Roscoff to Nevers-never land.

Nevers is a town about 200kms south of Paris. It took all day to get there. Possibly because we ended up on the road to Brest going West rather than East. Maps are funny things. They're apt to change like that. I'm driving and Bridie is doing most of the map reading. She's from Australia and is new to Europe. Up until three months ago she thought the 16A out of Dublin would take her to London. French is not her strong point, it's not mine either. On top of that she can't find her glasses half of the time, so imagine one person who can't see and another who can't pronounce, trying to pick their way through a French countryside where every town is spelt with silent 'x's and 's's and you can see how come five '0 clock that evening we were both glad to still be in France and not Spain. The tracking on the car is shot too. It keeps on pushing to the right. It's so bad that you can actually overtake and then pull back into the right with no hands. One good thing is that a temperamental steering wheel keeps you awake, you're so busy correcting all the time. Outside of Nevers there's a campsite. The French guys running the place give us a discount on account of the car. They offer us joints too. The only food we have is a tin of corn and a tin of long beans, which we mash together in a sawn-off coke bottle. Deep in the middle of the country that taught the world how to eat and we're chowing down on baby food.