They say life is about the journey, not the destination.

It was my second day in France, on my first solo motorcycle trip, when my plans evaporated with the sound of a dying engine. It's never great news when this happens, but it is usually something simple. An engine needs fuel, air, and a spark, that's all. A breakdown is nearly always one of those.

This one wasn't. Stranded by the side of a busy D-road, the only option was to find help – no breakdown cover, and anyway, this was long before mobile phones. Cursing the machine and my bad luck, I started pushing it down a country lane lured by the only road sign around: Hallencourt 3km.

A few minutes later a young lad roared past, ragging his moped for all it was worth. He stopped, turned around, and came to see what was going on. The camaraderie of bikers! I spoke rather little French, but it was more than his English, and we communicated via a combination of sign language and universal expressions. 'Kaput' is a very versatile word.

Marcellin escorted me into the village, really little more than a hamlet, and introduced me to his friend Fabien. He, in turn, took me and my broken Honda 250 to his family's farmhouse on the edge of the village. Refreshed by a glass of truly excellent cider, and a piece of bread and cheese, it soon became clear that I had made new friends. The bike was installed in an outbuilding, and when I asked if I might camp in a corner of a field they merrily showed me to a spare room. This was incredible kindness and generosity.

Over the next couple of days I came to learn a little about them, as I stripped the engine in search of the fault. This part of Picardie had been liberated by Canadian forces after D-Day, and my Canadian family connections seemed to make me doubly welcome. The kitchen was adorned with bits of shrapnel and spent munitions, which were still being ploughed up nearly 40 years later. At least, I hoped those munitions were spent!

I was introduced to genuine French country food, the likes of which I had never before experienced. Bread, pate, soup, cheese, all of it delicious. And the cider. But the thing that made the biggest impression was the jam – blackcurrant jam that simply exploded with flavour. I don’t think I've tasted anything to match it, even to this day.

My mechanical efforts revealed that one of the rocker arms had snapped in two, and couldn't be fixed. I set off by bus to Amiens to seek a replacement, but came up empty. Adventure then got the better of me, and it was several weeks before I returned to Hallencourt. "Ah, l'Anglais!" came the cry as I, rather sheepishly, entered the village café and Tabac.

At least I did now have the part and, with the help of a little more hospitality, was able to reassemble the bike. Miraculously, it started. With my repertoire of expressions of gratitude exhausted, I set off back to the channel ports.

I don’t keep many mementoes, but that broken rocker arm has stayed with me ever since. It reminds me of a journey, not a destination, and of the incredible kindness of strangers.