The sunset was wonderful. I took a quick look round the rooms and a snap from outside, in case I could send it by email to mum and dad. Then we went shopping in a large supermarket. Fiona no longer eats meat, so the ratatouille seemed a good suggestion for a meal. She bought me a wine (wine is also out) and a huge chocolate cake (chocolate isn’t!).

Back at her current house, I took a shower before coming down for the meal. It was very good. Fiona listened to a few of my stories, but I think she was quite tired. I asked why she was working in France, and apparently France gives greater protection to the performing arts than England, though there is much happening in Britain, too. It didn’t seem the moment to ask for tips on how to tell my stories.

Later, I wrote an email to Mum and Dad, and changed the one for Rosmarie, but again, the connection failed.

Dominique and Isabelle said I could stay until lunchtime, and they would take me to a suitable place to hitch from. I spent the whole morning on the computer, sorting out the photographs, updating the homepage, and choosing a few more favourite photos. There was just time to give Dominique a quick view of the European photos, and a browse through the favourites.

We went out to a small Tunisian restaurant for a delicious meal of cous-cous accompanied by beef and sausage. Isabelle told me I wasn’t to look at the prices. There was some sweet tea with it. Afterwards, Dominique drove me to a small service area on the N12 dual-carriageway. I was amused that Benjamin often asked “Why?” when given a command by his parents. I wonder where children learn this from. Often there was only a “Because!” answer and that was the end of it.

I waited outside, in the cold, though it might have been possible to stay in the shop. It threatened to rain, but only drizzled a little. I was there for over an hour. Eventually, I was taken on to Dreux. The driver worked for Intermarche, a large supermarket chain.

By now it was dark, and I wasn’t in an excellent position. I had to walk on to a well-lit area, just beside some traffic lights. From there, a couple gave me a lift up to Verneuil. They dropped me at a roundabout. There was another car to Mortagne, and again I was let out at a roundabout. I was no sooner holding up my sign for Alencon and Rennes, when a van stopped. He was going as far as Laval, and said he could take me to the end of the motorway. There would be very little traffic on the N12 from Mayenne.

When I jumped out, the gentleman asked if I had forgotten anything. “No,” I assured him. I then put on my hat and reached into my pockets for my gloves. There was only one. Maybe I’ve dropped it, I thought. I retraced my steps, using my small torch to scour the ground. “It must have fallen out in the lorry,” I reflected. I was just about to continue on my way, when I found it.

There was very little traffic on the slip road going onto the dual-carriageway. I took the advice of the driver, and started walking towards the toll-point at the end of the motorway. Technically, from the map, the motorway continued a kilometer or so until this junction. Just my luck, a policecar went past, stopped and reversed back to me. The officer jumped out to ask where I was going. I explained that I was hitching to Rennes and Douarnenez to visit my sister, but would walk to the toll-point. He asked to see my passport, politely. The assistant opened his laptop attached to his dashboard, and typed in all the details. They allowed me to continue, saying I would have to stand by the left side. It made a pleasant contrast to the Italian police.

So, I stood as far forward as I felt I dared, holding out my sign for Rennes. I checked if it was visible, but actually it was almost impossible to read from a distance, even though I was standing under a light. I really need to write a full page sign for night hitching. Fortunately, a gentleman who had parked at the side, offered to take me in to Rennes. Indeed, he took me to the other side, and put me on the dual-carriageway leading towards Lorient and Ploermel. He had driven up from Paris, leaving the city at 9.30 in the evening (I had left at 3.30.)

I walked a short way along the road, but I was looking for a place to sleep rather than trying to hitch. A factory just opposite the Citroen Plant seemed OK. There wasn’t a covered place, but I hid round the back. A large piece of foam and some polystyrene improved my bed. I put on all my clothes, with several socks on top of my gloves. A doorway nearby rattled, so I stuck a piece of cardboard in it, then settled down for the night.

The sunrise looked great from the window. It’s a pity I wasn’t in a position to make the most of it. Still, it was nice to have slept well, and to be treated to a bowl of coffee for breakfast. There was some bread, and a huge jar of plum jam, made by Isabelle’s parents in Spain.

Benjamin goes to a friend during the day. We took a back road to get to the flat, though Isabelle told me the normal route home. We took the bus, and she bought me a “carnet” of tickets - 55F, which can fit into yesterday’s budget, since I didn’t spend a penny. I took the train in to the terminal in Chatelet. It’s the first time I have been on a train since Japan. I’m not sure it was essential, but now perhaps I can see more of Paris.

