I fell in love with France when I was sixteen and had to spend three weeks in bed with ‘flu. On a friend’s recommendation I started to read Zola’sGerminal, in French. I had to resort to the dictionary many times a page to begin with, but, nothing if not stubborn, I won through in the end. By the time I met my first French girl friend at eighteen I was passably at ease in French and of course doubly determined to get even better. One way and another I have been involved with France ever since.In the 1980s I was asked to write The Rough Guide to France, something that I did for fifteen years. But I had always wanted to write my own book about France, nothing to do with cathedrals and history and railway timetables: a more personal look at the country I loved. I wanted to make a slow journey, a journey on foot. I kept thinking of Laurence Sterne’s eighteenth-century A Sentimental Journey through France and Italy, but could not decide on a route, until one day in 2000 I came upon an article in Le Monde by its culture correspondent who had crossed the country on foot from the North Sea at Dunkerque to the Spanish border, following the line of the Paris meridian, which, re-christened La Méridienne Verte, served as a central focus for France’s millennium celebrations. That’s it, I thought: there’s my route, a virtual line from nowhere in particular to nowhere in particular, passing, with the exception of Paris, through nowhere in particular. It would bring what it brought. I would see what I saw.
This book is the diary of that walk,an account day by day of what I saw, heard, thought: landscapes, flower girls, snippets of history, curious encounters and lots of birdsong.
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