After I parked the truck at the Toulon depot, I decided that it was time for a complete change of scene so I caught the ferry to Calvi and 3 hours later I was in Corsica, the home of Napoleon Bonaparte!

I arrived at the Calais depot with half a day to spare. I asked Jacques, the security guard, where the locals went for an afternoon out and he suggested that I visit Touquet, a small coastal town thirty kilometres west of Calais. I’d never heard of the place but he was insistent. He told me that Touquet is the most elegant resort in northern France and the playground of rich Parisians. Curiosity got the better of me and so we collected his girlfriend, Marie-Claude, and set off for the resort known as Paris-by-the-sea.

Few painters are so strongly associated with a single town as Cezanne is with Aix-en-Provence. Cezanne was a painter with an international reputation who rarely left his home town.

I'd been having problems of a personal nature, not the sort of thing that you'd want to tell the world, but I needed to confide in somebody so I dumped my lorry at the Montpelier depot and sought advice from Therese, the purchasing clerk.
She asked me some questions about my diet and when I confessed to frequent visits to McDonalds and several greasy spoons, she offered to buy me a plateful of oysters at a little place she knows in Bouziques, a small town on the shores of the Etang de Thau, a lagoon situated 30 km south-west of Montpelier. How could I refuse?

After the Avignon fiasco, Bob and I were paired up as co- drivers on an urgent widgets delivery via the Channel port of Brest. Because we drove through the night, largely in silence, we were able to make it to Brest with half a day to spare. That left us with ample time to visit the tiny Ile d'Ouessant; a lonely windswept rock barely nine miles from the mainland, situated amidst the giant waves and blistering gales which thrash the Brittany coastline.

Avignon is just about the windiest place I've ever been. When I visited the place you had to wrap up warm and brave the elements in order to stroll along the 12th century St. Bénézet Bridge to the point where it collapsed into the Rhône some three hundred years ago.

I was determined to stop at Monte Carlo when I crawled over the Italian border half-way through my latest job hauling tons of widgets from a Naples factory. I wanted to be someone else. Someone other than a lorry driver on the road 24/7, sleeping in my tiny cab, and hardly able to get a decent picture on my portable black and white telly. I wanted glamour and I was determined to find it in Monaco.

I parked the lorry in the company's Paris depot and after being on the road for three days I needed some peace and quiet. I couldn't face the whole Paris sightseeing thing and yet more noise, fumes and irate people so I asked Marie- Claire in the office where she went to get away from it all. She suggested the Compiègne Forest and offered to drive me there and show me around. How could I refuse?