Author: brian.sheasby@outlook.com

In the wash-up with the mountain view is a notice board. Lots of local info. A stunning chateau in its own gardens, open to visitors, beckons. We’re less than five miles away. What could be simpler.  We leave early. Pat leads the way, but then it becomes clearly signed. So I switch her off. French signing seems to work on the basis that they point you in the general direction of a place or thing. You only get to know you’ve gone too far when the place you’re looking for is no longer signed. We hit countryside and do a U-turn – eventually. Beastie is not good at U-turns. Though he’s getting lots of practice.

We park Beastie up next to a petite counterpart. I step across to have a natter MOHO-man to MOHO-man with the owner. It’s what we do. We do a lot of waving too when out on the road. We’re like a secret society. Passing clandestine furtive messages. When you’re a novice you’re ultra keen to appear as if you’re not a novice. So you wave at anything that vaguely resembles an oncoming MOHO and get some queer looks into the bargain.  There’s a whole Semaphore system of signing. The most popular being the one-armer. Palm facing. Chief Big Horn style. Indicating “I see you MOHO-man, you see me?”  There’s the one finger. Hands still on steering wheel. “I see you novice”. There’s the Full Monty two-armer from baby-beasties acknowledging MOHO-man with Big-Beastie. There must be a hierarchy too. Yesterday I got a one-armer plus headlight flash. He must have been a Grand Master. The French MOHO-man is from Saint-Étienne and doesn’t speak English. I’m able to glean from him that the Chateau is “fermé aujourd’hui” What! On a Tuesday? “Oui”

Bye Bye Morning . . . .

“Route Barrée – Suivre Déviation”  – is not what we wanted to see . . . ever again.

We plan to stay in our first “Aire” tonight. There are thousands of these free and usually one night stop-overs all over France. No facilities as such. Perhaps water point and waste disposal. Glorified car-parks set aside to encourage trade for the local community of shopkeepers.

It’s a very clear run down the 1075 straight to Digne-les-Baines. We were on this road most of yesterday. It’s good. Now it’s not so good. Road closed ahead. Diverted to Gap. Do we mind?

We switch Pat off. We’re using a 12 miles to the inch touring map of Europe, so the scale of distance to anywhere often misleads us. Coupled with the fact it gives us no idea of terrain. A couple of inches can sometimes convert to an hour.  Mis-communication between pilot and real live navigator results in a decision to take the D900.  It’s a yellow road I’m informed. No problem. Yellow is good. The map shows an icon of a skier a couple of inches away, along with a couple of black chevrons. He should present no problem providing we keep our distance then. In any event, the views are very pretty as we trundle along the gradual incline.

If you’re a Top Gear fan, then you may be familiar with their luny trip in Bolivia, along the Death Road (El Camino de la Muerte). Now I’m not saying that the D900 brings you anywhere close to death in that sense, but for a 750 metre stretch after the following two photos were taken, the two narrow lanes merge into one lane;  no more than one foot wider than Beastie at any point. With a couple of blind corners and severe hairpins thrown in for good measure. If anything other than a Twiggy look-alike riding a uni-cycle were to approach at this point, then we’d probably still be camped out up there.

I asked Mary-Ann to snap away. “It’ll be good for the blog”. She ignored me. Eyes tight. Hands clasped tighter.

We make it to the Aire. Last ones to arrive. All EU eyes on us as we decide on where to roll Beastie. Will we double-up alongside the Dutch outfit? Hop-over to the French quarter? or can-can over to Jerry?

Beastie’s in control. He picks a spot close to the exit enabling us to leave easily, so that none can block us. Now where did I put that flag Nigel?

Many look as if they are here for the duration. Sat dishes channel searching. Awnings out along with table and chairs laid up for dinner. All alien to us. It’s a car park on a 1 in 10 slope! They sit around in mini communes chatting away. We stay mysterious and inside with home comforts.

With few sites in Nice for large MOHOs, our decision to make a stand on a principal, could have come back to bite us in the nether region.

