Above the Sea of Fog

We stroll through Veules-les-Roses, one of the most beautiful villages in France, and get to know the Veules. The shortest river in France originates in this town and flows into the English Channel after barely a kilometer.

Zappa reveals many of the half-timbered beams in the village, identifying them as painted fake props, which slightly detracts from the picturesque romance.

We have been searching for a spot for lunch for quite some time, after all, it's noon again. Preferably with a sea view since we are already at the English Channel.

However, the only option is directly above the gigantic construction site for a new nuclear power plant. We could overlook that, but the infernal noise prevents any conversation, aside from a well-deserved siesta.

After what feels like hours and countless kilometers, we rest by the edge of the forest, free of any view, but full of silence and relaxation until the rumbling and crashing of an approaching storm drives us further.

I am in a bad mood again, grumbling irritably and wanting to go to the Alps. Damn the over a thousand kilometers!

The hero once again has good advice: we will now only check out places we know from the last tour. Hoping they are still accessible.

So we take a wide detour around Le Havre and Caen and enjoy the happy end of the day with a sensational sunset in glowing red colors in a parking lot with a magnificent view.

The first sun rays of the next morning are quickly driven away by a thick wall of fog creeping in from the northwest, relentlessly approaching our Bellevue.

Not half an hour later, we are enveloped by damp mist clouds that obscure all view of the Atlantic.

I practice calmness and equanimity. I have booked a sea view; I will not let a random wet and cold precipitation take that away from me.

Suddenly, a caravan of stuffed vanlifers drops in. Two Austrian couples pull huge fabric bundles and thick backpacks out of their vans and pile up their stuff around one of the picnic tables. The guys then properly remove their cars from the access to our parking lot since the installed beam only allows vehicles up to 1.90m tall to pass through.

Thus, there is enough room for the next buses. In no time, the area is littered with colorful, voluminous fabric bags and an international crowd.

Of course, an unmistakable sign informs that ideal conditions prevail at this spot to take off with paragliders.

I find it a bit strange since you can't see a thing today. The fog continues to envelop us in damp, cold waves. No breeze is blowing, and the community that has specially traveled here notices that too.

The Austrians have set up their headquarters, continuously checking the wind conditions on their phones and observing the Swiss paraglider students with grim expressions. Meanwhile, they set up a Viking chess game between the football goals and let the sticks fly.

The French, on their part, play boules and toss boomerangs. Everyone keeps a strict eye on the multi-nosed dog pack to control any uncontrollable reproduction.

The whole morning is alive with colorful activity and is extremely entertaining.

Only the wind and the view are missing.

Around noon, there is a slight sense of unease; phones are repeatedly consulted, and signs of air movement are sought in the fog.

The Austrians remain in their tower on alert, the Swiss lay down exhausted in the green grass, and the French fetch baguettes and cheese from their mobile kitchens, settling down for lunch.

The dogs sneak off unattended into the bushes at the far end of the lot.

Just as I want to crawl into my den for a nap, a surprised exclamation sounds. In many languages, it resonates joyfully: Wind! Now it's starting, now action comes to the crowd. Suddenly, it's windy, and the warm sun pushes through the mist.

The Austrians wait skeptically and observe the situation from their base camp. The French are already in the air, gliding along the coast a few hundred meters away.

The Swiss flight students take their canopies on their backs and stand on the slope.

A wiry white-haired man in snappy leather pants tries to jump around them in annoyance. Unfortunately, just at that moment, a lull causes his glider to collapse. No problem, the Swiss all pitch in, and soon the Bavarian is majestically up and away. He knows how to fly.

We finally have a view of the sea, and colorful canopies are everywhere. What a pleasure that must be.

We gather our things; we want to continue our journey today. Our destination is the Marais du Cotentin; let's see how the tranquility in the marsh is.

At the stork ruins, we are greeted by countless large birds. We try to count them; there must be over a hundred.

Incredible! And here, too, they majestically soar through the air.

The clattering rocks us to sleep until the storks go to bed late at night and the frogs brave the loud croaking from their hiding places.