Breakfast in the Gorges le l'Ain.

I don't think we know why it is, but except for the few occasions when we do stop for more than one night, we never eat breakfast on a campsite.

The Verve's wonderful Bitter Sweet Symphony was on the radio, field maples overhung viburnums around which grew teazles and ragged robin. Underfoot thyme released fabulous whiffs as I strolled to and fro munching fried mushroom sandwiches and dodging crickets.

We passed through a village called Merpuis. For reasons of her own, Jo had been referring to it as Memphis and for once her tongue twistings made just a little sense with that big fat river Ain sliding Mississippi-like alongside us.

The Mamas & Papas floated out of the CD player. I was getting that road movie feeling indicative of our best travelling days when one starts to wonder whether one is travelling through the countryside, or if perhaps the 3-D countryside is travelling past the expensive seats which someone has reserved for us in the front of the van.

"If it were ever to happen", I said suddenly and with a feeling not unlike absolute certainly, "This would be it!".

For a while I was, and perhaps could be again, convinced that somewhere in the department of l'Ain in the Rhône-Alpes region is a place where I could happily live.

Jo went vague, "But there'd be nothing to do here......".

As if there'd be any need to do anything!

Despite noticing on the road atlas that Geneva, Annecy and Aix-les-Bains were only a little way to the east and south of us, I hadn't fully appreciated how far down France we'd already travelled. We were about halfway down (and three-quarters of the way across) in the Parc Naturel Régional de Chartreuse.

Chartreuse, such a French-sounding word, isn't it.

Not once during this day, (well, not until we reached the campsite), did we see a British registered vehicle.

That morning I'd planned the route confident that Jo's generally first class map reading would keep us heading south on a fairly direct route.

I'd been sure it would take ages to complete (but be unsuitable for a long lazy day), and that it would be very enjoyable too. And it was.

Abergement de Varey, >>>> a beautiful little village to which we descended through the orchards so steeply (notice the armco barrier) that we might almost have dropped into a chimney.

(Did I borrowthat phrase from Beatrix Potter?)

Flashes of limestone cliffs, hairy with trees at this altitude, crested or cut through the "broccoli" trees.

So many climbs and descents meant that we were getting used to SBS, (smelly brakes syndrome).

The bypass road and closure of a bridge had made the road a dead end and the village into a dormitory version of its former self.

The one inhabitant whom we saw was, I think, surprised to see a foreign camper van trundling down and back out along the narrow main street.

In the town of Belley we stopped to buy food.

With a place name like that we just had to.

Late afternoon coming on. Voiron and Valence (and Grenoble) were still ahead.

A sudden flash of insight very much pleased and excited me when I realised that the central one of those three high peaks (left) was in fact this one, on the far side of which in both 2003 and 2004 we'd travelled whilst passing Grenoble on our way to the Route Napoleon.

Evening light indicates that it had already been quite a long day and consequently I'd ages ago forgotten the details of the final part of the route I'd planned that morning. It was a bit of a shock to realise that we had still to climb up around the higher shoulders of these mountains before dropping down to Grenoble.

The climb required another overheating break, I think it was the third of that day, and was followed by an enormously long and twisting descent during which, without using ridiculously low gears, I made the best use of our very well maintained brakes, but even so the travel on the pedal increased significantly and the smell was impressive. I was very conscious that our my right foot was holding back about 2.3 tonnes of camper van.

The narrow two-lane road swept us to and fro across the hillside with occasional glimpses of Grenoble way below us and big mountains to the east. Photography stops were impossible and my right thigh muscles were aching from pressing hard on the brake pedal.

The road was no less steep as we reached the outskirts of the city, but finally I was relieved to see ahead of us red traffic lights and  a queue of stationary vehicles at the foot of the pass. I was already braking when Jo, by now worn out by repeated assaults on her vertiginous sensitivity, shouted,

"It's a Police car!", and indeed it was too, the car ahead of us in the queue which we were too rapidly approaching.

Anxious to avoid the considerable extra embarrassment of running into one, I pressed immensely hard on the brake pedal.

We did stop. Without a collision. I pulled up hard on the handbrake and took my foot off the pedal.

We rolled forwards!

I pulled the handbrake back on and with every means of braking applied, short of a chock, we waited.

For several long minutes. Once on the level, but progressing by only a few yards at a time through the dense traffic, I took the opportunity to pump on the brake pedal like a silly thing and eventually we got back to normal braking efficiency, but the exercise had to be repeated next morning before our brakes returned permanently to a properly effective state.

Not surprisingly we weren't as good as some of the locals when it came to hustling through Grenoble at rush hour, but Jo got us right through the centre without any problem.

We even picked up signs for the Route Napoleon, which was the road we wanted.

Did you see the hazy mountains?

From the cab looking over the Isere. Grenoble really is a mighty handsome city.

The St Laurent suspension bridge.

I'd already driven onto that >>>> roundabout (notice the Velodrome), when I thought it would be a very good idea to come back and buy our evening meal here. So we did.

This was taken with the little digital camera. I don't know whether or not I'd noticed the neon sign's reflection in our windscreen, but I was jolly pleased with the end result. And with the pizza.

The municipal campsite at Vizille is very good - we'd been there previously....