Again, sitting in my garden with a cool glass of wine contemplating the meaning of life, I make yet another decision. Tomorrow I would attempt cache K452. This one should be trouble free; after all it's only a 16-mile cycle ride along the Nantes/Brest Canal, and 16 miles back. Canals don't go up and down, so it should be flat, and as usual there is no great hurry.

Preparation time arrived- it turned out to be a hot sunny day. I decided I didn't need the extra weight of my out-of-date road map, since the canal followed the fold and was unreadable. I had no use for my compass with a mind of its own, since I was aware that the canal flowed one way or the other, all I needed was my trusty GPS which never lies, the cache page printout, and some lunch. I decided to become totally French and packed half a French loaf, a lump of cheese, an apple, a thermos flask full of chilled white wine, and last but not least, the rusty pocket knife, which no self respecting rural Frenchmen would be without.

After a few miles of steady pedaling, and a few lungs full of waterside gnats, I stopped for a drink of water from my bidon (that's French for bidon)...I then heard it- a loud crunching sound; I turned round to find myself face to face with a donkey. and I sat on the canal bank watching the kingfishers diving for their breakfast, and the morning sun dancing on the water. Oh! what peace and tranquility.

Behind me I then heard it- a loud crunching sound; I turned round to find myself face to face with a donkey. Not any old donkey, oh no! But one laded with saddlebags, pots and pans, odd shoes and torn blankets. It was then that I realized that today was going to be one of those days. I decided that the donkey may not be alone, and discretion being the better part of valour, I relocated my bidon (French for bidon) and quietly set off in the general direction of the cache according to my GPS which never lies.

I continued with a merry whistle and a song along the towpath, and came upon something I had not seen before- 30 or 40 fishermen each complete with several rods, baskets, boxes and buckets all arranged along and over the tow path. I cycled past under a shower of flying hooks and bait, and greeted each one with the customary greeting of "bonjour." Replies being few and far between it was then that I realized these were not just ordinary fishermen, but ones engaged in a fishing competition. These lads were doing serious fishing, and I was cycling through the middle of this second-most serious of French pastimes; the first being cycle racing. This galoise smoking, garlic eating group of men were decidedly unhappy.

A mile or so further on the inevitable happened, the towpath disappeared. What is it with these French people, making things disappear off the face of the earth without any warning? When I looked across the canal the towpath had been moved to the other side. I had therefore to retrace my path for about 2 miles to the last bridge, cross it, and start again. This meant that I had to run the gauntlet of 30 or 40 unhappy competition fishermen again. Being a foreigner and this was their territory, I decided to try some "Entente Cordial" mentally; I carefully composed a sentence in French, correcting the verbs and tenses as one does, in readiness for any confrontation.

"Hello again, whose winning. The fish or the fishermen?" I asked. This produced a tirade of the musical French language, most of which I did not understand but the odd word did indicate that I should go away! Ok, I got the message.

Indications were that I wasn't getting any closer; in fact at times I was further away. Eventually I peddled my way down the opposite bank towards my goal if you remember was K452, and beginning to lose faith in my trusty GPS which never lies. Indications were that I wasn't getting any closer; in fact at times I was further away. Where was my compass with a mind of its own?

Time for lunch, the bread was now a little on the dry side, the cheese had gone soft, and the apple had turned brown; but the wine was still chilled, and the rusty pocket knife worked well. At last the magic words appeared on my trusty GPS which never lies-"arriving at destination". The cache was eventually found and replaced with care, now time to return. I had taken the precaution of marking a waypoint for the canal crossing point for two reasons, one being any possible effect I might experience due to the hot sun and the thermos flask of chilled white wine, and secondly in preparation for any confrontation with those fishermen- after all they had moved the tow path to the other side, and here in France anything can happen. Relief, the competition was over.

Verging on the weary, I arrived home. Standing in my garden with my glass of wine, at the moment sitting is out of the question, I remembered that my trusty GPS which never lies only thinks in straight lines, and that Napoleon had built a canal with more curves than you could shake Diablo's stick at. Consequently, what started as an easy 32 mile cycle ride finished up as one nearer 45 miles but there were a few consolations, I was now getting to grips with the language, and I now had command of new expressions which I may or may not be able to use next time I am in the company of my French friends, and I had found another good cache. Life's not all that bad, but even with another glass of wine I still don't know the meaning of it all.