Fortunately we manage to find another local site that could accommodate us.  Camping l’Hippodrome is a typical town site. Small pitches squeeze everyone into line, like soldiers on parade. All similarly different. All pitched up in their own unique style. Chalk and cheeses side by side. It’s all about being outside the box. Regardless. Some, like us, with basic table and chairs. Others lay down what could pass for a living room carpet. Table cloth, candle and flowers all adding to the illusion of “home sweet home”.

Earlier, we had arrived and booked in at another site. As we were being shown to our pitch, it came to light that Beastie was pregnant with little scoot. “Oh, that will be an extra €2.50 per night, monsieur”. We looked at one another, heads shaking like a couple of dystonian divas. What if we don’t use scoot? “It will still be charged for, monsieur”. But it won’t be using the toilet facilities or taking a shower. “It doesn’t matter, monsieur, it will still be charged for”. Oh, no it won’t!

Following day we scoot up to see a Posh n Becks villa, the other side (east) of Nice. It’s at the top end of a hilly Sandbanks style penninsula – Saint Jean-Cap-Ferrat. Pretty amazing place inside and out. Yet another Rothschild stunner. Almost ten out of ten. The twee Disney-like musical fountains so unnecessary.

Talking of Disney. If you’ve ever seen what’s now a cult 80s film called Tron, then you’ll have some idea of how the scooters move around the Nice roads. The Tron machines and riders become one entity. It’s the same here. It’s nothing short of scootmania in Scoot City. Up to now we’ve been used to scooting hither and thither like a couple of old sedated seniors. Indicating one way and going another. Can’t do that here. No time to indicate. You see a gap and you make it yours. It’s not the cars you have to be wary of. Scoots rule OK! They go where they can, when they can. Regardless. They duck and dive, weave and jive in and out of the traffic faster than Ali. Up the inside. Down the middle. Round the outside – Mclaren-esque. Or all three in one sweet shift. We get hemmed in on all sides. We’re made to look seriously static, along with the cars. Not for long though. It’s infectious. We’ve got all the time in the world, but we can’t hang around any longer. Besides we’ve got to keep the Brits’ end up.  Narrow streets. Traffic both ways. We’re dodging with the best of them.Why isn’t that oncoming concertina bus not slowing down . . . phew that was too, too close for comfort. Great fun for the driver – not so for the passenger!

Maybe we’ve been away from city-life for too long now. This is a culture shock of a different sort. Not sure that we like it much. Exchange a few WhatsApps with Laura and she points us to more salubrious quarters of the old city. Ah, that’s more like it.

Most of the long coastline here is all shingle. Large pebbles actually. That comes as a surprise. We resist the urge to imprint our derrières with mirrored fractals and scoot to Antibes for an am mooch. Then on into Cannes to find out what’s in the tin. Antibes we love. There are some seriously large vessels moored up. If it wasn’t for the fact that I get sea-sick just taking a bath then I may have been going green with envy.

Luckily, dinner is organised by Laura, who liaises between us and Ann. We haven’t seen her and her daughter Laora for eight years. We round the day off with an evening of Franglais fun on her balcony overlooking Nice Tennis Club.

Anytime between 12noon and 4pm can be a complete shutdown, down here. They like their lunch-breaks – big-time. With a climate like this can’t say I blame them. Seems they’re all on a permanent holiday with a paying job thrown in as a bonus.

So arriving at 1.30pm to a deserted reception at La Garde-Freinet camp site shouldn’t have been too much of a surprise. We decide to have a shaded lunch before looking around the facilities. This area hasn’t seen rain for months. Very dusty pitches and blowy. No go area for Mary-Ann. We head into Le Lavandou on the coast.

