We’re now perched on the east bank of the Rhone, where it separates Tarascon from Beaucaire. Not quite at the foot of the Le Château de Tarascon, but no more than a cover drive from the ramparts. Languedoc-Rousillon region. The evening breeze is overflowing with Nightingale song, a beautiful change to our Spotify playlists, which accompany most mealtimes.
Shortly before, we spotted our snoozing Beastie, from a high vantage point on top of Le Château. (Don’t ask me what the number is for)
An away-day by train into Nîmes takes us to see the star of the show, the Roman Arena. It looks the real deal. But it’s a disappointment. The 19th century revamp, plus the use of 20th century tarmac, coupled with a Disney style audio presentation leaves us cold. Despite it being 34C. The melting tarmac gets taken up each August for a couple of annual bull fights. Dire Straits & Co have performed live gigs here. Feels like we’ve paid our Money for Nothing.
Following day we Scoot-our-way to Avignon. They allow visitors to dance “Sur le pont” over here. You have to be careful though. They didn’t get round to finishing it.
Returning back to base we pass orchard after orchard of apricots. One section is laden. Ripened fruit droppings cover the ground. Too tempting. I haven’t been scrumping since I was a nipper. Mary-Ann acts as look-out. I scramble through the side brush. Et voila! Pockets bursting. Looking like the Gruffalo’s knobly knees.
