Things almost got fraught in Prague today. I might have known something was amiss when Babicka said she would get up early to finish her packing. When I presented this morning, ready to leave, she announced that the packing regime for the trip was "simply impossible" and presented a larger case than we'd agreed upon in London. This was a strain on our friendship before we'd travelled a single kilometre together! Not because she wanted more luggage but because she couldn't see my issue. She insisted she'd intended to keep to the agreement, but had been mistaken in thinking she could. 

A male friend would have been informed he was taking the piss at this point - and then decked. As ever, relations between the sexes need to be more nuanced. The mistakes were mine. Firstly in inviting a female to be my travel companion and secondly in expecting her to have good spatial awareness. Perhaps I had been spoiled by travelling so much with Mrs P2, who always packed with verve and economy?

Fortunately, I'd been super-disciplined. My own bag was smaller than the one we'd agreed for her. I managed to fit her larger bag in the available space and her gifts for her grandchildren and medicines into other crannies unused as long as the roof isn't down. As there's no prospect of that with her bags on board, this wasn't a problem. I walked to the parking garage with my bags and came back to collect her - and hers.

The weather was dreadful and the going was slow. We escaped Prague soon enough, but the highway south varies from modern, EU-funded motorway to winding country road, for no apparent reason. The navigation map went red (indicating stationary traffic) several times.

Eventually, we found ourselves on clear roads and started planning a lunch break. We decided – imagining some quaint Czech inn on an ancient square – to lunch in Cesky Krumlov; a UNESCO world-heritage village on our route. It didn't seem keen to encourage this. The signage is so paltry that we drove by and had to retrace our path for 10 miles to get there. Then we discovered WHY there was no signage. Such is demand from coach loads of Asian tourists (mostly Chinese) that the town is crammed. So much so that the authorities are building new roads to steer visitors to massive new car parks from which you can walk to all the heritage. 

Caught up in those works we queued and idled for over an hour to reach the car park for the castle. We pulled in, only for the barrier to stay down and the machine to announce "car park full". This would have been more useful information if viewed from the road, to be honest. We found ourself trapped by other, irate motorists assuming we were somehow incapable of taking a parking ticket.

This was where having a fluent Czech-speaker on board came in handy. Once she extricated herself (not easy as I'd thoughtfully put her as close to the ticket machine as I could) she soon had the others agreeing this was poor design - and backing up to allow us out. Cesky Krumlov is no doubt wonderful, but we'd had enough and headed back to our route. 

We are both on 18:8 intermittent fasting regimes and had agreed to harmonise them so we could eat together. This meant I hadn't eaten for over 24 hours and lunch was a matter of more urgency than usual. I am proud of how calm I stayed during the Cesky Krumlov fiasco, but I was beginning to be hangry! We pulled in at a "saloon" full of Western memorabilia, but which turned out to serve very traditional Czech food. It was late but the charming sole member of staff agreed to cook for us. 

We had one of the best soups I think I have ever had - garlicky and spicy. B. said her mum used to make it and it's a Czech delicacy. Even allowing for hunger being the best sauce, it was wonderful.

Then I had a veal schnitzel and our hostess, remarking that I seemed hungry still, suggested these excellent sweet Czech dumplings with blueberries in them. I was definitely no longer hungry!

During the meal we made such friends with our hostess that we talked about our children and showed each other pictures. She was a hard working young mum in the countryside who reminded me of many girls I'd known growing up in rural Wales. She was visibly flabbergasted by our plans of driving around Europe for fun. She probably never leaves her village.

She came to the road to wave us off as we left.

Back on the road we soon clattered across the abandoned border crossing with Austria. The weather turned nasty again and we could only speculate at the lovely mountains and lakes we were missing in the spray from other vehicles. Nonetheless, I enjoyed the drive. Behind Speranza's wheel while her Modena-crafted V8 is playing fine Italian music is truly my happy place. 

After an uneventful journey through Austria, during which we agreed Czechia's roads aren't so bad after all, we arrived at our Salzburg hotel. B. declared it inadequate (though it's one of the more expensive on our route). Having secured a ticket to the parking garage, I headed off to secure Speranza, leaving her in reception negotiating a better room from the pretty Austrian desk clerk, who had earlier been very patient in dealing with a queue of grumpy old folks from various countries who were drenched and miserable after their various journeys.