The site is vertically and horizontally challenging even for large caravans. Every pitch designated with two thick tree sentinels, forming US grid style avenues of accidents waiting to happen. Thick low slung arms ready to catch and scratch any driver not up to the mark. Me and Beastie are about to get pasted. We choose our spot and go for it, very cautiously. 30 metres in I wander slightly off centre and wedge Beastie up against a nine inch thick branch. A dutch couple aware of our predicament, kindly try to assist. She gets a step and he tries out his newly practised Tarzan act by hanging off the branch in the vain hope it’ll give a little and free Beastie. He could have done with Cheetah’s help, or maybe not. Nothing gave. A little jigory pokey of the minisculest of to-ing and fro-ing and Beastie’s free and none the worse for wear. However, can’t get him onto the pitch we’ve chosen. Not enough turning room. We choose another and the best we can do is park up diagonally. All very strange. At least we did Pythagoras proud. Mary-Ann was too fraught to take photos. Leaving day should be fun!

Fab beach day at Le Lavandou marks our journey’s half way point. Sometimes you have to take a break from traveling and site-seeing. That’s exactly what we did.

Perfect sea temperature. Perfect golden sand. Perfectly blue sky. Hottest day so far. Mastering the Namib quickstep being essential for getting around if you don’t want your slabs of meat to end up medium to well done.

We round the day off with 18 competitive holes on the Tanganyikan mini golf trek. A cleverly constructed course with many pitfalls for the unsuspecting.

Mrs Cheese edging the event by one stroke . . .

Despite getting Beastie ensnared again on the way out this morning, we manage to escape unscathed – just.  A case of Deja Vue all over again. I’ve got Beastie’s length and width figured. From inside, his height remains an unknown commodity – any ideas Rog?

Later, we’re pitched up near the southern shore of Berre l’Etang. It’s a gorgeous first evening on this spacious site, run by a couple of French MOHOmers. Beautifully calm.  We’re a stones throw from the deserted pool and we don’t need asking twice. Perfect end to the day.

This Provence region gets subjected to over thirty types of winds. They’ve all got their own name too. One of the most well known is the Mistral. We awake on a rocking boat. So we lower the life-scoot and sail down to Martigues. A pretty little Venetian style port.

The brisk, blustery and unpredictable side winds batter us homewards. We tack and jibe along the carriageways a la Kon-Tiki, confusing the local traffic. Mary-Ann clinging on for dear life like an unseasoned white-water rafter.

Following evening we’re treated to an air display by the local fire brigade. At first, one bright yellow and red prop eases past our pitch at 100ft and 45 degrees. Before long, five are dipping and scooping up gallons of water like thirsty Pteradactyls to disperse and damp down a local forest fire.

It will remain windy for at least two more days, so we move on.

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.

We can’t quite believe the pitch we’ve been allocated on this site in Agde. We have our own covered cooking and eating “block”! Alongside our own shower and toilet facility too. There are only four of these on the site – perhaps world! We get many enquiring looks from other campers. We’re thinking of opening up a take-away . . .

Now we are really starting to feel almost French. But there are some eccentricities we’re resisting the urge to adopt. We want to retain a little of our British Decorum after all.

Mary-Ann is as brown as a berry as you can imagine. I’m playing catch-up. Too shy to adopt Full Monty mode. From my feet upwards I’m rather stripy. A mix of white, brown & pink. Not quite cosmopolitan, more neopolitan!

It could be worse I suppose . . .

Later, we pop out for a stroll down to the quay. No matter where you travel on this planet, you can guarantee that sooner or later you’re going to clock a familiar face.

Tanking along on our way to Huttopia’s Font Romeu just this side of Andorra. Lovely fast straight roads. All needed. Longish journey today. Unable to let them know the Shazbies are coming. Stopped for lunch and gave them one more try. Oops. Seems this site doesn’t open until 15th June – today is 13th!! Didn’t read the small print.

We’re just over an hour’s drive or so from Carcassonne, which houses what seems like a pretty in tact Cité Médiéval. As Pat would say “Turn around when possible”.

Didn’t quite expect to be hit with a below the belt tourist punch within 20 metres of entering the ancient city walls.

Now we’re melting. When it’s cooler in Beastie’s innards, then you know it’s rather warm outside.

And when pigeons are lining up like diving ducks, you know it’s a good time to head for the pool.

But I’m glad I didn’t have to wear my woolly bonnet today.

Even the ancient towers seeked shade under their top hats.

