10 Weeks in a Box - Day 22

Father to Son - 30/07/2007



Having breakfasted, I roused my son Corey from his slumber with a quick text, and told him to meet us in town around lunchtime. I figured even a 15 year old could summon enough energy by then to get up and catch a bus!

Arrangements made, Miki and I headed into Wakefield to do a bit of second hand book searching. It was strange, Miki, my present and future, here in Wakefield, a symbol of my past, it was like two worlds colliding. We had fun, though, finding a number of books for her. (She was getting a bit narked that our Boomobile library was favouring me 90%)
A text on my phone informed me Corey was nearby, he came down Cathedral walk, now standing over 6 feet tall, quite astonishing. It was wonderful to see him. We spent the afternoon together out at Pugney’s Water Park, Miki painting, and Corey and I chatting easily. Both Miki and I were impressed and amazed at his emotional maturity, his self-awareness. He has, Miki says, a very clear mind. He’s performed and improved well at school. He played me his band, Jilambis, new demo. His drumming is becoming very accomplished. Our relationship could have been fraught with difficulties, what with my divorce, then his move to Spain and back, then MY permanent move to Spain, but through all this, and despite the fact that we don’t see each other enough, he is laid back and takes life as he finds it. He seems well balanced, and the pride I feel for him is so strong I can almost touch it. I don’t know if sons ever realise it, but to make their Fathers proud is the most precious gift they can give. I’m not sure I managed it with my Dad, but Corey has most definitely done it for me. I think he’s heading up the right path.
That night, we headed up the A1,
the road I had travelled incessantly in the 80’s, gigging every single weekend, mostly in the North-East of England. Pulling into the services near Dishforth, we chanced our arm at an overnight stay in the Little Chef car park, and, I have to say, although they charge you ten quid for a bowl of soup, we enjoyed an unencumbered, on the house stay, even topping our water supplies with the sweetest water you can imagine, incongruously supplied from a grotty tap on the side of the Petrol Station. Tomorrow, Scotland beckons….




Text by Kev Moore
Drawing & Photos by Miki
Both on Planet Goodaboom

10 Weeks in a Box - Day 21

Youlgreave and Plague Graves - 29/07/2007



The next morning, I even had time to help Dad put together a garden bench I’d bought for him back when God was a lad.
We had spent the night on the driveway, very odd somehow, but we used up Dad’s yearly water allowance by filling our tanks, and had the lunatic fridge on mains hook up during our stay, so things were looking good.
The afternoon saw us take a beautiful, if somewhat challenging on the driving front, route through Derbyshire and the Peak towards Yorkshire. We stopped off in the beautiful tiny hamlet of …… where Miki set about sketching the surrounding area, rich in motifs, a babbling brook, an old stone bridge, and delightful cottages and gardens on the riverbank.
Then, we visited Youlgreave, and Miki located my Grandma’s grave in All Saints Churchyard there. It was a poignant moment, and we collected some wild flowers to leave by her headstone as it enjoyed the newly appeared summer sunshine.
Then it was on to the fascinating village of Eyam, the inhabitants of which selflessly sacrificed themselves by voluntarily quarantining themselves off from the rest of the country, after a resident contracted the bubonic plague from a bolt of cloth delivered to the village from London. Only 85 of nearly 400 inhabitants survived. 1666 seems a long time ago, but when you see the plague cottages and the names and ages on the headstones in the churchyard, this extraordinary village’s bravery in the face of certain death is heart rending and seemingly only yesterday. Some of the graves are in other places in the village, near the houses of those who succumbed, and their simple headstones have been walled off with dignified reverence, creating tiny, sad, little graveyards.
As you walk through this village, you can plainly see that it wears its heart, and its past, proudly on its sleeve.

Nearing Wakefield, I was racking my brains trying to think of a safe place to lay over for the night. We tried the services on the M1. They only wanted £14 for the privilege of occupying a piece of their shoddy tarmac. Instead we gave them two fingers. I suddenly remembered the Wakefield Junction 41 industrial estate, situated quite near where I used to live. It had a myriad of
service roads where lorry drivers would sleep for the night before their journeys. We found a nice quiet corner, made the “Spag Bol”, and the night was ours!



Text by Kev Moore
Drawing & Photos by Miki
Both on Planet Goodaboom

Wherefore art thou, Weary Traveller?

