John and I zipped to France on the ultraluxurious Thalys (hot Frenchmen in suits, ladies) where John and I managed to get on the wrong train. However, the conductor and attendant seemed unconcerned. The train was going to Paris.

After overnighting in Rouen, we rented a car to drive to Chartres, to the east of Paris. The draw for Chartres is its massive cathedral, which dwarfs the town that surrounds it and was built in an incomprehensibly speedy thirty years. John and I marvelled at the mighty Gothic structure.

The stained glass inside the cathedral dates from the 12th century, and it particularly entranced John. The cathedral also includes a spiritual maze and was well worthwhile going, despite the hellish car ride with John.

John has road rage, and he has seriously damaged relations between France and England by cursing out the window at French drivers. (The eleventh commandment is to realize that fuck off is the most understood phrase in the English language, bar none.) It took him seven hours to drive 200 km, a fact he blames on the poor road signage of France (I don't have a problem, but whatever.)

Ladies and gentlemen, oh dear.