Image: Alec VuijlstekeAny tedium felt on the long trip through France, from shores of the Med to Calais, is relieved by both the dramatic changes in landscape and the fascinating reference points offered by the signposts passed en route.
Behind the wheel, my interest is predominantly guided by the need to reach B from A, or C from A with a stop at B along the way.
My first night news editor in Fleet Street, often a rottweiler in the office but always the personification of charm off duty, has a similar outlook.
A keen francophile, he would revert to stern nocturnal ways on his own treks south towards Provence and bark at repeated suggestions from his travelling companion that perhaps they might stop.
I can see both points of view. Our own route this time took us west over to Montpellier, then up through the Massif Central and beyond for an overnight halt with family in my city-in-law, Le Mans.
Montpellier is a pleasant city, but getting round it is bad enough without considering a pause there. The Millau Bridge is a magnificent spectacle, even if Jacques Chirac neglected at the official opening to recognise the British role in creating that magnificence, but we had stopped to take photographs and take in the scenery a few months earlier. A little admiration of bridges goes a long way.
After leaving behind Clermont-Ferrand and heading west towards Tours, the route alongside the Loire gets close enough to such gems as Blois, Bourges and Amboise to test anyone's resolve to press on.
And after the overnight stop, the onward road north to the Channel takes in cheese - wonderful, smelly Livarot (pictured above) - and historic embroideries (the Bayeux Tapestry), not to mention the basilica of Sainte-Thérèse at Lisieux and the nicer parts of the North Sea coastline such as the Falaises, or cliffs, of Etretat.
The thing about France is that you almost always know you are passing somewhere known for something. The signs tell you so, loudly enough to induce feelings of guilt if you steel yourself to whiz by regardless.
Driving north in England at the weekend, I was as usual reassured by the better class of village and town name you encounter using the A1 as opposed to M1. Leave aside the delights of Stamford and Knaresborough, and the steaming, stunning beauty of the Ferrybridge power station, and there is a procession of villages and small towns with such names as Great Stukeley and Little Stukeley (though just "The Stukeleys" on the signs), Bawtry, Darrington, Knottingley, Garforth, Wetherby, Knaresborough, Boroughbridge and many more I have forgotten but always enjoy seeing on each trip.
But what happens when you pass Stilton? Or Melton Mowbray? No mention of cheese here; no reference to pork pies there. It seems a dire case of neglected opportunity on the part of the relevant authorities.
French communes don't miss a trick when trying to lure people to their areas; we seem unaware of the potential advantages of bothering. Unless our council worthies just feel most British motorists are so dead set on heading for their destinations that they would take unkindly to distractions.
And I suppose I wouldn't want too many people knowing what a treasure Reeth is. I might never again get my room at the Middle House (whose real name I shall not signpost here).
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