Kev takes a break from travelling

You may well ask...Indeed if you have been asking yourself what has happened to "Ten Weeks in a Box" Miki and I's Travel tale, it's just taking a short break, while Miki completes an important Art commission, but rest assured it will return next Monday, picking up where we left off in Derby.

In the meantime, why don't you pop on over to The Coffee Cup Club and join in with the conversation and maybe post an entry there yourself. Or, with Halloween coming up, why not scare yourself to death with my new tale for All Hallows Eve; "Pumpkin Number Six"? Its on my Muse on the Rock blog, where you can also find another couple of creepy tales!

That should keep you busy until our travel tales return......

10 Weeks in a Box - Day 20

Birthdays and Salad Days - 28/07/2007



So we lazily meandered towards Derby on July 28th, for my Dad’s birthday.
As the distance grew shorter I began to see more and more familiar sights from my youth. Driving through well-known brewing town of Burton-upon-Trent, I pointed out to Miki the College I used to attend at the tender age of seventeen, and the memories of those times came flooding back. The famous pub crawl, which involved trying to get from the Bus Station all the way up the Main street to the College over a mile away, having a pint in every pub. Needless to say, with a pub on every corner, most people got lost halfway there. The familiar yeasty smell pervaded the motorhome as we crossed the bridge from the district of Stapenhill, a reminder of the town’s brewing traditions.
Then, it was down the A 38 and a detour past my old school, John Port, in Etwall. My third form classroom is right by the road on a very sharp bend.(It was the “A” Block chemistry lab) and several times during my time there an over ambitious lorry driver would lose his load on the turn. I remember well the schoolkid scramble for bags of sugar to take home for the parents after one hapless driver had misjudged the bend! We passed the bus park, which used to ferry us from Mickleover the three miles to school every day. There were two buses that went near my home, but your bus pass allocated you on one or the other, however, it could be annoying if the No.2 bus arrived at school before the No.1, causing an intolerable delay in getting home, so I set to designing a bus pass forgery that gave you the option of either. Needless to say, it proved very popular!
The reminiscences over, we reached Mickleover, the quiet suburb of Derby where I was brought up and we celebrated Dad’s birthday at my Sister Karen’s house, with her husband Steve and their kids Tom and Rachel, Dad and his partner Cynthia in attendance. I was so happy that we were able to coincide this part of our trip with Dad’s birthday, and a lovely evening was had by all.
We spent the night on the driveway at Dad’s, very odd somehow, but much less hassle for Dad! We used up Dad’s yearly water allowance by filling our tanks, Him pacing around, as though the water meter was eating five pound notes. Hilarious! Plus, we had the lunatic fridge on mains hook up during our stay, so things were looking good.



Text by Kev Moore
Drawing & Photos by Miki
Both on Planet Goodaboom

10 Weeks in a Box - Day 19

Midlands Monkey Business - 27/07/2007



The next day as we manoeuvred the beast that is the Boomobile to leave, we noticed that the entrance to the car-park was now under a foot of water. The swans were expanding their territory as the waters invaded further into the town. Definitely time to leave. “There comes a time in the tide of the affairs of man, which, if taken at the flood, leave you with a very wet motorhome” I think someone once nearly said…..
Luckily, the exit from the car park was at a slightly higher level than the entrance, which was now under a foot of water. We left a sodden Stratford before requiring scuba gear.
Following an inaugural Sainsbury’s shopping visit for Miki in Warwick (inexplicably favouring the supermarket over Warwick castle) we came to rest in a lay by just shy of Twycross, home of the Zoo from my Junior School outing…ah, the memories, the short trousers, the powdered lemonade…
I fondly remember visiting the zoo in my second year of junior school. Founded in 1963 by two remarkable women, Mollie Badham and Natalie Evans, it was already making a name for itself in the late 1960’s, being the home of the famous Brooke Bond PG tips Chimps. I’ll never forget those TV ads, especially the Tour de France one, with the chimp cyclist asking, “Avez-vous un cuppa?”
By all accounts the zoo is still going strong.
Deciding to stay in our lay-by, Miki set up her desk and began painting a series of watercolours, while I rehearsed and read a little.
A cursory glance around our parking area revealed a sign allowing us to park for a maximum of twelve hours. Taking into account our time of arrival, we would have had to leave at 3 in the morning. However, taking into the account that the law in this case was an ass, we would leave whenever the hell we liked, adopting a sort of “rolling clock” system along the lines of: the first time we see a police car, is when the twelve hours start. Simple, when you think about it.
As it turned out, a peaceful night preceded our arrival in Derby on July 28th, for my Dad’s birthday, which I’ll tell you about tomorrow!