Perhaps my proudest achievement of the day was to be the least grumpy of those international elders.

My TrackMyTour map has been updated here.

I set off from Ansbach at 0815 am after an excellent German breakfast. The journey to Prague was predicted to be three hours and forty minutes. I was hoping to arrive in time to have lunch with an old friend and didn't fancy my chances of parking near the restaurant. My plan was to arrive early, leave my car at the underground parking I'd booked near Babicka's apartment and take an Uber to lunch.

The drive through Germany was great. There was some heavy rain as forecast but mostly conditions were perfect. There were occasional road works, which slowed traffic to 80kph, and a few speed-restricted sections of autobahn, but a fair chunk of the run was on unrestricted roads. I didn't go nuts (I never exceeded 182kmh (about 113mph) but in no time at all, I was in the Czech Republic where the generous (by British standards) 81mph limits seemed like a snail's pace.Stopping for fuel and a comfort break on the outskirts, I was in central Prague by 1130am and parked up by noon. Babicka was still at the hospital with her mum, so would't be back until late afternoon. So my other friend and I had a long, leisurely lunch and enjoyed reminiscences of our careers in Central & Eastern Europe. I arrived in Poland in 1992. She arrived in Prague in 1993 so we'd lived through the same experiences of post-Communist revival. She'd also lived in Poland for a while, which is where we got to know each other working on the same deals. 

She's not ready to retire yet, but we discussed her plans down the road. I was surprised to learn they involved leaving Prague and offered some advice about how to plan for it.

When she headed off for a meeting at 1530, I returned to the garage to collect my bags and walk with them to Babicka's flat. She was not home yet, but I had keys and let myself in. It's lovely and I am sorry I missed my opportunity to stay here for a week.

When she eventually returned much conversation ensued - particularly about the cabin baggage only policy for the trip. She was still convinced she could increase Speranza's cargo capacity by arguments about her needs. She expects feminine logic to warp reality. I held firm. I really don't want anything in the cockpit to tempt opportunist thieves. 

A word about my parking arrangements in Prague. I booked them in advance online. The operator has locations around the city centre and they use interesting technology. You're issued with a telephone number, valid for the duration of your contract. No-one answers when you ring it, but the garage doors open. Access was tight, but with care I was able to drive Speranza in (despite her muscular haunches) and install her safely in place.

No new photos today, but the TrackMyTour map has been updated here. Tomorrow, Babicka and I take the road together to our first stop - Salzburg.

I missed a friendly, exuberant email from my French mechanics last night. The work was finished at 9.30pm and the car was ready to collect. I woke early and was happy to read it. I'd booked an Uber for this morning. I was downstairs, checked out and waiting when he arrived 10 minutes early. I was in jolly mood and made the mistake of beginning to chat in French. This earned me compliments on my language skills and a tricky 30 minutes of conversation. Fortunately friends began texting to check on me so I was able to excuse myself before I ran out of my limited vocabulary. 

The car was done and the team was present, smiling and waiting for praise. The charming Melissa showed me a picture of her four year old with a Ferrari, then I paid my bill (and pourboire), packed my cases and set off. Speranza seems fine, though I don't think they've nailed the air-conditioning. It's working, but it's not as cool as it used to be. That can be attended to at the annual service in July. For now, I am just delighted to be up and running. 

I stopped for breakfast in France and was very disappointed. The aire I chose was being refurbished. Nothing much was open and there was nowhere to sit. I bought a sandwich and a drink and broke the "no food in the cockpit" rule as it was raining. Soon I was on the autobahn, driving with unusual caution for me. I wanted to be comfortable that the fix had taken! Pretty soon, I was provoked by lesser cars into giving her some beans. It's amazing how much faster you can drive through Germany than any other European country. It's also amazing, though we must remember that this is a country where you can go to jail for quoting accurate government statistics annoyingly, how free it makes you feel. 

