No day like any other

Day 4: Last night I thought we had the queen stage, the most difficult part of our journey, behind us. Tonight I think I should stop thinking. Today was not for the faint of heart. We left earlier than ever before. Our goal of crossing the Spanish border today even got my Icke out of bed - without any other action on my part. We also had a wonderfully quiet night behind us. We were able to refill our water supplies and dispose of the rubbish at the pitch in Aigueperse.

With the feeling that “nothing can stop us now,” I turned the engine key and drove off towards Clermont-Ferrand. The navigation system showed us a traffic jam just 15 kilometers ahead on the A89 motorway. Six minutes delay – that was bearable. After 15 kilometers there was no sign of a traffic jam and I mentally clapped my hands because just five kilometers further we would be on the A75. Unfortunately nothing came of it. The driveway was closed.

We had to stay on the A89, at least that's what our navigation system said, as it had calculated a detour for us. After two kilometers there was a toll station. We had to pay what we had been able to avoid so far, our navigation system was programmed accordingly. After 21 kilometers - in the opposite direction to where we actually wanted to go - the next exit came. Our navigation system said: drive out! I was annoyed about the detour and the loss of time and the fact that we wouldn't be able to reach Spain today. In my anger, I forgot that our navigation system - according to its programming - wouldn't simply take us the 20 kilometers back on the highway in the opposite direction. No, it took us on secondary routes to the next junction of the A75. I will never forget the 35 kilometers...

We were now used to narrow streets, and even the steepest inclines could no longer speed up our pulse. But slope! These were slopes, the descents were similar to alpine skiing. I had to partially shift down to second gear. My fuel gauge went crazy. The range display dropped from 625 to 214 kilometers within a minute because the vehicle was at such an angle. I am firmly convinced that if I had had to brake, we would have done a somersault with our motorhome. Overall, the detour cost us an hour and a lot of nerves.

What we didn't know then: This loss of time shouldn't matter today because we weren't spared the traffic jam. We were waved out at Saint-Flour. Nothing worked anymore. A detour was signposted. That was completely unnecessary because you just had to follow the person in front of you. We stood for an hour. The detour led through the small town, not through the outskirts, but right through the center. Past the town hall, basically across the town square. There was a roundabout there. Three gendarmes sat on the small traffic island and directed the traffic, although there were actually only two directions: in and out. What was special was the rhythm: the vehicles were allowed to drive in one direction for 30 minutes and in the other for 30 minutes.

When we were allowed to get back onto the A75, we saw the reason for the mishap: the farmers had blocked the entire motorway in both directions. Tractors, haystacks, piles of burning tires – they had it all. The queues of vehicles stretched for kilometers.

We gave everything we had for the remaining 50 kilometers to Narbonne. Here we are now standing in the large parking lot of a football stadium. Outside, children are training around on the football, basketball, tennis and other playgrounds. That doesn't bother us. It's now just before 8 p.m. Icke went to bed an hour ago. I will follow her now.