Text by Kev Moore
Drawing & Photos by Miki
Both on Planet Goodaboom

10 Weeks in a Box - Day 18

Motorhoming; As you like it! - 26/07/2007



The next morning we decided to skirt as close as we dared to Oxford, driving through Banbury, catching a glimpse of a delightful statue immortalising the “Fine lady upon a white horse” who rode to Banbury Cross; the words to the old children’s nursery rhyme carved around the base. Finally, we reached today’s destination; Stratford upon Avon, the bard’s birthplace.
Driving into the historic town, we were alarmed to find the waters lapping at the riverbank, but we nevertheless parked up for the day and night in the Marina car park. We enjoyed (if that’s the word) a drizzly afternoon, wandering the old streets, Miki excited to be shopping in England for the first time. Our enthusiasm paled however, as we slowly came to realise that our primary target, second-hand bookshops, were in very short supply indeed. We returned to the Boomobile replete with Toiletries, but sadly no books. Shaking off our disappointment, we were rewarded with a brief appearance of the sun, and Miki set to work sketching the narrowboats and bridges, while I headed over to the tourist information centre which inexplicably had a life-size head of a Tyrannosaurus Rex on wheels outside the door. Perhaps Shakey had written the first draft to Jurassic Park before Spielberg got his hands on it?

Come not between the dragon and his wrath - Coriolanus

My reason for venturing into this monster’s lair was to find a postcard for Miki to send to her parents; our first from England. We were sending them on a regular basis throughout the trip, with a simple route plan on each one, so her Dad could follow our progress. Mission accomplished, I returned to the Boomobile, the T.Rex grinning wordlessly at my back.
The Marina car park was a lucky find, it being reasonably priced and very central. Close inspection of the tariffs revealed that, if I paid until 6pm, and then bought an overnight ticket until 9am the next morning, it would only cost £2. Well done, Stratford! And a Pox on the robbers of Clackett Lane! It’s an expensive lark, this travelling, and as Shakespeare himself put it in Henry IV;

I can get no remedy against this consumption of the purse: borrowing only lingers and lingers it out, but the disease is incurable.


The car park regulations were very firm about “parking in marked bays” and the rather hefty financial penalty for not doing so. As luck would have it, we had found a corner space, the only one in the entire car park that accommodated our lengthy vehicle. I sought assurances from the patrolling security guard that we hadn’t transgressed the letter of the law, and we settled down to an infinitely more peaceful night than that spent in the Beaconsfield lay-by.




Text by Kev Moore
Drawing & Photos by Miki
Both on Planet Goodaboom

10 Weeks in a Box - Day 17

England under Water - 25/07/2007


After our lovely quiet night by the harbour in Gravelines, subject of more than one 19th Century painting, we travel the last few kilometres up the coast, and as I write this, we are sat waiting in the terminal at Dunkirk, (or more precisely, the wonderfully named Loon Plage, which I assume means lunatic beach, or perhaps it’s shaped like a particular style of 1970’s trouser) hoping to get the earlier ferry at 10pm, but, with a cup of coffee, and feet up with a book, we’re content to watch the world go by until we’re called at midnight to cross the channel.We keep ourselves amused making up stories about the exceedingly strange troupe of young east-european (probably polish) men and women in battle fatigues, driving military style 4x4’s exercising a pack of husky-type dogs in the car park.
It is a quite disturbing sight, and looks for all the world like a not-so-covert invasion of either a) the ferry or, and infinitely more ambitious, (given that the English like dogs) b) Britain. Putting such national security issues to one side, It transpires that luck is with us, and we are allowed to join the queue for the 10 o’clock sailing. So it’s Au revoir France, Hello England.



Kev Moore, Dunkirk, 25/07/07

Full of anticipation, we scampered up onto the passenger decks of the ferry and were assaulted by a plethora of plasma screens all carrying BBC News 24. Now, remember, we’d been insulated almost since leaving Albir, from the world at large, we were ignorant of news events, until we boarded that ferry. We were brought up to date in a cruel fashion. The screens were showing some kind of third world flooding disaster. Sadly the “third world” in question turned out to be Oxford, our first planned destination. They went on to report that people had died, and in Tewkesbury, they had run out of fresh water. It had taken several days of rain to do what the Luftwaffe failed to do, bring England to its knees. I was incredulous. Which is French for “pissed off.”