Now we can turn and head for home. Something strange and unexpected has happened. It always does when we’re over here. Without exception.

It’s 10.30pm. We’re now relaxing with a coffee. Warm and dry. 6,000 feet up at Font Romeu – Pyrénées. It’s a huge ski resort. 20,000 local beds await those in search of the white stuff. It’s not white stuff time of the year – usually!

This morning’s leaving temperature – a cool 32C. Aiming to rise to it’s giddy heights later – as per the previous few days. We need to cool off. As we climb it gradually drops to a cooler 18C. Then levels out at 20C on arrival. Perfect walking temperature. We go through the usual pitching up procedures. Hook up Beastie to the electric. Turn on the gas. Open a few windows to let some air in . . . . etc.

Lovely site. Good facilities. Two heated outdoor pools overlooking the opposing mountains. It’s what we expect from a Huttopia site. Beastie’s got a nice level pitch. Site only opened for the season today. We’re second to arrive.

We semi-tog up into walking shoes and decide to take waterproofs with us. At the top of town the sky becomes more overcast behind. The main road through is a downhill 1 in 12. We continue down. Apart from the traffic it’s all very quiet. The odd pedestrian here and there. Many shops closed. The summer season hasn’t yet got fully under way.

On the return leg we take a short detour. The air fills to the brim with thunder. Lightning flashes fail to scatter the lowering blankets of cloud. Loud and unusual clatterings join in. It’s as if a local steel band just can’t quite get their act together. All drummers vying to be heard simultaneously. Every metal object near to us is being orchestrated, creating one almighty symphonic din. White objects are being hurled down with huge force. Hitting anything and everything that gets in their way. Thor is having a bad hair day.

It abates. Perhaps that’s it. All mouth and no bite. We call in to the tourism office. We’re after some local walking loops. Just as we leave, the orchestra starts up again. Slowly at first. Like Torvel and Deane’s Bolero. We stand under cover, mesmerised as thousands upon thousands, then, millions upon millions of hail stones per second perform a unique song and dance ice show. Opposite, local cars nose dive urgently into a free underground car park in fear.

The road and pavement whiten. A new landscape is painted in front of our eyes. The performance rises to a crescendo as painter and orchestra seek a finale. But this hasn’t been scripted. It’s improvisation at it’s highest level. Problem is they haven’t rehearsed. Neither knows where the ending is or when to reach it. Like a needle stuck in an old 78 they play the same old, same old, same old. Unable to finish what they started. No one to give them a nudge.

A young man with no shoes appears. Wearing a blue bucket for head protection. Makes a dash for it. A dog trapped over the other side of the road is confused. The road is now a fast flowing ice river. His owner calls and calls. He hops this way, then that. Searching for a way to reunite with his master’s voice.

Thirty minutes pass. Pavements four inches white and sludgy. The storm hasn’t. Lightning and thunder continue to rattle our cage. We decide to go for it. We make it to the next covered section. We’ve gained fifty metres and a few bumps. Not quite saturated, but working on it.

We need to get to the brow of the hill, then down into camp where Beastie awaits. A pregnant pause in proceedings is required. A brief interlude fools us into making a further dash for it. Not a good idea. We gain another 50 metres upstream. We’re being battered. Pulverised and hammered into submission  We need Clark Kent to come and whisk us to safety. We huddle under a nearby tree. It’s not shelter enough. Heads, shoulders, knees, thighs, calfs, bombarded from all angles. A fir tree offers more respite and we duck under. Shivering and soaked to the skin. We feel bewildered. Sense of humour still intact – time for a photo.

We’re now shivering. Thoroughly drenched to the skin. Might as well be naked. Or perhaps not. We are British. Our stiff upper lips just the tip of the ice berg. We can’t stay put just to be discovered 10,000 years later, like a couple of fossilised ice lollies. It eases ever so slightly. Now’s our chance. We make it to the brow of the hill. Freezing, swirling slush gushes higher than our ankles. Oh what fun!