Not that it was flat out all the way. There were plenty of speed-limited sections and many roadworks. Still I made good time, singing along to "Forever Young" and "99 Red Balloons" in weather varying from sunny through overcast to gentle rain. There is a severe weather warning for tomorrow's route, but today was fine. 

It was good roads all the way until I turned off for my hotel. At one point it got quite Hansel and Gretel through darkling woods on single track roads, but soon I was in the clean-to-the-point-of-sterile German countryside wondering if those farms with 100% solar-panelled roofs grew foodstuffs or machine parts. COVID19 must have interfered with the maintenance programme because some of the country roads looked quite bad by German standards. Not UK-bad you understand; with tyre-shredding potholes and undercarriage-wrenching bumps. Just cosmetically bad. Perfectly-smooth, but the patches are visible. 

My hotel is in a little village and gives the appearance of being some local farmer's pet project. It's neat and cleanly-rustic. The lift has a dead-man's switch, which I've never seen before. You have to hold it down to keep it working. The receptionist and I didn't have enough of either language in common to discuss why that was a good idea. "Don't have a stroke on the way to your room", was all I could think as I rode it.

My plan for the morning is to breakfast early, get underway by 8am and drive straight to my parking garage in Central Prague (which foolishly I forgot to reschedule the dates for, so I've paid for an unused week). I shall  leave Speranza there while I head off to lunch with an old friend - a tax partner with one of the Big Four. Sadly my former client with whom we'd also hoped to meet up is in Ireland for the weekend so I will miss out on seeing him. 

Then I shall find my way to Babicka's flat (via the garage to pick up my bags) and settle in for my one night in Prague. On Saturday, it's onwards to Salzburg.

Tonight, having secured my e-vignettes for both Czechia's and Austria's motorways already, I shall watch Netflix and (literally) chill. My room has a view of Speranza and a soundtrack of gentle birdsong.

As planned, today was laundry day. I went out in the morning with a bag of washing, rather than my camera backpack. I was apprehensive about having the right coins and so forth, but remarkably the local laundrette had central wireless control for all its services, complete with contactless payment. The elderly proprietor helpfully talked me through the process in clear and elegant French. 

Every product and device had a number. I typed in the one for washing powder, held up my phone and it dropped from the dispenser. I loaded the washing machine, selected my programme, typed in its number, flashed my phone and was ready to go.

Armed with clean clothes for another six days I returned to the hotel via my favourite Metz brunch spot where I had just one meal for the day.

Back at the hotel I checked my roaming minutes and was happy to find I have many to spare, despite streaming TV shows of an evening. Reassured, I settled down on a rainy afternoon to watch the latest episode of Welcome to Wrexham.

When I was a teenage boy my mum, worried I wasn’t getting on with dad, made him agree to take me to the football. I was a Liverpool fan but he refused to take me there saying that, at 30 miles away in North Wales;

My car’s already parked too close to bloody Anfield!

Rather than pay Scouse scallies running parking protection rackets, he bought season tickets for Wrexham. So I was a fan before it was fashionable. Dad and I followed the club from the old fourth division to the second — during what I now know from the documentary were its glory days. Then I went to university never to return.

Mum’s idea was a good one. Dad got into it and we made happy memories together but once I was off the scene he stopped going. In later years I suggested taking him to a Boxing Day match for old times sake but he replied; 

Wrexham?! I’m better now thanks

He was bemused by the club becoming a global phenomenon because of the documentary. I showed him an episode and it did nothing for him. I however am oddly moved by it and by the the theme song an American fan has written for it;

Don't forget where you came from
Don't forget what you're made of
The ones who were there
When no one else would care

I studied French at A level fifty years ago. The only lines of French poetry that have stuck in my mind all those years are these;

Les sanglots longs des violons de l’automne blessent mon coeur d’une langeur monotone. 

It’s from Chanson d’automne by Paul Verlaine, who was born — I found out this week — in Metz. I visited his birthplace; an unassuming apartment building near the Palais de Justice. It wasn’t open so I didn’t go inside. Interestingly, given the 80th anniversary of D-Day currently being celebrated, those lines were broadcast by the Allies to signal the imminent landings to the French Resistance.

