My wife oft likes to drive on local byways,
When crossing northern France for England stay.
Small townlets dot the land, unseen from highways.
From each, the next is four-five miles away.
On foot men built their homes, with plot next door,
All friends and large-sized family close at hand.
Created at a time when men were poor.
No tractor, horse or mule to plow the land.
The homes we saw were built with nearby stone;
Some stones were white, some gold or black or gray,
Brick or stuck was used when stone was none,
The roofs are odd shaped tiles turned every way.
The village streets were bumpy, never straight,
And often very narrow — one car wide,
Often for your turn to pass you wait.
Navigate zig-zag, or else collide.
We passed large fields of grass, hay bailed in rolls,
Black Angus cows, white Charolais were seen,
Small streams without much water pierced the hills,
The only massive river was the Seine.
When on a drive in France to Port of Calais,
Take small back roads, and not the super-highway.