Heads ducked with arms covered for added protection scramble onto the site. It looks different. We get disorientated and take the longest route back to Beastie. Safety beckons. We climb on board relieved. Looking forward to a hot chocolate. As you do in June. No chance. The raging torrent outside is also inside. Who left two central roof windows open? Moi!

Three inch layer of compacted hailstones jam the sealing lips. It’s virtually impossible to close them. Towels, tea towels, odd cloths, socks all put to use on the floor. Bowls and buckets juggled from one deluge to another. We were fighting fires of a wet kind. A further two hours until we were watertight.

All together now . . . Phew!

You Tube videos links to follow SAP

How sedate. We’re all dried. Inside and out. Feeling like a couple of prunes. Couple of short local hill walks with fabulous views put us back on our feet. Font-Romeu back to it’s tame same. Clear skies and 26C is more like it. Dip in the cool pool –  not heated. Books read. No buzz. No adrenaline rush. That’s alright with us. We move on towards the Atlantic tomorrow with eyes not quite yet focused on the home horizon. Last legs looming, but ours aren’t.

Here are the videos from white Thursday – in sequence.

Copy and paste this into your browser – 8 clips in one playlist – about 8 minutes in total

https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC2g_GhDROG_PxpTuWEeiwiA/playlists

It’s been in the 40s today. Pre-dinner apéritifs replaced with pre-dinner cold showers. Much more refreshing. We’re 145 miles further east in an Aire at Auch. (doesn’t hurt a bit) Trying to catch some breeze. Relaxing over dinner besides a small town river.  Green through and through, with just a couple of drakes to add colour. They join us and snuffle around the grass at our feet. Eagle eyes seeking out unseen tidbits. A small fritillery flirts and flutters around Mary-Ann’s empty wine glass. Alsace aroma irresistible. We know how he feels. Frantically flapping and zig-zagging to put us of the scent. He ventures down to drown in the last of the dregs, like he knows the end of his world is nigh.  Sucks and savours before he swaggers and swirls away.

. . . then these have saved me a lot of typing . . .

Our view across Hydrobase de Biscarrosse from our pic-nic spot

The shallow water stretches into the basin a good 100 metres. But not shallow enough to prevent this short legged Beagle needing his periscope.

Day two and looking forward to a steak, salad and red wine pic-nic. We pad over the fifty metres or so and set our-selves up on “our spot”. Ready for the evening’s final two hours light show.

Have you ever forgotten to remove the elastic from around a roasted chicken wing and ended up performing a 9.7 inter-dental trampolining routine? Well, that just about sums up what we need to do with, as the label descibes, our “faux fillet”. We should have guessed that the clue was in the first word. When even your fork bounces back attempting to capture a morceau, then you know for sure that your pearly yellows and jaws are in for a serious work out. Good job we took a doggy bag along.

They say things happen in threes. Well, I’ve lost three things so far. So, I’m in the clear for the home run. N’est-ce-pas? First, a nearly full bottle of washing up liquid after my breakfast wash-up. Second, a nearly full bottle of shower gel. Neither, no big deal. Thirdly, my electric razor. Last seen at Tarascon-sur- Rhone. Who would take it from the sink I left it at? Can they use it without the charger?

Therefore,  the phrase “what are you like Brian” gets repeated frequently whenever I slip into search-about mode. So it was a strange comforting feeling when Mary-Ann revealed she’d lost her shower gel yesterday evening. “No worries” I said, “I have my nearly new gel, so we have two options”. Option one, “you wash my back and I’ll wash yours”.  “OK, OK – let’s go for option two”. This involves using separate cubicles that back onto one another. The idea being that Mary-Ann washes and then throws it over to me. Good theory. But not in practice. The reason? The cubicles appear to back onto one another, but in fact unbeknown to us, there is a four foot dividing gap, housing the water runaways.

“Finished?” – “Yes” – “OK, lob it over then” – “I have” – “Where to?” – “To you of course” – “Which direction?” – “Don’t be stupid!” – “Did you throw it left or right?” “Straight ahead, like we agreed” – “Are you sure?” (not a good reply at this point) – “You idiot!! I know where and whether I’ve thrown it or not” – “Oh, OK then. Well, how hard or far did you throw it?”  – “Oh, I don’t know, just over the top and into your cubicle” . . .

