A good traveler has no fixed plans and is not intent on arriving.
I think this tabac might be closed, even for the sale of Woodbine (a joke for the older reader).
It was an odd morning, the mist had gone and it was clear blue skies, and then, for about an hour, I was pedalling through misty hills again. It was so misty I had to constantly wipe my glasses else they too misted up. A miniature micro-climate.