We hit the ground running in Dover, aiming to get west of London that night, thereby avoiding terminal torpor on the M25 the next morning. The M25 is less of a four lane super ring road, and more of a circular car park, especially at 9am, so I spared Miki that experience and we headed onwards, with a brief stop at Clackett Lane Services where we were immediately exposed to the difference in treatment of motorhomes in France and England. It would have cost us £10 to stay in the car park for the night. No thanks. We saluted some brave, or possibly ignorant Dutch motorhomes who had parked up, ticket free regardless, but I felt sure they would be feeling the long arm of the bottom of the food chain “security guard” by morning.

We finally came to rest just before Beaconsfield, off Junction 2 of the M40, in an enormous elongated lay-by, full of trucks. We tucked in at the end and proceeded to enjoy an interesting night rolling from side to side as a variety of heavy goods vehicles assaulted us with their slipstreams. What joy.
To paraphrase Robert Browning; “Oh! To be in England, now the traffic’s here!”




Text by Kev Moore
Drawing & Photos by Miki
Both on Planet Goodaboom

10 Weeks in a Box - Day 16

Grey Nose and Gravelines - 24/07/2007



7am came and went…we had done it! We are invincible! Even our fridge decided to work today, the lazy pile of junk. Life is good. Through the binoculars, I caught a glimpse of England. Tomorrow, we sail, to paraphrase that singing sedative, Roger Whittaker.
But before we can welcome the dawn of our departure, we had to find a final place to lay up for a nights (hopefully) undisturbed rest. Miki pinpointed a spot near the ominously named Gravelines, and we headed for it. Our journey took us further along the coast and gave us a chance to visit the peculiarly named “Cap de Gris Nez”, literally Cape of the Grey Nose…perhaps some kind of giant handkerchief? The Cap was beautiful and windswept, not necessarily in that order, and under a little duress, Miki persuaded me to walk the cliffs and paths down to the beach. However, the find of the day was “Batterie Todt” an impressive concrete gun bunker that used to form part of Germany’s Atlantic Wall defences for their famously postponed British Invasion.
It had been turned into a fabulous war museum by an enterprising chap called David Davies, owner of the local Normandy Hotel and known in some circles as “The Taffy Frog”, for obvious reasons. The collection housed within this imposing edifice conjured up an era long gone, and the sight of the bunks, mess kits and mannequins in Wehrmacht uniforms caused a chill to run down the spine. Household names like Krupp and BMW were everywhere, makers of mayhem fifty years ago, economic behemoths today.
Curiously, we found a sign stating that the railway track for the giant gun outside had been manufactured in Tarbes, Miki’s French home town. One can only hope the workers didn’t know the use to which their handiwork was put.
Propaganda posters, trying to turn the French against the English and the English against themselves brought home the insidiousness of the failed Austrian painter’s regime.

But the hand painted poster of three allied troops, French, British and American, surging forward, flags proudly flying, said it all with its caption:
“ON LES AURA!”………….”WE WILL GET THEM!”

We arrived in Gravelines , a nice little town with a quiet estuary providing a home to a host of small boats. A series of small bridges criss-crossed the town, giving it a Venice kind of feel. We found a great spot for the Boomobile, several other motorhomes had parked down by the harbour in a lovely location, but we couldn’t find the service point, so it obviously wasn’t the real spot, but we resolved to return if we couldn’t find the one marked in the guide.
Some time later we found what we were looking for, but the site the service point was attached to looked like it provided half the audience and participants for Jerry Springer, so we decided to do our tanks, and then return to the Harbour idyll we’d found earlier. We pulled into the bay reserved for motorhome service. A strange orange coloured metal machine confronted us, and after some minutes we realised it needed to eat three fifty cent pieces in order to provide fifteen minutes of everything. By that I mean, a door would open and we could a) empty our toilet b) fill our fresh water c) have some mains electricity. But only for fifteen minutes. This was going to be a formula one pit stop kind of thing, so I prepared everything, opened the waste water tanks, set the fridge to mains, got the toilet cassette out ready, put the hose in the water tank, connected the mains lead up, then told Miki to insert the coins…Bam! I was off, running round like a lunatic, throwing unmentionable waste like a dervish down the chute provided behind the previously locked door, getting soaked by a spastic water pipe that insisted on giving me water before my hose was connected, it was organised chaos. As soon as the water was replenished I whipped the hose out and began washing the flies off the front of the Boomobile (it hadn’t been debugged since Spain, and was starting to look like something from Alien) I laughed with maniacal glee as I got this EXTRA service from the confounded machine. Following the debugging, I had a twinge of eco-conscience, and used the hose to direct some of my wayward “grey water” down the appropriate drain, meanwhile the fridge was enjoying a brief respite of “real power”
In my zeal to empty the toilet cassette in record time, I nearly got it wedged in the chute provided, but thankfully was spared any blushes when it suddenly came free and the cleaning hose retracted with a SNAP like some kind of manic reverse-stroke King Cobra. I slammed the door on this three-fold mechanised hell, disconnected, and made for the tranquillity of the harbour, secure in the knowledge that I had certainly got my 1.50 euros worth. Now I needed a lie down. A lovely quiet night was in order, and we relocated back at Gravelines harbour and got just that.