My first conversation with the late Mrs P. was on that A level course. Her father later told me I'd made quite an impression. She was the star student and teachers pet. I was comme çi, comme ça — I eventually scored a C. She was infuriated by my dominance in the conversation classes and protested too much about me to her family for the importance of the grievance.

I’ve been expecting to see you for some time,

her father wryly observed, when first I met him. 

The teacher whose pet she was, was a cynical careerist. He later escaped the boredom he never bothered to conceal by becoming Director of Education for our County Council. It was not he who introduced us to Verlaine and Rimbaud (who had a passionate romantic affair in their youth). That fell to a prudish lady whom I teased with constant sly references to the affair. In the 1970s teachers had not yet been trained to praise and promote homosexuality. The poor lady loved their poems and — blushing furiously — defended their “honour” from my insinuations.

A more influential teacher for me was an eccentric who took his three best male pupils to France every year in his Renault 4. My worst enemy, a friend and I qualified when we were 12. After inviting our parents over to meet his wife (and thus be reassured) it was he who took me to France for the first time. It was my first visit abroad. We camped our way down to the Loire Valley and its chateaux — and back.

I remember being impressed by the flying buttresses of Chartres Cathedral and the beauty of the Château de Chenonceau. From the Eiffel Tower in Paris we looked down to watch him be arrested for sunbathing shirtless while he waited for us. Skin cancer was no more discussed than gayness back then. He sunbathed constantly to maintain his nut brown tan. Quite a character, who wouldn’t last ten minutes in suspicious modern times, but a good teacher who believed in what he did.

I wonder what influence these teachers had on my eventual international career — all unforeseen then in rural Wales. As I sit in the lawyers’ quarter of Metz I’m pretty sure they didn’t know France’s legal system differs more profoundly from ours than its language does.

Given a year living here, language would not be a problem. I love the lifestyle, good manners and culture. However I’d miss the organic, bottom-up nature of English Common Law and the way it informs our attitudes. Abolish Parliament, repeal every statute made by our politicians and within five years we’d once more have the best legal system in the world, grown organically in the soil of our everyday experiences.

We have humble courts of law. They have palaces of “justice” (yes those are sneer quotes). Our laws grew like mushrooms. Theirs are gifts from on high for people to submit to gratefully (or evade). Just as Shariah is a gift from Allah, so Civil Code is a gift from Ancient Rome, rewrapped by Bonaparte. You can build a civilisation on it — they have and I am fond of it — but I couldn’t breathe their legal air for long.

One good reason to leave the EU was to prevent more generations of our politicians being infected with the pompous self-importance of theirs. It may take decades to get our MPs back to humility, but our future depends on it.

Before returning to my hotel to process photos and blog, I had lunch at La Bistro de la Cathedrale, TripAdvisor top pick for Metz. I had my most substantial meal for days and thoroughly enjoyed it, staying on afterwards to enjoy a Ricard in the sunshine.   

My album of Metz photos has been updated.

Fair play to the AA. They extended my hotel booking as promised and confirmed by text message. I was happy to be spared a wait on the line to their call centre and headed out earlier than I’d hoped,

Today I was less fortunate in my choice of breakfast café. Still, a baguette and jam will do the trick, washed down with a morning cappuccino. During breakfast the devis (estimate) arrived from Speranza’s workshop. The journey-stopping repair is incredibly cheap. They also offered to fix the air conditioning, which I was going to leave to the annual service.  I agreed as long as it didn’t delay completion and I’m glad I did as — although that’s a much more expensive item — I’m sure it’s cheaper than in London. It will make for a more comfortable ride as we head South next week.

I signed and returned the devis as requested and promised a 10% pourboire in cash if she’s fixed on schedule. The French present as less materialistic than us but the goddess of the market responds reliably to such offerings in my experience. At any rate, the nice lady receptionist emailed this afternoon to say a mechanic will work Wednesday evening to be sure the job is done on time.

After dealing with these matters at my breakfast table, I set off to the cathedral and this time ventured inside. The vaulted ceiling is one of Europe’s highest and the stained glass is superb. I’ve added more pictures to my album.