Short and very hot journey today. Gives us time to explore this huge expanse of beach. It’s less than 300 metres away from our site at Cap de Ferret. The wooden walk over the dune protects our feet. We aim to fill in the blancs.

We take a walk to the left as far as the eye can see. The sun worshippers thin out the further we go. Some adopt an Adam & Eve stance. Others do likewise, but they are Eve-less.  They seem happy though.

Retired and not enough hours in the day. That’s me. So I switch into supermarket mode sometimes. Blog one, give one free.

Today is no exception then.

This MOHOing lark is not all about just having fun. There’s serious chores to do. It’s a lot like being at home. Only you’re somewhere else. Same elements combine to make this home on wheels, but it’s “Dinky” scale. Chores just take less time. (unless it’s a 100 metre walk to les poubelles) The weekly vac has not been missed (my bob-a-job back home). That could change for our next venture. Mary-Ann has plans to invest in a hand held version.

There’s even DIY. A couple of days ago we noticed a couple of black flappy things hanging down like Rasta ribbons from under the engine.  With today being an unexpected grey day I slipped into Mike and the Mechanics mode. Slid under the engine until it was just Over My Shoulder and pretended to know what I was looking at for ten minutes or so. Half a roll of Gaffa tape later and I’d earned another bob.

We hope to have one more beach day. The weather changes. Temperature drops over 10C. We decide to move on tomorrow.

It’s the eighties since we last camped on a Eurocamp site. Then, we would lug around a five berth tent and its pipework on our Datsun 180B roof rack. The pipework alone would sink that old car down onto its haunches. None of the super lightweight 21st century tubing. This was equally at home holding a tent up, or supporting a building crew as scaffolding. Bought second hand, it confused us no end the first time we erected it. We had two extra poles to requirement. Have you ever bought a jig-saw with an odd piece or two that’s from a completely different set, yet they seem to fit in perfectly with the one you’re making? Mystified frustration results until the error of your ways is discovered. Oddly, I carried those two extra poles around on subsequent camps – just in case . . .

We’ve risked coming inland and away from the coastal air. Pitched up on the best site we’ve been on so far. A few miles south of Bergerac – at Pomport-Beach – Eurocamp recommended. With the indoor pool to ourselves we swim off the day’s travel.

Today we scoot into Bergerac. We were last here about twelve year’s ago. Take the back roads through hectare after hectare of vineyards. Grapes still smaller than Birds Eye petits pois. Any thoughts of scrumping squashed. All “chateau” branded. AKA glorified family farm houses. Later in town we indulge in our first “degustation” at the Maison des Vins, where we discover that from ancient times the French have officially classified wine as food. We end up not being degusted and take away three take aways. I manage to stay under the limit despite  indulging in a lunchtime panaché.

Brightly coloured trails lead us to the beautiful cathedral at the top of town. Seems the PAF have beaten us to it.

Walking back to scoot we get ambushed by a trio of fart mimics. A lone boy stands across our path adopting an unusual pose.  Still as a statue. Like the type you see in Convent Garden, but he’s not silver and there’s no empty pot of gold. As we go to pass, his bottom springs into action. His two hidden accomplices create a huge dolby stereo surround sound fart. We’re blown over by the realism. Cracking up we move on quickly for fear of aftershocks.

The weather man says it’s going to rain on Monday. But today is going to be a Sun-day from cover to cover. So we book an extra night and remain here to get covered.

We have plans to visit Les Jardins de Sardy. A 32K scoot. Having left our lunch sarnies in the fridge (you should always never do that), we make a short stop at Saint Foy La Grande to pick up a couple of wraps. Sitting on the south bank of the Dordogne, it doesn’t seem to have much going for it. But. Today is Vide-Grenier day. Every household has cleared out their attic. Erected a trestle table and put the contents on show for any passerby to purchase. It’s like one huge car-boot, church fete and jumble sale rolled into one. The main Rue is more than 500 metres long. The entire length a festivity of decoration. Hardly anyone is buying. Including us. Nothing tempting. Not even some old geezer’s collection of warming irons.

