“Where have you been?!” – Part 1

Today a song popped into my head: the punk rendition of “Nellie the Elephant” from 1984. You know the one—where the band looks like they just broke out of a children’s party, high on chaos. The music video is pure, sugar-fueled anarchy: half punk show, half poetic reading, with choreographed arms flapping like laundry in a storm and a kind of joyful lawlessness that makes you want to kick down a cubicle wall.

I started humming it to myself while curled up in the guest room of a Bunk-a-Biker host’s home—our now dear friend Véronique. She’s a retired nurse and English teacher with a heart like a lighthouse: steady, bright, and always looking out for strays. She’s the kind of person who manages to mother a whole house, a few bikes, cats, multiple birds, and two overcooked adventurers without breaking a sweat.

The lyrics tell of Nellie slipping her chains and making a run for the jungle:

“Off she went with a trumpety-trumf,

Trumf, trumf, trumf!”

This ride has been that. Tay and I finally broke loose of all the things that bound us—work, stress, daily monotony—and now find ourselves deep in the thickets of adventure, where the only rule is that there are no rules. It’s liberating. And terrifying. Like being handed the wheel of a ship in a fog with no map—but laughing the whole time.

After our tryst with wild camping in an abandoned water tower, we wound our way down sleepy secondary roads, the sky arguing with itself about whether to monsoon or bake us alive at 35°C. When we pulled into Véronique’s home just outside Le Mans, she appeared at the end of the gravel drive like a vision from a warm dream, all smiles and open arms—the kind of greeting that makes you believe in humanity again.

Bunk-a-Biker, if you’re unfamiliar, is a grassroots community of motorcycle travelers offering each other places to stay—think Couchsurfing meets roadside rescue, but for dusty riders and their two-wheeled companions. No money changes hands, just stories, generosity, and the occasional borrowed wrench.

Wanting to say thank you in action, not just words, we did lawn work and helped seal the timbers of her brand-new carport, which gleamed like a wooden cathedral to responsible adulthood. In return, Véronique gave us peace, conversation, and a crash course in living like locals.

Every day starts with a pilgrimage to the boulangerie—fresh baguette, buttery croissants, and for me, a chocolate or coffee éclair that’s basically a spiritual awakening in pastry form. All for about three euros.

We visited the studio of one of Véronique’s dear friends, Joanna Hair

This—this was the head of the herd calling from far away. The thing I’d dreamed of since the first break in full-time employment I’ve had since I was a teenager. We’re slowing down. Meeting strangers who become friends. Watching the light shift across tiled rooftops. Taking too many photos. Getting our boots muddy and our hands full of stories.

We slipped the chain, trumpeting all the way.