I don’t know why this little town cropped up in my mind suddenly this morning. The first and last time I was there was in 1965 . My father had decided to take me to Poland for the summer, and it was going to be a momentous journey for him and for me, for totally different reasons.

He was making his first visit to Poland after the war – not to his home city, Lwów, because that was now in the hands of Soviet Russia, but he could at least visit one of his brothers in Częstochowa, and many of his friends in Kraków, who had settled there . He was incredibly excited and nervous, not least because we were going by car, and he had only fairly recently passed his driving test.

I was 11, and shy and didn’t want to go anywhere. The minute I got into the car I was missing my mother, but that’s another story. We also had a passenger, Mrs B, who I wasn’t very keen on, but in the end I was glad she was there. I hadn’t seen her for years (she had been a ballerina and had tried to teach me some ballet when I was about 4 or 5 – not terribly successfully, I’m afraid), and I didn’t find her very warm.

Anyway, we set off on this expedition armed with out suitcases, passports and bagfuls of apples, and the most important thing, the itinerary prepared by the AA. Oh how I wish I had that document still. It was like a reporter’s notebook, with the spring at the top and very thick. It detailed every inch of the journey – turns, roads, rivers, bridges; from time to time it described the scenery, to make sure, I suppose, that you were on the right road. Whenever I see the word undulating, I am reminded of the AA’s enjoinder to note the undulating hills of Northern France. Such an onomatopoeic word.

My job was to hold this document and read out the instructions to my father in time for him to take the right road and make the correct turns. Map reading made easy, you would have thought. But not for a child who was travel sick the minute she tried to read anything in a moving car. It was extremely stressful.

By the time we had crossed the channel it was more than enough excitement for me. Then being in France. My father spoke French adequately, but I’d only been learning it for a year at school. So I knew some grammar – which I loved – but speaking was a total non starter. Still is really. But he would have none of it and tried to get me to speak to waiters etc. Nightmare.

But we stopped in Reims for lunch and to look around, and that was beautiful. And then we headed for our overnight stop. I don’t know if it had been booked or if we were there on spec. The station hotel seems to lurk in my memory, but that might just be a quirk of my imagination. What I do remember is the room. Dark. Dingy. Dirty. One 25 watt lightbulb. No pillow, only a bolster. How was I going to read? No bathroom. Toilet at the end of the corridor. It still sends shivers up my spine when I think about it. My very first night abroad in the town of Bar-le-Duc. Right out of my comfort zone!

Looking on Wikipedia now, it looks like a very pretty market town, half way between Reims and Metz. There was a lot of room for improvement from 1965 and from what I see it seems they have taken the opportunity. Have you ever heard of it, or maybe been there?