Text by Kev Moore
Drawing & Photos by Miki
Both on Planet Goodaboom

10 Weeks in a Box - Day 15

Rainy-day beaches and Anarchic parking - 23/07/2007



Awakened the next day by the almost continuous rain that had become our constant companion, we consumed our usual copious cups of coffee, battened down the hatches and left the neighbourhood in peace once more, threading our way through a series of villages towards the coast and Boulogne. For me, there is nothing as depressing as a seaside town on a grey, wet day!

Thankfully, as the afternoon wore on, the skies cleared a little, and, buoyed by our earlier triumph in Martigny, we parked on the seafront just past the town of Wimereux, north of Boulogne, with the aim of staying for the night. In a shameless action of biting the hand that feeds, we parked in a car park that banned Motorhomes between the hours of 7pm and 7am, exactly when Motorhomes need to park, and when cars no longer use the car-park. Go figure. Applying our own faultless, if a little twisted logic, we settled in for the night, joined by some brave Belgians.
With several hours of daylight still ahead of us, we clambered down some wooden steps and took a walk on the wild beaches here.Dotted hither an yon, solitary figures could be seen digging in the sand, a lone dog scampering across the glistening surface, its owner, a yellow dot in the far distance, hooded against the wind, throwing a ball to amuse it. Encrusted timbers, the remnants of some forgotten wharf, now haphazard amongst the rocks and seaweed, a microcosm of life, and the lonely posts of a rotting fence, its battle with the sea lost, marking its course down into the sands. A beautiful yet desolate place.
Returning to the Boomobile, our cobwebs having been well and truly blown away, I buried my head in a good book, and Miki painted up a storm. As the hours advanced past the all-important 7pm, we knew we were in “the hot zone”. Would we make it through until morning without being arrested? For the answer to that, dear reader, you will have to wait until tomorrow!



