French trip: part deux
Whilst we were camping out in the carpark of Eurodisney, I had a discussion with my parents about where we should go next. I pointed out that I wouldn't stay for more than two weeks as i had (ehem) to write up my thesis, and thus we should head for one of the european cities where I could fly back easily from via one of the internet plane companies. I wasn't terribly keen on France, to be honest, I had originally wanted to go to somewhere like Lake Garda in north Italy, or Portugal, or Provence in the South of France, I've never seen the Mediterranean. but my Dad showed high reluctance to drag the winnebago through what he considered to be very ardous journies. he didn't want to go to Italy, as the only straightforward way would have been to cut through Switzerland, and he had a few bones to pick with switzerland, as they charge you every time you drive into the country. And he didn't want to drive around Switzerland, as the journey would have taken far too long. Portugal was out of the question, it was far too far away, and besides which he was avoiding Spain at the moment, with all what is going on there at the moment (she says vaguely). And Provence was too far as well, plus he had been there before, and he complained that it was all narrow winding twisty roads over there, and some truck or van had scraped the side of the winnebago the last time he went.
So where then?
Paris? my mother suggested.
Paris? No! I've been there like three times already. And the last time I went with this asshole of a guy who kept on making fun of me in a nasty out to humiliate way (OK, I thought we were friends before i made the mistake of going out there with him), so I have no fond memories of Paris.

So where?
I then said, well lets go to the beach! i've always found cities to be boring and touristy, and I've always found the sound of the sea calming and therapeutic. I whipped out my map with all the locations in which the plane company Buzzaway.com fly from, and there, the most logical location to go to was La Rochelle. my parents naturally pass through Calais all the time, but surprisingly enough haven't travelled much further south along the coast from there, preferring instead to head north into Belgium and Holland. I didn't want to stress my dad out either, and the route to La Rochelle looked pretty straightforward.

So thus it was decided, and at the late hour of noon on the Sunday, the winnebago trundled off in a southwesterly direction.
It rained. and then it shone. and then it rained. and then it shone. and then it rained some more. My dad is one of those slow careful drivers, so it took two days to reach La Rochelle. I spent most of the time in the caravan looking out of the window and into fields. Fields of corn, fields of sunflowers, all looking up at the sun and when the sun went down all their heads drooped down. stopping for lunch in some stopping place or some nondescript village, and then spending the night in the carpark of some motorway service station.

on the first day of the journey we stopped in this small town, the name of which I cannot for the life of me remember. I do however, remember that it has a cathedral.
It was absolutely bucketing down, and I was reluctant to leave the caravan. But my dad was tired, and they went out for a meal at McDonalds, and then had a walk around the town. I was convinced there was nothing to see in this town, so I stayed in the caravan. Some time later they returned, and I asked my brother what the cathedral was like. To my surprise my brother said that it was very nice. my brother is usually very critical of things generally, being 13 and all. and as my parents looked in no hurry to make a move with it still raining, and i was now restless from sitting in the caravan, and being a sucker for big grand ol' cathedrals, I went to check it out.