I first crossed the river to see Notre Dame. The bottom half is being restored, and is covered in plastic. The clouds made the view poor, so it didn’t really matter. As I was taking one photo, a guy came up to talk. He was from Canada, and was interested in my digital camera. He has one of the latest Olympus versions, with 2.5 million pixels, zoom, and extra lenses. He also has his own net with high-speed cable access to the Internet. Regrettably, I had forgotten to bring my name cards. A Bureau de Change gave me the necessary cash - about 460F, but didn’t accept coins.

It was still too dark. I went into a second-hand bookshop on the other bank. Dominique is interested in old cars, so I thought I might find a suitable book. I didn’t, but enjoyed browsing all the same. The Swiss pennies were thrown into a collection pot, though I’ve no idea what the money was going towards. As I came out, so did the sun, through small gaps in the clouds.

In a nearby park, there were lots of interesting statues. I took some snaps, and also included the nameplate, in case the photo went onto the internet. I think I noticed that some of the postcards included the architects of the buildings. Most architects get forgotten and only the work remains. I guess that’s true of the photographer, too.

There were a few shots of the Ile de la Cite (apologies for the lack of accents.) Then I went round to the Hotel de Ville. I ate a cheese and tomato demi-baguette, followed by a banana crepe, for lunch.

Then, it was on to the Louvre, for photos of the pyramide and its surrounding pools. The sun only appeared for brief moments. I should really have cleaned the edge of the pool before taking the photo. That would mark me out as different from most other photographers - if I were to clean everything beforehand, and remove all the litter. There is a mountain range to be crossed before I can do that, though - the barrier of believing that everyone should take the responsibility for their own litter. Maybe I should put a sign on a T-shirt: “Don’t Just do it - Do it All! Do it Right!

I strolled through the Tuilieries and up the Champs-Elysees. The photo of the Grand Palace shows how much cloud there was at the time. When the sun appeared, it was only for a few, brief seconds. There was an exhibition of sculptures on either side of the street. Some weren’t to my taste. They were done, I felt, to show that, for example, even pieces of iron grill can be used to make a simple shape. A more interesting one, was the fountain containing a large ball. The ball rose with the fountain. However, sometimes it fell out of reach, and had to be pushed back to the centre. Yes, artists need a smattering of science to ensure 100% success.

Some Christmas trees had been covered in a white snow substitute. So I took photos of “Winter in Autumn.” The shadow of a lamppost on the wall, with the sign of the street above it, caught my attention. The tree’s shadow wasn’t quite as I would have wanted, but it was interesting.

I continued to the Arc de Triomphe, then headed for the Eiffel Tower. The latter might make a good sunset photo. From the ground, though, I couldn’t find a suitably distant point for a photo. At the bottom of the East leg was a long queue of people waiting to buy their tickets for th e lift to the top. A few vending machines would easily reduce the queue. Of course, vending machines may not work in a society that hasn’t conditioned its citizens into pacificity - they might end up vandalised in an attempt to extract the money.

The lift to the top was more than my daily budget, but by the west entrance I could buy a ticket to the second stage by stairs for only 15F. That seemed worth it. It was a good move. There was a wonderful sunset over the Seine. I had to wait patiently at times for people to walk by.

After sunset, and some night photos of Paris, I treated myself to a cup of coffee and a forest fruits tart. Back on the first stage, I enjoyed the videos and the hologram. When I wanted to go down, I couldn’t find a staircase that was open. It was too windy. Fortunately, I didn’t have to pay for the lift - the stairs were opened a few minutes after later.

The postcards of Paris are of exceptionally high quality. I’d noticed one of a merry-go-round with the Eiffel tower in the background. I went to the merry-go-round to take a similar night photo. It’s nice, but the idea is not original. I went back to the Arc de Triomphe, though the night photos weren’t so interesting. I have to find something to rest the camera on, which limits my photos. This is about the only time where I would welcome a normal tripod (I have a tiny one.)

I should have taken the metro from there, but walked down the Champs-Elysees until the Place du Concorde. It was too late to go to the Sacre Couer, and anyway, it didn’t seem to be lit up. From the Mairie des Lilas, I first waited for the bus, but then thought it mightn’t be too far to walk. However, I had only gone a short distance when I noticed the bus. I caught it at the next stop. The inspector wanted to see my ticket. I had stamped a new one, but I don’t know if the metro ticket was still valid, and didn’t ask.

I got out at the correct stop, but was quite unsure how to get home from there. When I went into a pub, on guy started joking that I was Jesus Christ. I wonder if he had a “bad conscience.” Nobody knew where Rue de la Fontaine was. Outside, another chap also didn’t know, but I then asked where the circular express road was. I set off following his directions, but I wasn’t sure. Another gentleman was able to point me in the right direction - the opposite way. There was a police station en route, and though it wasn’t open, a map inside the door gave me my bearings.