I still have no religious faith. The more of my loved ones I lose, the more I wish I could believe again. I’d like to think Mr P. Senior is making peace with his dad and perhaps even the late Mrs P. right now (if he can get a word in now her mum has joined her). He was such a good man. My own mother would love to see him again. I never found a wife who wanted 67 years with me, still less one who thought it insufficient! He was as much nicer than me as my grandad was tougher. When young, I hoped to combine their virtues but genetics just don’t work that way.

The late Mrs P. became a Catholic in her final year. When I visit their cathedrals (my Catholic friend, the Navigator, reckons Henry VIII’s theft doesn’t count so they’re all their cathedrals) I light a candle for her. She wasn’t fond of road trips but, graduate in French that she was, she loved this country and would have enjoyed Metz. It’s 13 years since she passed away but lunching in a French square brings her back. She’d have looked for ways to demonstrate her mastery of the subjunctive. Then she’d have edited this post. You may have noticed the blog is wordier since she departed.

I wandered into the Old Town and found a pavement restaurant of which she might have approved. Then, because that silver lining must be pursued, I made menu choices she’d have vetoed. I’ve been slowly losing weight on my intermittent fasting regime, despite making less rigourous meal choices than I did on my 50kg megadiet of 2018. As long as I’m punching a new hole in my belt every month or so, I’m not going to worry about the rate of loss.

After lunch, I headed back to my hotel to process photos and write this, pausing en route for a Ricard. I like it generally as a Summer drink, but it tastes better in France.

Practical consequences of my delays will kick in soon. To make space for Babička’s luggage, I restricted myself to a carry-on and my clean clothes are running out. I’d expected to be in Prague with access to a washing machine. My hotel has no laundry service so some of Wednesday will be spent in a local launderette.

We aim to set a cracking pace from Prague to make an appointment Babička has in Provence so there’ll be no time en route. A Wednesday wash should see me through to her daughter’s in-laws’ French home where she’ll meet her new granddaughter next week. I hope my mechanics deliver so I can be a witness to that tender moment. I envy none of my friends' successes or possessions, but I confess to being jealous of their grandchildren. 

“Breakfast near me” typed into Google Maps this morning yielded several better prospects than yesterday’s mediocre fare in my hotel. I was delighted with my choice — a brunch spot favoured by young French families. The only disadvantage was it made me feel old! Polite young children sang along quietly to the English pop music in the background and were generally delightful. I’m pretty sure they’d no idea what they were singing, but then neither did their parents so only I got to be amused. I’d have been delighted to be a grandad at any of their tables.

The late Mrs P. and I braved disapproving fellow diners on many occasions in England by taking the Misses P to restaurants when they were little. They learned how to behave and never once showed us up. One proud parenting moment was at the old River Room at the Savoy. If daggers looks involved real daggers we’d have been acupunctured to death as we were shown to our table. Our girls behaved with perfect decorum however (just like the young French children this morning, who brought the story to mind) and we had a lovely family meal.

Before we called for the bill the Italian leader of the band providing live background music came over to chat to the girls He was surprised to find we were English. He said we looked just like a family in Italy and that it was “lovely to see” — for the first time in all the years he'd played at The Savoy. I still think it's a mistake for parents (and society in general) to assume young children are too barbaric for polite society. They don't have to be. 

I adjourned to a nearby park to take photos, catch up on messaging and read the Sunday Telegraph and my usual blogs on my iPad. I sighed to see there was a children’s playground. In London a lone elderly man (especially one with a camera) would trigger suspicious gazes. The French families today were stereotypically insouciant as I sat on a bench nearby.

French privacy laws make street photography (ironically pioneered by their greatest photographer, Cartier-Bresson; whose most famous photos would now be forbidden) illegal. I was careful to respect a law I despise by ensuring any human subjects were unidentifiable figures in the frame.

I think my desire to obey laws is one of the reasons I’m a libertarian. People with looser attitudes to compliance may worry less about 3,000+ crimes per Parliament being created (as happened under New Labour).

I used to ask people how many of those new crimes they could name. No one ever knew more than one; hunting with hounds. Others included entering a nursery school without prior appointment, which must be broken regularly by grandparents stepping in when a parent is delayed. However well intended those new crimes were (and most were just pointless propaganda to make the government seem "active" and “caring”), it’s not good to make the perfect knowledge of law assumed by our courts even more of a legal fiction.

