Liberté, égalité, fraternité

Britain and France already know what its like to come under attack from afar and face a fight for freedom to live in peace.
Some murderous youths have chosen to listen to leaders that send them on a path of self destruction for a moment of perceived glory. Not something new in the history of warfare.

The Great Escape

The ferry Plymouth to Roscoff crossing went without any challenge whatsoever from the border crossing patrol and there was ample space on the Armorique of Brittany Ferries with 25 knots and 75,000 tons to propel us in comfort.
Leave Roscoff at 9.30 am for Gannat via Le Mans, and arrive at Gannat at about 6.45pm without incident.
The Farmhouse B&B is where we stayed last year and breaks the journey south to Sanary sur Mer about midway. On a hilltop its quiet and relaxed. A nightingale sings the night long to be challenged by the rest of the dawn chorus at first light and the sky is clear - one forecast had us believing it would be wet and windy worsening as we get to the Med.  We shall see today which of two opposing forecasts is correct .

Prepared for anything the Mog gets a tarp over for protection from sticky Lime.

The Farm cat is master of all he surveys

The night hunter

The shady garden evening time

The Accommodation

Looking south east we see towards our destination

Soon heading south.

Towards Sanary Sur Mer via Roscoff on Brittany Ferries. Later we plan to go to Chioggia, near Venice then back to Var in the French Alps.

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All bookings made, insurance and paperwork double checked. M.O.T. sorted and a brake light replaced. Replaced the Lodoxol gear oil and differential oil and replaced standard drain plugs with magnetic ones . Bled the brakes and engine oil changed. Renewed the air filter.

Helen refuses to take the tent, but accommodation is now booked.  I like to drive with a flexible itinerary, but Helen prefers to know the precise route and sleep in a comfortable bed.

Now Sophie is a mum and Helen and me the proud grandpa and ma.  Leon Joseph is doing well, Sophia and Max even manage to get some sleep.

Spring has sprung beautifully on our doorstep and this primrose wood is just ten minutes away. I begin to wonder if we might not be quite mad to dash away, when all seems so rosy in our little garden.

An earlier post here includes a piece by Alan Bennett who depicted Primrose Hill. He does not have the primrose all to himself though. Devon is awash with primroses at present, but these belong to Lord Courtenay whose ancestry includes pirates of the pillaging kind (privateers).  I am afraid my ancestry includes links to a lesser variety of high seas bravado, smugglers of  the south west approaches; whereas the Courtenays had their coffers royally rewarded, my ancestors' allegiance lay towards the church which bled the common man. The Tapper name figures on a brass band around a pillar of Dawlish Parish Church and in the lead of its tower roof. 

Now where was I ?  ... Oh yes;  rambling on about primroses!