Antoing to a field somewhere near Rocquingy
Its a fast cycling river path across the Belgium boarder into France. I pedal through a national park, bluebells carpte the forest floor, and emerge on the other side lost. I resort of bus shelter route maps to find myslef, but seem trapped for a little while on busy urban roads. That is until I find the Canal du Nord. It is a blue hair line on my map, but in reality is a broad body of water, that leads me in the right direction. My traffic frustration drops away, I don’t look at the map for hours, confident I being bourne toward my goal. Occasionally I ride up over a bridge or lock, to see the undulating fields, strips of rape, and poplars, that form the landscape of north France. There is a pollen like falling snow everywhere, and clouds of insects, that collide with my eyeball. Fish swim in the green waters.
The generous toe path comes to a stop as the canal goes subterranian. This leaves me in a panic. All day I had been passing sublime camping spots, but rather than back tracking a little, I stubbonly continue on into the evening, sure something would come up, or that I would rejoin my beloved canal. It is truly dark before I find a crop of trees to hide me in a freshly tilled field. Crows squak loudly from the small patch of dense forest, ahead occasional strip of trainlights whip past in the distance. The black birds are sufficiently eerie that I pitch my tent on the edge of the woods, more conspicuous, but much less Poe.