I was home by 9.30, for a meal of croix monsieurs and salad. We talked about bringing up children, with me spouting my theories of Japanese children getting an overdose of attention when they are very young, leading to them doing things to avoid attention later on, while Western individualism leads to children trying to attract attention. Isabelle also thinks that today’s children are quite rude, and in this area there are many immigrant families. They looked through all the photos on the camera/

I’ve changed my plans. It seems crazy to travel halfway across the globe, and then not make the effort to see someone a few hundred kilometres away. I phoned Fiona’s answering machine to leave a message saying I would come to Douarnenez on Friday. Unfortunately, I couldn’t get onto the Internet - I didn’t even hear the ringing tone, so I assume that there is something different with the French phone system. That meant that I didn’t send an email to Rosmarie to say I was in Paris, as I had promised her mum. I didn’t wish to make an international call from here.

I was up late. I’d forgotten to put my used battery on to recharge. It’ll be a pity if I run out in Paris. Breakfast was quieter than last night. The cat had to be scolded for climbing onto the chair next to me. We set off around ten, and I was taken to the junction after Toul. It’s a pity that there was a suspicion of doubt about his intentions.

I walked for a while, then stopped to put on my rain clothes to keep out the drizzle. Just over the motorway, a van pulled in for me, taking me into town. It was only a short ride, but saved me several hours of walking. He suggested I write “Foug” on the signboard. I had to walk some distance before I got a lift. Then, it was only a few kilometres to the entrance to the dual-carriageway, and “Foug” was not appropriate.

There didn’t seem to be many cars going onto the road from that point. I walked down to the main road. Impossible - the cars were going far too fast, and the hard-shoulder was narrow. Back at the top, I waited - for several hours. What a pity I had eaten the chocolate for the taste yesterday. There was only a little drink left, too. I set a limit of two o’clock, but couldn’t decide what I would do then.

Fortunately, I didn’t have to decide. A gentleman gave me a lift up to Void. He took me to a service area with restaurant, just beyond the turn-off. I changed my sign to “Paris” and “St. Dizier.” As I was thinking what to do in the restaurant car park, a man called out to me. He could take me all the way to Paris, if I didn’t mind waiting for half an hour, and sitting in the back of a van. It was excellent timing.

I ate another of the apples from Switzerland. The two men appeared, and put me in the back of their van. I could sit on some blankets and bubblewrap. The light came from an overhead clear plastic area. I discovered one tiny hole, where I could peer through to check that we were on the right road. I would hate to think that they were kidnapping me! A sign on the wall mentioned art dealers. What if they were international art thieves?

All the signs outside pointed to Paris. I settled down to think of nothing on the bubblewrap. The blankets were needed to keep me warm, and when it began to rain, I had to rescue my bag from a small pool.

We came to a stop about 80km from Paris, and I was let out. There was a restaurant and bar just across the road. I was offered a cup of coffee. “I’m sorry. I haven’t yet changed any money,” I said. “This is on me, and you don’t need to talk about money,” said Dominique. I showed them my postcards and let them choose several each. They also signed my book. The Moroccan guy wrote in Arabic. He said that with my beard, I would be highly respected in Morocco.

Dominique said I could use his cell phone to call Fiona. There was only an answering machine, so I left a message that I was coming to Paris that evening. Dominique said I could stay with him, if I needed to. Wow! France is getting high ratings for the hitching so far.

Soon, we were bumping along the road again, and it began to get dark. Inside Paris, rays from the streetlights found their way through tiny holes and sped across the sides of the van. We stopped once, and Dominique peered in to say he was just picking up some bread. A few minutes later, we were outside his house. I gather the Moroccan guy hadn’t been inside before, and that Dominique was the boss of a small transportation company.

Dominique said that he had to “chercher ma femme dans une galerie.” It amused me. I nearly replied that I, too, ought to look for a wife, but I wouldn’t know where to begin! I think in English one would say “meet” rather than “look for.” We dropped the Moroccan at his house, and then went to the gallery. The cell-phone rang as we arrived. The gallery was closed, and we had to meet Isabelle and Benjamin nearby.

Back at the house, I was again offered a bath while the meal was being prepared. Fio na had left a message on her answering machine for me. She was leaving Paris that evening for Dijo n, and wouldn’t be back in Douarnenez until Friday. I said it was a pity we had missed, but maybe I’ll come by some time next year.

