It’s not really death as such, but one can’t help but get the feeling that one false move could result in a very nasty ending when one ventures onto any road at the moment. If it’s not hay making time, it’s certainly the time when there’s some sort of contest going on to see who can fit the most hay onto the smallest tractor, and drive the furthest with the least amount of clearance between load and immovable objects.
If you’ve never met a four metre wide load coming at you straddling a three and a half metre wide road, you probably won’t have any means of identifying with just how improbable it is that one can actually arrive at one’s intended destination let alone do so unscathed.
Since it was the last full day with the car, we entered the contest happily, shopping at Sarrebourg for an extra level of difficulty, then returning quietly from whence we came to while away the evening, oblivous to the tractors bouncing into the dusk across the bridge not fifty metres away.
They do go away at night, to where we have no idea, only to return at first light fresh and bouncing and ready to take new loads into the new day, which is more than we can say for ourselves sometimes.