Not least because it undermines respect for Law itself. A few laws based on commonly-accepted moral principles and rigorously and reliably enforced are the way to build respect for Law. The alternative makes lawyers rich but I can see no other benefit.

That said, I note the current British election campaign turns once again on the stupidest question of all — "what can government do for me?" The answer, if you’re not an apparatchik or on benefits, is “***k you and take most of your earnings.” That, however, is a lesson not yet learned.

Keir Starmer is keen to add 1.5 million new voters aged 16 and 17 to the electorate, precisely because they'll have learned no economic lessons at all. One wonders why anyone ever thought it a good idea to put our children's education in the hands of parasites who profit from voter ignorance. It would certainly account for why Starmer is also keen to drive more future voters into state education.

Not one party in this election proposes less government and fewer laws. Not one. Unless something changes (I hope it does because both my grandads volunteered to defend my right to do so) I shall for the first time in my life not vote. Even when I lived abroad I voted every time by proxy until I lost the right to do so. The Conservatives are authoritarian statist socialists with no respect for individual freedom. So of course are Labour, but at least they're honest about it. Given a choice between thieves and lying thieves, I'm not inclined to express an opinion.

After being brought down by such political reflections while reading my newspaper and blogs, I set off again in holiday mood to take photographs. I headed to the plan d'eau de Metz, a kind of leisure-boating marina. I'd forgotten about my intermittent fasting regime and found myself not having lunched with minutes to go. The few restaurants that were open on a Sunday had closed by 2.30pm, so I grabbed a beer and an ice-cream at a place which – it transpired – sadly lacked a loo. Like many gents of my age, this is now a matter of more concern than it used to be. I swiftly followed the directions given by the ice-cream vendeuse and found myself in a queue. A clever automated public WC performed an impressive cleansing so thorough each time that it took longer than the typical visitor! Fortunately, I was spared embarrassment and continued my waterside walk in happier mood.

I'd planned to call an Uber to return as I did yesterday. When I checked the distance however, I realised I'd walked in something of a circle and was less than half a mile from my hotel. In consequence, though I'd planned to walk a little less than yesterday, I ended up covering the same modest distance. I enjoyed the walk more today. Partly because I'd left my tripod and lighting gear in the hotel to lighten my load. Mainly because I was more confident I could handle it. 

My album of photos has been updated if you’re interested.

I awoke this morning in the most dilapidated surroundings I have seen since I foolishly booked my family into a Communist-era holiday cabin in Mazuria in 1993. I shall spare you the details, gentle reader, and simply remember how grateful I was to have somewhere to be last night after a stressful day. My room was, in hotel industry jargon, "tired" (I might say exhausted). It was a third floor (US fourth floor) walk up, but had a magnificent view of a town hall far too grand for a little town with no taxis. 

The AA was scheduled to call me by 1030 to report what the workshop had to say about Speranza. After coffee and croissants, I spoke to Babička in Prague to let her know my situation then waited as patiently as my natural disposition permits for a call I did not expect to receive. I called them when they didn't call me and after holding for 15 minutes eventually spoke to a nice young Frenchman who said he would call the garage.

It's as well I didn't manage to get there yesterday to pick up my bags as it turned out the car was not even there yet. It's expected by 3pm and then they will look at it. Realistically this means there's no chance of a fix until Monday, so I asked them to book me an hotel near the garage to be at hand to pick her up when she's ready. I was clearly in for a weekend in rural France. Worse things have happened to a chap. All this was eating into my planned week in Prague but I could still hope to rendezvous with Babička and continue with the tour from there  

The issue with taxis remained the same this morning. Uber failed. A local taxi with online reservations said its site was undergoing maintenance and referred me to Uber. So I resorted to asking my hotel to call a cab the old-fashioned way. Finally this worked and by noon I was en route to the village of Labry, which made sleepy Verdun seem a metropolis.

