As I arise the mist that fell last night is still clinging to the landscape, and after last nights dinner talk I find it a touch sinister, as if shamefully cloaking what happened here.

Down at breakfast the gang are as chipper as ever and over breakfast a miscellany of fossilised remains are paraded in front of me – an ossified chunk of iron that upon inspection turns out to be the remains of a bolt action Lee Enfield, bayonets are bared, luckily only for comparison purposes and I’m told of the local farmer who lives directly above an unexploded mine that is every bit as large as the Hawthorn Ridge one, and remains intact because the action moved away from the spot before it could be detonated.

I’m also told of various other farmers who have mangled or killed themselves in various ordnance related blunders, - unscrewing detonators fag-in-mouth and so on.

This brooding corner of North East France is crawling with amateur historians, treasure hunters and the plain barmy, all united by their fascination with the First World War, but divided by motive. Metal detectors have, I learn, long been banned.

So now time to move. After Dave has kindly pointed out a couple of spots including the infamous crater I load up and confidently hop aboard. Will she start? No she won’t.

Worried about flattening the battery I elect to unpack almost everything and extract my tools from under the seat. Whipping out a plug reveals a dry , sparking plug. I realise that I’ve been doing it wrong. More used to old brit bikes which need flooding I remember that the enrichment device on the Beemer requires full choke and no twisting of the throttle. This does the trick after a bit more churning so I warm her up a bit before reloading, but now I’m off.

A mile or two down the road I come across a British WW1 cemetery, atmospheric amongst the bleak misty fields, so with last nights conversations in mind I stop, pay my respects and take some snaps.

Since then I've found that it goes by the very unceremonious name of "Serre Road Cemetery No1". It holds 2426 soldiers of which a shocking 1727 are unknown soldiers. It is one of literally hundreds of such cemeteries in that part of the country.

Now I retrace my steps and stop at Bapaume to refuel. A word about biking in France in Sunday – FUEL! Although stations on the motorway (Peage) are open on a Sunday you will be lucky to find an open station in the countryside, especially in the afternoon. Thus I will be employing ‘Destroyer Tactics’, - top up at every possible chance.

Soon I’m on the Peage heading for Paris, after a steady hour or two I’m on the outskirts, and aiming to pierce the periphique on the eastern side around Pte de Bagnolet. Of course I forget that to avoid being dumped round to the North side and the horrors of St Denis I need to branch off just after Charles De Gaulle and follow sign for Bordeaux. This means a bit of farting around and an unscheduled visit to the delights of the airport as I attempt to loop round and go again. Eventually I succeed.

The next several hours are spent bashing the Peage. True to the old adage the weather turns brighter once south of the Loire. All the way I am deploying destroyer tactics, in act to excess – several fill ups were less than 60 miles apart. It all pays off in the end though as when I finally dispense with Peage past Chateauroux I will find I have enough to get to my destination.

The days end will be at a lovely little B&B the Moulin Fargin in a typically beautiful hamlet called Pressac, somewhere between Poitier and Limoges. From Chateauroux
to Pressac I get back to the glorious riding I associate with southern france – empty roads, great for riding and lovely scenery. When a town or hamlet appears they are mostly attractive, so slowing for them is no chore. The sun is shining and I’m loving it.

Arriving at the B&B my hosts allow me to park the bike up in the garage/barn so again I have a minimum of unpacking to do.
After a lovely casserole and some chat over a bottle of wine I’m off to bed and again out like a light, in one of the more peaceful corners of the world.