Text by Kev Moore
Drawing & Photos by Miki
Both on Planet Goodaboom

10 Weeks in a Box - Day 14

Cleres & the Coast; Neighbourhood Watch - 22/07/2007

The next morning, we went out on the bikes to explore the village of Cleres, and more importantly, to get some bread. It was a Sunday, so we thought we should get out early to the boulangerie. Leaning our bikes against the railings that stop drunks falling in the picturesque stream that meanders through the streets, we were greeted with a sight I’ve only seen on TV reports from communist Russia….people queuing for bread! Our hunger winning out over our non-conformist instincts, Miki and I gritted our teeth and joined the masses to wait for our daily bread. It was so nice, we ate it all before we got back to the Boomobile and had to call in at the shop again for some more!
The village of Cleres has a Zoological park, and the council have provided many parking spaces along the main road to accommodate visitors. We took the bikes along its perimeter, surprised at the amount of visitors it was attracting, if the number of cars was any kind of measure. We headed out on the gently undulating country road, and it soon became apparent that Miki was lagging behind. Now, knowing that in the athleticism department, Miki can trounce me, no problem, I realised she was having a problem with the bike. Mine was a gift from my dear, late friend, drummer Keith Webb, Miki’s an altogether more flash piece of kit, had some advanced form of disc brake on the front. So advanced was this stunning piece of technology that it had evolved a mind of its own, and seemed intent on braking when Miki was struggling to get the bike uphill!
We cut our ride prematurely short, before Miki suffered a stroke, and headed back to Cleres, taking time to wander around the old Churchyard on the way.
Cleres is a pretty little place, and it’s truly wonderful that the council haven’t adopted the money-grabbing approach, and allow Motorhomes to use power from the village grid, as well as top up their water at no charge. There are great sport facilities here too, a small football stadium, and some tennis courts. They have given great thought here as to how to attract the tourist, and the well-kept and generous motorhome area, here since 1998, is a testament to that. I hope the village reaps the benefits from this great welcome it offers. A gold star to Cleres!
Leaving Cleres, we made a bee-line for the coast, accompanied by rain, rain, and more rain. The sky became an ominous grey. We finally sighted the sea at a small resort called Quiberville. It was a grotesque parody of a cheap English seaside town, and my heart sank. It was almost as though the kiss me quick, stick of rock council house holiday mentality had seeped across the channel like an Exxon oil spill, contaminating everything it touched. It took an effort of will to focus on the good things we were going to England and Scotland to see.
I was genuinely shocked to see this kind of place in France, but that’s the Global Village for you. A McDonalds on every corner and a snotty nosed kid with an Ice Cream in your face.
We followed the coast as closely as we could, entering the outskirts of Dieppe, as Miki had indentified another rest stop with free electricity! We found it, after much hand wringing and roundabout-negotiating, but it was hardly worth the search. To be fair, it’s great that the town provide these facilities, but with nearly thirty motorhomes parked here in military precision, and only four power outlets, it was always going to end in tears. Like so many giant white battery hens, shooed into our pens for the night, and what now seem to be the obligatory obese motorhome owners lolling around in their “Captains Chairs” we felt the only plus for the place was the electricity, and, as all the sockets were in use, we had lunch and beat a hasty retreat. Call us snobs, but staying there was like joining a council estate on wheels.
We scoured the surrounding villages looking for a suitable spot for the night. “Too quiet” said Miki, “Too noisy” said Miki “Too much!” said Kev… but we took a collective deep breath and found a spot in a little village called Martigny near some nice bungalows. Now this is where the “snob” situation goes into reverse…people look out of their windows and see us set up across the road. “Oooh, Jacques, look at that terrible camping car stuck outside Notre Maison, call the gendarmerie!”
Well, it looked like Jacques, following a haranguing from the missus, did just that. We were tucked up in bed around midnight, watching Millenium, when we heard a car pull up outside. I took an executive decision and sent Miki down to have a look. “It’s the police!” she said, with measured hysteria. We watched. We waited. Suffice to say, they left their vehicle, went off, presumably to find out the nature of the complaint, decided there was no case to answer, came back, and drove off. It’s quite clear they were called out in response to our appearance. But I must take this opportunity to commend the local Gendarmerie for applying good common sense. Had we caused a disturbance? No. Had we parked illegally? No. Were we blocking the road? No. Did we deserve to be interrupted during a particularly fraught investigation for FBI Man Frank Black? Of course not. So we were left alone. Marvellous. Liberty! Fraternity! And…er..the other one!




Text by Kev Moore
Drawing & Photos by Miki
Both on Planet Goodaboom

10 Weeks in a Box - Day 13 - Part 2

Diane of Poitiers – Royal Groupie - 21/07/2007



Having left Chartres behind earlier in the day, a coffee stop in Anet turned into something else entirely, as we noticed a curiously mish-mashed Chateau. It was festooned with a plethora of different symbols, ranging from the hunting goddess Diana, to mathematical, gyroscopic and physics icons, sundials, clocks, and religious iconography.
Atop the entrance a relief of a reclining nude Diana was dwarfed by a large Stag surrounded by four hounds.
Intrigued, we paid our money, and in we went… It proved to be the house of Diane of Poitiers, who, at sixteen years of age, married a guy forty years her senior, the senechal of Normandy, Louis de Breze. Upon reaching her thirties she fancied a bit of new blood, and, obviously employing the method of starting at the top and working down, assumed the role of “friend” to the sixteen year old King Henry the Second.
Apparently he had numerous “friends” (I think they call them Groupies now) but Diane was his favourite, and he indulged her in some serious gift giving, this Chateau for example, he had built for her. Plainly, he had adored her since early childhood. I quote from Philippe Erlange’s Diane of Poitiers;
“He saw once more the unchangeable huntress, majestic, glorious. Timid, he hardly spoke to her, but from this moment she was his Lady, the Lady whom a paladin serves to death. He was eleven years, she, thirty one. "
The architect, Phillipe De l’ Orme, was fascinated with Maths Physics and the Sciences, and the chateau just drips with his input, all strangely interwoven with the rampant religion of the private chapel. Science and God, strange bedfellows indeed, but it seems Diane had her share of those…… Her “Double D” logo is simply everywhere, from carvings to crockery to floor tiles. She reached a ripe old age for the time, too, sixty-six, and then only succumbing to a fall from her horse. She was enshrined in the funerary chapel on the estate, but fast forward 200 years to the revolution and those jolly fellows defiled her tomb, where she then lay at rest between her daughters, and reburied what they hadn’t destroyed in the peasants graveyard in Anet. Her sarcophagus was used as a trough for pigswill.

