The constant rhythm of the windscreen wipers was beginning to play on my nerves. The black tarmac of the motorway glistened with spray and the heavy sky was becoming increasingly overcast as the clock moved on towards early evening. We were travelling northwards away from Strasbourg in silence. I hardly dared to glance at Kevin, my husband, at the wheel, let alone make conversation; but I could read his thoughts: "I've been waiting nearly thirty years for this - since my early teens. A once in a lifetime experience and now it's going to be cloudy!"

Tomorrow would be the 11th August - an insignificant date most years - but not in 1999. The 11th August was to be the date of the total solar eclipse - the moon was to obscure our sun, plunging parts of the earth into varying degrees of darkness with its shadow. We had just spent two weeks under clear blue skies in the French Alps and had planned our return journey to take a north-easterly detour. All available charts and road maps had been consulted - location was critical - we had to be on the "line of totality" before twelve noon, French time, the following morning in order to experience the full effect of the eclipse. Kevin is a keen amateur astronomer and had previously been Secretary of the Derby and District Astronomical Society and still edits their magazine, so how could I begrudge him a slightly early departure from the magnificence of the Alps and deny him the chance of witnessing the last total solar eclipse of the Millennium and, unless our finances took a turn for the better and allowed a trip to a more exotic location, this "once in a lifetime experience"?

The dark sky, which had accompanied us on our journey through the Vosges mountain range, was now an ominous black colour over the Rhine, which marks the border between France and Germany. An ambiguous region of France - I always felt that if I were to awake suddenly from a deep sleep and gaze out of the window, I would have said that we were in Germany, not her western neighbour and many times adversary. I mean, how can Pfaffenhoffen be in France?

Our destination that evening, at the end of a long and tiring journey, was to be the town of Haguenau, where we knew there was a campsite. But it was getting late; the tortuous alpine passes earlier in the day and then later, the wet motorways, had slowed our progress. We pulled into Haguenau and followed the Camping direction signs. A side road led down to what looked like the entrance to a prisoner of war camp, complete with Stacheldraht entwined around its high metal fencing. An electronic security barrier guarded the driveway. It was not with disappointment that we read the notice: COMPLET. No room at the inn, nor in fact, anywhere in this uninspiring town, which was soon to have its two minutes of glory - plumb on the line of totality.

We had discussed the possible difficulties in finding accommodation and at the end of the holiday we had no budget for an expensive hotel room, even if there had been one available. We had no option now - sleep in the car! But where should we park? Kevin had the answer. There was a large parking area not far off the main street which appeared to be designated as a lorry parking area, albeit unofficially. Several drivers were already busying themselves getting their cabs organised for the night. "What's wrong?" snapped Kev as he looked at my glum face. Tempers were indeed a little frayed by this time and we were both tired and hungry. Men do tend to forget one important fact: "It's OK for you….." I wailed, seeing a few discreet trees, "…but I'll need the loo!"

We finally decided to retrace a few miles of our journey, back onto the motorway, where we parked up in one of the ubiquitous and so welcome facilities on a French autoroute, an "aire" or service area. I was not sure if overnight parking was allowed but we saw no signs indicating this and tried to make ourselves comfortable. A vending machine provided us with hot drinks; we had a snack and then decided to read by the light of our head torches until sleep overcame us. Sleeping in a car with the seats fully reclined is one thing, but we had rather overlooked the fact that we were unable to move the seats an inch - so loaded up were we with our camping equipment, climbing gear, rucksacks and, oh yes, there was an odd bottle of wine there too!

Some hours later, as dawn broke, I eased my stiff limbs out of the car and limped across to the facilities to splash water on my bleary eyes. A wonderful aroma greeted me as I opened the door - of course - we were in France! Arranged over the counter were all manner of French pastries, plain croissants, almond croissants, pains au chocolat …… Fumbling for my loose change, I purchased what I hoped might go a little way to consoling Kev. Yes, as he had feared, the sky was overcast with cloud.

We made a decision to travel west in search of a break in the clouds. Obviously it made no sense to drive in an easterly direction as this would have only added miles to our journey up to Calais the following day. We strained to catch information from the French radio stations, all well set up to cover the progress of the moon's shadow as soon as it touched land on the most westerly tip of Normandy, until it left French soil over the Rhine. My French is passable, but the poor reception on the car radio and the excited gabbling of the Gallic presenters made it a difficult task to catch weather reports. We only had a certain time in which to drive as Kev needed a while to set up his telescope, tripod and camera. Pulling off the motorway once more in order to consult our map, we spotted a group of men standing doing the very same thing, leaning over the bonnet of a British registered vehicle. "Look!" I exclaimed, "some British astronomers!" "How do you know?" asked Kev. But there was no mistaking them - bearded, balding and sporting Kennedy Space Centre T-shirts. I remained in the car while Kev went to consult them but they were none the wiser than us about the best location to catch a break in the clouds.

Time was running out and we made a quick decision to head for an elevated country road and find a parking area. We were, by now, on the outskirts of the town of Metz. We were not alone in our choice of viewing spot as a German family had parked close by and a Dutch car a short distance away. Tripods pointed telescopes and cameras skywards and everyone was prepared with special viewing spectacles or filters to prevent eye damage, but ironically there seemed little need of these precautions, as the sun remained obliterated by the cloud layer. We waited.

The air chilled slightly and a perceptible breeze rustled the leaves on the apple trees. Was it really getting dark? We checked the time. Only a few minutes until the sun would disappear under the shadow of the moon. We gazed up to the sky. A gap in the clouds! A whoop of exclamation from our German neighbours! There it was - the sun! Weak and pallid but with an obvious crescent shaped bite out of its edge. Camera shutters clicked frantically, until the clouds moved over and obscured our view once more. We checked the time again - only seconds left now until totality. The temperature dropped noticeably this time, and, glancing towards Metz, whose suburbs were easily visible from our vantage point, we watched as the street lights came to life, as if someone were driving quickly along the roads, wielding a huge taper, with which to illuminate the lamps. A grey shadow was chasing across the ground and we were powerless to stop it. We had no reassuring streetlights nearby and darkness fell. It was cold. For two minutes and thirteen seconds. A cockerel crowed at a nearby farm and the birds were visibly confused. Yes, I had read about this phenomenon but not really believed it would happen. Then, breaking the uneasy atmosphere, there was the sound of champagne corks popping, cheering and laughter. The shadow had gone, the sun was uncovered and normality restored on earth.

"Hallo!" said a woman's voice. "We have too much food: potato salad, bread. Would you like some?" The German lady from the nearby car was smiling a little shyly. "Ah, Guten Tag!" I responded, a little taken aback. "Das ist sehr nett von Ihnen! Wir haben wirklich Hunger!" It was very nice of her and we really were hungry. We stood chatting for a while, partly in German and partly in English, sharing a huge bowl of traditional German fare and chunks of very healthily tasting sunflower seed bread.

And there ended the long awaited total solar eclipse of 1999. Disappointment, yes, that we had not had a cloudless view, that Kev had not seen the much talked about "diamond ring" or the "corona", but for me, rather the sceptic about matters astronomical, it had been a great experience chasing the sun over the north of France.