The garage was closed for lunch and there was no sign of Speranza. I adjourned to a nearby bar-tabac to wait. This was real old school. No food and lots of tobacco smoke to mask my dressed-yesterday scent. It might almost be 1970 where I sat and waited, were it not for the price of the biere! To be honest, I don't remember what I was paying for beer in 1970, but by London standards the two I had were cheap at €5 the pair! 

As I nursed my beers, a nice French lady called from the AA. She said there were no hotels in Labry and was worried about me being isolated all weekend. She proposed an hotel in Metz, where at least I could explore on foot. This would take me, if not my car, closer to Germany and provide me with a weekend in a town I’ve never visited. I could recover my camera with the rest of my baggage and do some photography as planned — just not in the intended city. She then texted confirmation of my reservation at the Hotel du Théatre, eight hundred yards from the famous cathedral.

I also heard from friends in Prague proposing lunch on Wednesday. I updated them on my situation and proposed Friday instead. 

When the garage opened the car had still not arrived. I explained my plan to recover my bags and settled down with a sandwich jambon I’d bought from the boulangerie across the road. In buying it, I’d had one of those ultra-polite French conversations that makes one wonder where the English reputation for good manners ever came from. The nice lady’s sincere good wishes for my enjoyment of my simple lunch  contributed a lot to said enjoyment. As did the concern of the lady receptionist at the workshop who plied me with coffee and water while I waited, reading “Les reves de tractor girl” in a 2012 edition of Gazoline magazine.

If you think I’m nuts driving an old Ferrari to Prague, her epic drive on a 1970s tractor from Holland to the South Pole via Eastern Europe and Africa should bring me back into the ranks of the (relatively) sane. At the time of the article she was still en route but I checked her out on Wikipedia and she made it! Inspiring. She did it as "performance art" and to raise money for a charity.

Speranza duly arrived in the care of the charming rascal who'd recovered us yesterday and then dropped me off in Verdun knowing full well I should have brought my bags. I bade him a cheery au revoir and then corrected myself to "adieu". This was a reasonably successful joke in French apparently as everyone laughed.

The problem is not as serious as it might have been. Three bearings on the alternator had fused and seized throwing off the drive belt. It was a fix they could easily manage. I found it difficult to discuss timing with them. As always difficult questions required better French! I called the AA and after waiting 20 minutes got them to translate. For an extra €50 I could accelerate the parts delivery from two weeks to two days. She could then be fixed and back on the road by Thursday, allowing me to make it to Prague by Friday evening - just in time to pick up Babička and set off on the second phase of the tour together on Saturday. So instead of a week photographing Prague, which I have done before, I shall have a week photographing Metz, which I haven't. Not so bad really.

This plan agreed and the extra €50 authorised, I summoned an Uber to take me to Metz. By 5pm, I was in my room with all my luggage. Once this blog post is done, I shall be taking advantage of the rather nice bathroom in my hotel to freshen up.

The TrackMyTour update is here if you're interested. 

I woke an hour before my 5am alarm and decided I’d had enough sleep. The weather was bad so I thought I’d make an early start. The drive to Folkestone was uneventful and the heavy rain promised didn’t show up. I had never visited the main Eurotunnel terminal before as I had always bought the Flexiplus+ ticket to have more options on return dates and times. As this is a one way ticket, it didn’t seem worth the money just to have breakfast in the (admittedly much nicer) Flexiplus+ lounge.

The quality of a full English breakfast varies inversely with the quantity of alien elements introduced. Sure enough mine had hash browns and baked beans and was disgusting. It was almost as if the British Council had set out to please French tourists by reinforcing their prejudices about our food.

I am intermittent fasting on a 16/8 cycle so no dinner for me today. That’s sad as I’m staying at my favourite hotel in Champagne, which has a superb restaurant. I may in due course need to adjust my cycle to allow for dinners, but I hate setting off on an empty stomach so will try to stick to the plan for a while. 

I arrived too late for lunch but they took pity on me (I’ve been staying here since before the young man who showed me to my room was born) and rustled up a chicken club sandwich to accompany my Ricards in the afternoon sun.

Absent a woman in my life to remind me, of course I set off without sunblock and — having driven with the roof down for a couple of hundred miles — am a good visual answer to the question “why do Australians call Brits ‘pommies’ (short for pomegranates)?” This won’t be an issue when I get to the warmer parts of this trip, as once my companion - let’s code name her “Babička” as the founding mission of this trip is to drive her to meet her new granddaughter in France – is on board with her luggage it will be no longer possible to drive with the roof down.