Mercifully, prior to the outbreak of World War 2, the French had an attack of conscience and the tomb was rescued and rebuilt, and though the remains of this remarkable woman no longer rest here, one can feel a presence as you enter the chapel and gaze on her black marble sarcophagus. Perhaps the weight of history is a tangible force.
Heady with the historical delights of the day, we pointed the Boomobile Northwards once again, me at the wheel, Miki consulting the Motorhome Rest-stop guide, where she had found an interesting entry.
Apparently there was a rest stop in a small town called Cleres, about 40 k short of Dieppe, with free water, waste disposal AND electricity, it said. Scarcely able to believe it, we made for it anyway. As we drew nearer, we began laying bets on the number of motorhomes there. There were place for twelve, it said in the guide…I thought at least 7 would be there, and indeed that was the case. The amazing thing was, it really WAS free electricity, with four access points….and one of them was EMPTY!! I whipped the cable out faster than you could say “alternating current” and there we were, plugged in for the rest of the day and night. Bliss!



Text by Kev Moore
Drawing & Photos by Miki
Both on Planet Goodaboom

10 Weeks in a Box - Day 13 - Part 1

Chartres – Discovering the Labyrinth - 21/07/2007


Morning came, and we made our way up to the impressive sight that is Chartres Cathedral. It is quite simply, exquisite, the only complete surviving Medieval Cathedral, not only structurally, but crucially, in its iconography. There is a breathtaking amount of Stained Glass windows and sculptures surviving that are ultimately an encyclopaedia of the life and spiritual times of a distant age. The incredible, vast open spaces inside were only possible with the advent of the “Flying Buttresses” that were designed to channel the incredible weight of the stone vaulted ceilings outside and downwards. One looks up and cannot help but be open-mouthed in wonder at the architectural genius of this lost era. It may not bring this agnostic closer to God, but it humbles him in front of his predecessors. It is small wonder that the faithful and the obsessive, not to mention the devout and ignorant, could believe without question that this was God’s house.

It was most interesting to see the “Sun clock” on the outside of the cathedral. There is a great deal of sun imagery in the Catholic church, just look at all the halos, generally depicted as a golden disc. The Catholic faith is descended from The Cult of Amen-Ra, the Egyptian sun-god worshipping faith. However, this subversion of faiths is not uncommon. The Romans did it in England, cleverly coinciding their religious festivals with the locals. If you want to take over a country, just make sure the locals don’t suffer a break in their routine, and you’re sorted! How convenient that Jesus rose at Easter, the Spring equinox. This is why all organised religion is a lie, and a tool to subjugate the masses.
But our chief reason for being here was the Labyrinth. In the book, Ms. Mosse tells of a stone one being carved into the floor of the Cathedral, so big it can hardly be seen. (Labyrinths were popular as symbols throughout France in various designs, and can be found as far away as Rouen and Reims) Alas, after some time wandering we had failed to locate it. Then, suddenly, I spied a collection “font” with an etched crystal labyrinth on the top. I called Miki over excitedly…”It’s a bit small” she said, with characteristic understatement.


We went into the bookshop within the Cathedral. (A good Catholic needs a healthy turnover….or is it the faithful who are being “turned over”?) As we perused a layout of the cathedral…there it was! We ran out into the main body of the church, and there, on the floor, under around 50 chairs, we could make out the vast, curving geometry of this beautiful symbol. Legend has it that pilgrims would shuffle round it on their knees as an act of faith or penance (an act of stupidity more like) and in the centre, there used to rest a brass plaque which was ripped up during the Napoleonic wars, though the studs that held it still remain. Quietly stunned at the beauty and magnificence of this testament to man’s ingenuity, rather than his faith in God, in this humble writers opinion, and overjoyed to have found the Labyrinth, we left Chartres, and headed for the Coast.



Text by Kev Moore
Drawing & Photos by Miki
Both on Planet Goodaboom