Susie Kelly - Bon Voyage! A Susie Kelly Sampler

The author and her husbanddevised a simple plan to take a tent and the dog and drive around theperimeter of France. Like many simple plans it went wrong before it started andthey ended up with two dogs and a campervan named Tinkerbelle. On the secondday of their journey Tinkerbelle begins to self-destruct, helped by the new dogwho does his best to eat her from the inside out. This is their story, as theytravel from sandy beaches to snow-topped mountains exploring the diversecultures, cuisines and countryside making up the country called France.

THERE'S a reason the inhabitants of the Poitou-Charentes areaffectionately known as cagouilles snails. It's rare to see anybody movingfaster than a cautious walking pace. Only mad foreigners jog. A commondenominator in the obituaries is the great age of the departed mid to late90s is pretty much the norm. Some of our French neighbours have never been morethan 30 miles from the village where they were born. Their needs and wants cangenerally be found in small local towns; why should they go further afield?

The same indolence affects us.With quaint villages, traffic-free lanes, limitless acres of fields, forestsand rivers, long hot summers, sufficient hostelries to cater for our tastes,and the pure pleasure of sitting in the garden surrounded by our animals,listening to the birds, we live in our own little heaven.

But in this paradise there is asly serpent, and its name is Wanderlust. When it whispers I feel a craving tobe on the move.

"Shall we take Tally,"(our dog) "and a tent, and drive all round France? Just drive around andsee what we can discover?" I suggested one autumn day while we were collectingchestnuts.

"When?" Terry asked.

"Late spring, earlysummer?"

"How long for?"

"About six weeks?"

"All right. Find somebodyto come and look after the animals, and we'll go."

What could be simpler? All weneeded was a house-pet-sitter and a tent.

I contacted our lovely Americanfriend, Jennifer Shields who had taken care of our animals and house some yearspreviously when I had walked across France. She'd be delighted to come back, sothat was one thing ticked off our list.

"Do you think," Iasked, "that Tally will get bored being in the car for so long? Should weget a small companion for him?"

Yes, we agreed, that would be agood idea. And so we collected a small black puppy of unknown origin who lookedlike the kind of small black puppy who would grow to be a small black dog. Hishuge ears, instant devotion and tireless efforts to please reminded me of Dobbythe house-elf in Harry Potter, and so that's what we called him.

Two months before our departuredate, things began to go awry.

Firstly Jennifer badly injuredher leg and had to cancel her visit.

Secondly, Dobby grew, and grew,and grew. In no time at all he was the size of a new-born calf. He wasn't goingto fit in our car with Tally, all our camping gear, and us. We were going tohave to buy a far larger vehicle. One that we couldn't afford.

In a serendipitous stroke offate, my old schoolfriend from Kenya, Vivien Prince, won a raffle prize anopen-ended return flight from Kenya to Paris. She enthusiastically volunteeredto step into Jennifer's shoes.

Buying a vehicle large enough toaccommodate our equipment and canine entourage, and that was within our means,was more difficult. With Vivien already here, and only six days before ourdeparture date, we still hadn't found anything we could afford. At the eleventhhour, somebody introduced us to an ageing Talbot van converted to a campervan.She was beautifully fitted with hand-made oak cabinets and seemed mechanicallysound. She cost more than twice what we had budgeted for, but she was our only option.We were ready to roll.

NORTHERN BRITTANY

Ille et Vilaine

We are starting our trip from Cancale on the Brittany coast,and will travel 6,000 miles anti-clockwise around the perimeter of France untilwe arrive back where we began.

On a chilly day in May we wavefarewell to Vivien and head north from our home in south-west France. It is 250miles to Cancale, and we reach a campsite near there late at night after apleasant and uneventful journey, apart from Terry finding that the clutch israther stiff. We quietly park Tinkerbelle, drink cups of instant soup, wrap thedogs and ourselves in duvets, and fall asleep.

The first morning of our trip isoff to a sublime start. At 8.00am the sun is already hot. From a gentle inclineon the Pointe du Grouin north of Cancale, we overlook the sapphire waters ofthe bay of Mont-Saint-Michel to the east and the gulf of St Malo to the west.Just offshore a babbling mass of gulls and cormorants flap and hop about on thele des Landes.

I join a queue of cheerfulFrench folk in dressing gowns and slippers as we wait to wash our dishes in thecommunal facilities. There is a single topic of conversation the gloriousweather. A small, nut-brown man wearing a striped blue-and-white jumper andtiny white shorts pronounces with an air of authority that we are witnessingthe beginning of a long hot summer. We all gaze at him with the reverence thatthe faithful in St Peter's Square might regard the Pope.