Babička will be on board from Prague to Provence. I may resume my pomegranating on my solo run from Provence to Spain for the ferry home. Meanwhile, here’s the route so far.

Tomorrow — on to Ansbach. 

I set out in Speranza (my 2009 Ferrari California) on May 21st to drive to Cannes via Luxembourg, Germany, Switzerland and Italy. Regular readers will recall it was quite an adventure. Speranza made it to Germany, where her brakes failed at 150mph on an autobahn. Exciting but not injurious — save to wallet and pride. 

I continued my journey in hire cars after she was recovered to the nearest dealer back in Luxembourg, where she remained until last Monday — almost two months!

The carbon ceramic brake disk that cracked is a “lifetime” item. It’s quite possible — as my car is approaching 100,000 miles — that I was the first customer ever to require a replacement. Many owners have a collection of several Ferraris with less mileage in aggregate than Speranza. She is a rarity for having been used as designed; a grand tourer, taken on grand tours. I can easily imagine Maranello having to order a pair of the disks from the manufacturer. For whatever reason, it took weeks.

Then diagnostics revealed two more issues. A worn wheel bearing needed replacing — another wait for parts. And a software update mandated by Maranello caused an engine sensor to fail. Fortunately that only required a software patch to fix – after yet another delay by Ferrari. If the responsiveness of their parts department reflects that of the Formula One team, it's no wonder no Ferrari since Speranza was built has been entitled to the "Constructors' Champion" badge she bears on her dashboard.

I flew to Luxembourg last Monday to collect her. I’ve put on a lot of weight post-COVID and post-WEXIT (my name — Wife Exit— for my divorce). Heathrow seemed bigger than I remembered and I was exhausted by I got to my plane. Sulking in metaphorical tents is good for neither physical nor mental health.

Public transport goes from not quite where you are to not quite where you want to be via places you've no desire to go. It was great to get back to independent private transport for the return journey. I must remember what that plane trip felt like though. In my heyday I flew several times a month and never once felt like that. It was quite a shock. If I’m to enjoy my remaining life, I clearly need to take better care of myself. 

I was unsure how I'd feel about driving Speranza after the late unpleasantness. I was done with the dealer within 90 minutes of landing so found myself with an afternoon to kill before dinner with my friends. So I drove out along the Moselle Valley towards Germany and enjoyed the wine country scenery. Monday was a bad day to do it. All restaurants and all but one of the vineyards were closed. I managed to buy some "thank you" wine for my host and then spent an hour at a view point overlooking the river. It was probably only 80 km or so, but by the end of it I was completely at ease with Speranza again. She was a joy – as she has been for most of the almost 90,000 miles I've driven her.

Arriving late afternoon at my friend's house, we had a glass before the other dinner guest arrived; a mutual Russian acquaintance from when I was my friend's bank's lawyer in Moscow. We spent a pleasant evening chatting in a delightful restaurant. We sadly remembered a time when we all thought – with what now seems foolish optimism – that Russia was becoming a normal country.

Our Russian friend has left his country. Having passed his language and other tests, he's waiting for his Luxembourg passport to come through. Russia doesn't do dual citizenships, so then he won't technically be Russian any more. He made no complaint, but talked cheerfully and knowledgeably about a wide range of subjects. Still, I felt for him. During twenty years as an expatriate I often enough missed my home culture. How much worse to be, not expatriated, but exiled?

The war in Ukraine has terrible consequences – and not just for the Ukrainians. As the truth slowly dawned on international investors, few of the Russian lawyers I trained to do such businesss were using those skills even before the war began. Now, it seems vanishingly unlikely that they ever will. They and the other citizens of one of the world's great cultures are suffering – as so often – because of the corruption at the heart of their polity.

I've no sympathy at all for the evil and/or clinically-insane Russian leadership. At the risk of being de-banked by some half-wit with the political understanding of a sixth-former, I do feel for the Russian people. They can't all decamp to Luxembourg.