Benjamin is just three and a half, and was a little shy. The meal was great. There was a vegetable soup, with home-grown vegetables. This was followed by a rabbit stew. I haven’t eaten rabbit since the party at Fiona’s house in St. Remy-les-Chevreuse, over 20 years ago!

By the time we had finished and chatted, it was eleven, and time to retire. I made sure I recharged the battery, and every time I woke, put on the other batteries, just to top them up.

I was up in time to take a hurried shower, and pack everything away. I decided to accept the offer of the suit - it fits perfectly, and I’m told that grey is the “in” colour - it must be, given the limitations of the United Colours of Benetton. Now I have three shirts and a suit to keep me warm when I sleep outside (plus the two sweaters, coat and raincoat.) Mrs. Schmutz insisted that I take some sandwiches, apples and chocolate with me.

Bruno had to pick up another gentleman from Roeti, and we were a little late setting off. They were going to a conference on church planting and growth. The gentleman asked about my missionary time in Japan. I told him what Mr. Kuroda had said about few churches getting beyond the 200 members level, in part due to the limitations of the pastor wanting to be a “father” to his flock.

We made it to Basel by 9.30a.m. I’m not sure they took the correct turning for the conference centre, but they were going north, and it was convenient for me. I checked on a bus stop map, and also asked directions to the motorway entrance. People were most helpful. At one bridge where construction work was in progress, I couldn’t find the way to the stairs up. A couple pointed me in the right direction. On the way, I spotted a couple of exchange bureaus, but didn’t change my money there. I only have 27 Swiss Francs left.

There were two entrances for the motorway - the lorry and the car entrances. I chose the lorry entrance first. The guard, or controller, on the border was quite helpful. He allowed me to stand by the passport control area, after I’d had my passport checked. However, there weren’t many trucks at that time of the morning - most of them arrive in the afternoon. I found out where the car checkpoint was, and went over to try my luck there.

I wasn’t sure if I was in France or Switzerland, so went over to the man in the booth, in case he needed to see my passport. I asked if it was OK to hitchhike. He said I would have to do so from the parking area - it was too dangerous right there. It was fine to stand by the rubbish bin, about twenty metres away.

As I waited, I tucked into the first bar of chocolate. I didn’t have too long to wait for my first lift, up to Mulhouse. I was taken to the A36, which heads towards Dijon, and told that there was a truck-drivers’ restaurant nearby. However, I walked to the entrance other side of the road and studied my map for a while, holding up my sign for Strasbourg and Colmar. A gentleman pulled over. He could take me to Colmar. He told me that hitching on the Autoroutes (motorways) was more difficult than on the normal routes. “People who take the autoroutes are not so kind.

“It’s a very pretty town,” he informed me. “If you want, I can take you in and give you a quick look round.” He did. I decided to jump out and at least eat my lunch there. I walked round, taking snaps, though nothing remarkable. I still need sunlight to take reasonable pictures. It would be nice if the camera, or computer, could automatically adjust colours and contrasts, to give a naturally lit appearance. The other digital camera had a button for automatic colour adjust, though I didn’t use it much.

The houses had pleasant wooden beams, and some stretched out into the road. There was also a “little Venice” though the canal barely compared to its big brother in Italy. There were some beautiful vines in autumn colours. I took lots of shots to ensure I found what I was looking for.

After lunch, and the remaining bar of chocolate, it was time to find a toilet, and start hitching towards Nancy. I followed one sign, which lead to a toilet in the street - a cabin that required 10F. Since I had no money on me, I couldn’t use it. I walked out of town, eventually finding a toilet in a garage.

I could have gone on towards Strasbourg, but then felt that, since it was a dual-carriageway, it would be more difficult to hitch on, and I might be b etter off on the normal road, over the hills to St. Die. It was a good decision , since I went past lots of vineyards, taking more snaps as usual.

As I approached the turn-off for St. Die, I noticed another hitchhiker standing by the roadside. “Well, I’ll just keep walking,” I though. However, a van stopped just on the corner. I was about to ask if there was room for a second person, but there wasn’t. In Japan, I might have had to bow to express my sumimasens (regrets). Clearly, that person had been at the corner longer, and deserved the first lift.

The driver was very chatty, and even took me for a quick tour of Kayserberg. It seems a pleasant village, and maybe I should return to explore the area some other time. I mentioned Fiona’s recipe book, with its “Tarte a l’oignon Alsacienne” to be accompanied by a Gewuerztraminer white wine. It is quite well-known here.

