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I KNOW how they felt when they discovered the Marie Celeste. This campground has electricity, water, functioning if filthy showers, and even a television that turns on and off. There are two parked vans and two dozen blue canoes stacked on racks. There is opened bread on a table and rubbish in the bins.

All that is missing is human life. Nobody's here.

I've been here a couple of hours now and the sun is getting larger and lower. It is nearly on the top of trees across the neighbouring field. In a moment, I will finish this coffee and put up my tent regardless.

The curious thing is that I followed new and well-painted signs to get here. I was on the main highway heading south after Jan escorted me through the remaining outskirts of Warsaw. He and Ania live in close to the last street in the city. Behind their little housing area is the wood in which Ania runs every other morning. Up to 15km a time, and before going on to her work at a university.

Jan guided me along an unmade path between the trees, pointing out a monument to Polish resistance workers shot by the Germans. Such things are common enough that he didn't think it worth stopping.

The traffic was busy when we came out on the road. A constant flow headed into the city and early starters were already hurrying out of it. The road was narrow and traffic gave drivers little chance to overtake. Again, nobody hooted, nobody looked cross, nobody took dangerous or aggressive chances.

I won't pretend there was no stress in following Jan, squeezing through gaps, negotiating staggered junctions. But after an hour we were into the true countryside and into, Jan explained, the Grójec region, not just the biggest apple-growing area in Poland but the largest in Europe. Every third apple sold in Poland is grown in Grójec. Why? Apparently a unique micro-climate turns the apples a beautiful red.

Jan turned off, to see friends, and we parted with warmth and sadness and promises to see each other again. Jan urged me to take care and said again that he and Ania had the feeling that I was too foolish to be allowed out in the world by myself.

"If I had my way," Ania had told me with a laugh, "I'd wrap you up in cotton wool and put you on a plane back to your wife!"

Well, it wasn't a good day for farewells. It turned cold. It started raining. The sky sulked. It was still only mid-afternoon but I had no longing to go further. I stepped off the road in a downpour to explore the chances of wild camping. The first was too close to the road and too near to houses. The second was further from the road, down a tractor path, and the grass was perfect. But beer bottles and scattered bottles in the clearing weren't encouraging. There'd be no wild party in the woods on a wet night but it was enough to discourage me.

I rode on. And that was when I saw the bright white sign pointing left to a campground, seven kilometres away. It was further than I'd normally ride but I hoped that a decent side step would offer a quieter way south. And so I took the invitation.

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Every turning was signposted. The place was down a sandy path on the outskirts of a village and the gate was closed. Not locked, though. A padlock hung unfastened on a hook but the bike door opened. I went in. If it didn't work out, if it was closed or I was sent away, the sandy path guaranteed wild camping instead.

Well, as you know, there's nobody here. There have been and maybe there will again . They have left tubes of sun cream and a half-emptied glass of beer. The camping prices are still pinned to a post.

But there's nobody to pay.

Oh well... good night!