Ayway, there we were, the two of us - and a dog - in the van heading toward Sheffield. I was leaving Cumbria behind - probably not for the last time in a physical sense - but leaving it in spirit, certainly. This was the start of one of my life's great adventures. First though I had to get past Sheffield. An appointment at the Princess Anne Spinal injuries unit at the Northern General Hospital lay in wait. I hadn't felt well for nearly two months. Several telephone conversations with one of the consultants had taken place as he directed my consultations with the local GP. These attempts to resolve my difficulties had seemed to be working and the problems I had been challenged by had seemed to be resolving themselves. Latterly, I had been taking anti-inflammatory drugs for a recurrent swelling in my left knee - the result of tearing the cruciate ligaments nearly a year earlier during a failed "transfer". These had seemed to help but as I'd only felt a little better during the past two days I wasn't getting my hopes up. With my usual gloomy, nursing based philosophy, I had myself dying of cancer, loosing a leg or being consumed by a nasty, progressive spinal syrinx.

We had to set off early in the day to ensure the five hour drive got us there in time for a 1.30 appointment. Cumberland was bathed in frosty sunshine as we headed off along the A595 toward Ulverston through some of England's finest scenery, though my thoughts were darkly pre-occupied by the funeral arrangements I'd have to set in place from my deathbed in the Northern General. At least I'd done a ‘Will' to minimize the problems my family would face if my fears were founded. To add to my ill founded, near neurotic gloom, we were soon smothered in fog as we left Lakeland behind and sped down through Lancashire on the M6. The fog thickened as we followed the route along the M61 then up and over the busy Peak District roads into Yorkshire and I had to take care not to get too close to the fender in front. If I wasn't too careful one slip might preclude the need for concern over a diagnostic disaster when confronted by the doctor.

Anyway, one kidney x-ray, one ultra sound scan and one lecture from the doctor later (on my 15 stone frame and the problems that such a girth can create) and we were on our way. In essence, my cruciate cartilages tear had inflamed causing swelling and pain (of which I was unaware apart from the increased spasms). In tandem with this a virus had made me feel weak and an inner ear problem had thrown (literally) my balance to add to the problem. For those reasons I had felt quite ill and dizzy (when I moved my head - I should have known it was the ear) for a few weeks.

Three thirty then and we're off. Seventy and a smile down the M1 toward the Chunnel. Better than that, the new consultant informed me that my concerns over a growing syrinx were unfounded. Why - because I never had one!  I had originally been told I had the cystic beginnings of a syrinx. Panic, fear and then seven years of quiet anxiety follow as I wait for the possibility of matters getting progressively worse. But was now I'm told that yes, indeed I had a problem - but it was not dissimilar to the syrinx formation every paraplegic in the country has as the body tries to heal a severe lesion. Relief? It took most of the rest of the trip to France to realize that I'd been given the, ‘all clear', by the doctors!

Our Chunnel crossing was booked for 10.50pm to give us time to get down to Dover from Sheffield. Stopping at Ashford we took in a ‘Kentucky' and fries (a rarity as we live a long way from the nearest take away food at home), which was surprise, surprise - good! We reached Dover at 9pm but had to wait for the late train. I displayed my usual brilliant driving skills by reversing into the disabled sign and splitting the Vito's plastic rear fender. I never did see the guy who moved it toward the van either! Another coffee and we were off. Its great, half an hour and you're the other side of La Manche (the sleeve). On this occasion though it was 12.45 French time and too late to make it worth booking into a hotel. In truth we'd thought the better of stopping anyway as we had ten hours driving ahead and wanted to get to our base as soon as possible. Setting up a ‘wintered' caravan takes time and care and preferably daylight.

Driving through the night in France is much less daunting than in England. The roads are quieter, well sign posted and relatively new. The only problem I've encountered is using the payages or tolls. Because our car is right and drive its not easy to get over to the unmanned toll booths. Anyway, we had chosen the coastal route leading down from Calais toward Caen, then past Le Mans and down the A20 to Bordeaux. We alternate our trips between this and the slightly shorter route through Paris where the ‘Peripherique' can be very busy at peak times.

The night drifted on and come two thirty we just had to stop. Tiredness was starting to get the better of me and my eyes were closing. The Somme services were quiet and I tried to get some shuteye. An hour later I gave up - Turney seats don't recline, so sleeping bolt upright can be problematic, even with a pillow and duvet. Off we went again. The services are well spaced all the way through France and relatively quiet, so I knew I could stop again if needed. The mist and fog swept across the ghostly landscape throughout the night testing my concentration to the maximum. By four o'clock I had to stop again. This time though, I crashed (no pun intended) completely but was wide-awake again exactly one hour later. Refreshed, I pulled on the hand-controlled accelerator and headed south.

So, in the past forty eight hours I'd had no more than six hours sleep but Bordeaux was only two hours away by now so I started to cheer a little. Allison kept me awake throughout the night asking me to remember things - French verbs and male and female nouns for example, though getting my few brain cells to work, as well as stay awake, was perhaps asking too much. By six thirty the sun began to rise on a calm misty February morning. Friday in France and the car temperature gauge struggled up toward 0c barely lifting the mist above the trees.

Soon we were heading inland toward Bergerac in the Lot ET Garonne. The bright, clear sky offered us our first glimpses of the Chateaux and vineyards that follow the Garonne river inland. By 1pm we were heading down toward Villereal, our destination.

The caravan was set up in a couple of hours: water, gas, Sat TV running and friends visited for a quick chat before retreating for an early night.

Saturday morning in Villereal is market morning. By 9am the hundred or so stall-holders who line the town centre bring the old Bastide town, with it's covered market square and cobbles, alive. We're only just wakening as the town busies itself but a shower, a coffee and a three kilometer ‘wheel' and I'm seated at my favorite spot in the café Moderne, watching the hustle and bustle and looking out for our friends. Mac, my dogs gone in with me but Allison has parked the van outside the market area and I've left him watch the world through the Vito windows. There's too much action around the market for a big dog and he can get a little restless so he's better out of the way. It's showing 18c on the chemists wall thermometer display so I'm relaxing in the gentle warmth of a winter morning and sipping a ‘grande crème' (a large white coffee). I bask in the sunshine as friends and stallholders greet each other with ‘bonjours' and kisses. What a life!