In which we find Le Grand Bleu and decide to stay a while.

 

Belgium was great, Belgium was fun, and as a matter of fact, Belgium was very hard to leave. As in, finding a way out of Belgium posed some problems, thanks to unclear maps and an absence of big signs to FRANKRIJK. Grâce à the plenitude of roundabouts, we managed to accrue some classic queasy feelings that accompany the best of road trips and eventually found ourselves the France.

Map folded to best display the way to The Big Blue, we efficiently dodged most of the sunbeams that occasionally broke through the clouds as we drove past field after field. There were points at which I would have easily believed myself to be driving across the heart of America again, if it weren't for the giant gothic churches and maybe-medieval towers strategically positioned in the little towns along the route. Fields, flat and rolling, green and golden, sun-striped and straw bale-spotted. Smooth, long roads dotted with symmetric trees, quiet under a haze of Queen Anne's Lace. The occasional tractor in front of the car a less than subtle reminder to slow down and take it all in. Dormant graveyards near sleepy Sunday villages that start and stop abruptly, earth-toned bricks and beiges, long windows, long shutters, flower pots. Tiny steeples growing out of wheat fields. All passing fancies to be zoomed by on the adventure to the next big adventure.

Just when we thought the hay bales would never again leave our view, they did.
And then there she was. That big, beautiful, blue Atlantic.

I had only ever heard of the White Cliffs of Dover and it hadn't really occurred to me that they would also exist on the other side of the Channel. Silly me. Of course, I could have easily hopped on a nearby ferry to the England just beyond the horizon and check out the cliffage there, but I was very much contented to plop down amidst the wildflowers and watch the birds surf the wind. Breathe the salty breeze and whatnot. Photograph acrobatic ladybugs. Oh, sweet vacation. Oh.