I was taken to Anould, about twelve kilometres from St. Die, and watched the sun begin to set. Another lift got me down to the St. Die bypass. My map is somewhat ancient, since a lot more of the road is now a dual-carriageway. As I was holding my sign on the entrance slip-road, another gentleman approached. He stood just behind me, with his thumb out. At first, I thought he was the same person from Colmar. He wasn’t. He always hitches home from work, and it takes only fifteen minutes to half-an-hour to catch a lift to Raon-l’Etape.

I thought about making an arrangement - if someone stopped by me, had room for one person only, and was going to Raon-l’Etape, I’d let him take the lift. As it turned out, someone pulled over in between the two of us. He ran up first, though it is probable that the gentleman was stopping for me. Never mind, I let him go, and didn’t even run up to see if he was going my way. Perhaps someone else will take me.

I had only to wait another half hour for my lift - also to Raon l’Etape. The gentleman kindly took me to the other end of the village, to a place where there was light. I walked on from there to the sliproad for the dual-carriageway.

The gentleman who took me into Nancy, worked for Toshiba photocopiers. He told me that the Japanese were very careful to adapt their management to the local styles, and so avoided conflict, unlike the Koreans, who seemed to want to control everyone, and ended up with lots of strikes. I can only recall one threat of a strike in Japan - when Kansai railways nearly went on a one-day strike. It was called off at the last minute.

The car was on hire, so the gentleman took me to the centre of town. I had to get my raincoat out of my bag, and was just putting it on, when the same man returned. He could take me to the entrance of the motorway, the other side of town - he had just hired the car for a further three days.

By now it was getting cold, as well as being drizzly. I had some more rearranging to do, and put on my extra sweater beside a MacDonald’s. Then, I stood in the rain on the entrance to the motorway.

About half-an-hour later, a gentleman gave me a lift to Toul. When he discovered that I wished to go on from there to Paris, he said, “It’s too late. No one will stop in this rain. If you want, you can come with me, and I will offer you hospitality for the night.” It was too good an offer to refuse. I accepted his invitation.

We drove some distance past Toul. Off the highway, he told me there were “viches” in the woods. I figured he was saying “deer,” from the signposts by the side. I can’t find the word in my computer dictionary. “Can you see? Can you see? Over there, on the left.” I couldn’t see - apparently I’d missed a fox. Maybe I should get myself some more glasses. I saw the second fox, though, but again he had to point it out to me. As for the deer, I bluffed. I pretended I had seen it, so as not to be ridiculed for my poor eyesight.

The house was in a tiny village of St. Andre something-or-other. Being near the church, I figured it must have been important at one time. A dog came out to greet me. In side, the cat was ever so pleased to see its master, though he treated it a little roughly. I was shown to the toilet and bathroom, and g iven a large towel. When I first went into the bathroom, I couldn’t find the light switch, and nearly walked into the full-sized mirror on the right-hand wall. The gentleman even offered me a pair of his underwear to put on, but I declined. “Mine were new on that morning,” I said, bluffing.

When I came down, soup was on its way. We had an aperitif of Riccard, which tastes like liquorice. The gentleman even had a box of them in his cupboard. The soup was delicious, served with a delicious wine, and followed by a cheese course. By the end of all this, we had finished the wine, and conversation was flowing just as freely.

The gentleman enjoys photos, so I went through my entire album on the internet, telling all the stories. He roared with laughter when I explained the meaning of Matsushima (Pine Islands). The way I said it, it sounded like - yes! You’ve guessed! It reminded me of my stifled laughter when I heard how Indonesians pronounce the word for pine tree.

It was one before I went up to clean my teeth. I noticed a strange statue of two Herculean men on the shelf. It put a doubt in my mind. When the gentleman showed me to a double bed, and proceeded to jump into one half, I decided to play safe. I went downstairs and lay by the fire. “You English are strange,” he said. “You can’t sleep here.” I went back up, and slept as near to the edge of the bed as I could. He was soon asleep, snoring. Maybe I was wrong to doubt. Still, I felt vulnerable, and didn’t sleep well.

It was a pleasant morning, though by the time I had taken a shower, the clouds had come over, and I only took a couple of snaps.

We were on time for church this morning. It wasn’t so far away, nearer Uster. Bruno went to the local church, since they had also been supporting him while he was in Vietnam. The service was in German, but I still couldn’t catch much. I recognised some of the bible verses. Afterwards, Mr. and Mrs. Schmutz had been invited out for lunch, so we rushed home.

I finished off some more emails, and wrote the postcard from Switzerland. Then I connected onto the internet briefly to send them.

A friend of Rosmarie’s came by in the afternoon. We chatted for a while. She is going to South Africa for a month in December. Bruno is going to Basel early tomorrow morning, so I arranged to go with him. We went for a walk in the evening.