Then we come across a possible Scoot update – at 40 Euros it’s a snip.

Sardy house & gardens date back to the middle ages having started life as a winery and pigeon house. The late 1950s see them transformed into a beautiful blend of Italian and English. Still lived in today we can understand why the proud owners would want to show them off.

One week left until we return to Angleterra-Firma. We should start heading north. Though we can’t quite turn our backs on the heat just yet. So we make a short leap east. Pretending we have longer left than we do. Watching the weather forecasts more than ever. Trying to make sure we make the most of our remaining time. Expecting storms later today. We get fooled. They get blown away.

This Perigord region is full of prehistory. World famous for its tiny villages. Elevated runs, high up within the massive rock structures that just seem to spring up out of nowhere. We take a lunch stop and an audio tour at one of the sites. The imposing rock formations still able to accommodate family life 15,000 years on.

It’s 4pm. We’re now pitched up on this very hilly terraced site just a ten minute walk from Sarlat’s Medieval “centre ville”. Our secluded pitch is in the Royal Circle.  Didn’t fancy the long walk up to the cheaper seats, so we paid a small two night premium.

A little earlier I succumbed to a bizarre panic attack.

A couple of weeks or so ago a Dutch caravanner told me of his living nightmare. Dutifully, he mind-numbingly followed his sat nav instructions to the tee. Ended up blocking a narrow street in the Medieval centre of Carcassonne. It took 90 minutes of local assistance to free him.

Pat Nav didn’t quite fulfil her duty today. Not entirely her fault. It seemed the same street had two names. Just depended which end of the street you were.  We were at the end with a high brick wall to the left and a house and garden to the right. When her dulcet tones cheerfully announced “you have reached your destination”, I’ll leave you to imagine the type of verbal response that issued forth. (It’s quite scary how we relate to this on board computer, just because it uses human speak – but oh so liberating!)

Having completed her task Pat Nav relinquishes all responsibility. We’re on our own. Leaving us to navigate a strange new landscape. We do a couple of laps of the hospital high up on another hill. Becoming more familiar with the local landmarks. Mary-Ann using her mobile Maps app to assist. Should be a sinch. We start a third lap. Decide to make a slight deviation from our usual circuit. It must be down here – surely? No way! Literally. Well, so I thought. With the Dutch man’s story fresh in my mind I go into mental melt down as the street narrows and narrows some more as it bends to the left. We’re unwittingly going to drive right into the middle of town. Images of French onlookers pouring out from every nook and cranny; gloating over the Englishman’s plight as he wedges his Beast against the ancient walls skewer my brain. I hit the brakes. Check the mirrors. (I know, it should have been the other way around). “Quick, get out. I’m going to turn around”. “What?” Mary-Ann cries, she can’t believe it. She jumps out though nonetheless. The road is not as wide as Beastie is long. However, I have noticed a recess a few metres behind. Frantically engage reverse. There are now cars behind and a few approaching. A woman has popped out of her adjacent house. Obviously this is more interesting than daytime TV.  A walking couple come to a standstill. Frozen by the predicament they see emerging. In a state of confusion, Mary-Ann does her best to placate the drivers. They probably feel sorry for her. I think it might be a twenty point turn. It will be worth it. I don’t want to become another Dutch Dummkopf. At the very last second I realise I’m going to create another day one scenario. I don’t have my club hammer and chisel with me. My brain is about to explode. I chicken out at the last minute. Mary-Ann jumps aboard and we head down into next day’s headlines. Miraculously on entering the bend it widens. As do our smiles.

The more accurate forecast for today gives us a window to pop into town. It’s a mix of shopping, seeing, photoing. Apart from the beautifully constructed ancient buildings it’s like any other. Shops, restaurants, shops, restaurants and more restaurants. Every tiny alley crammed with tables and chairs. The menus overflow with Muscovy Duck choices. A white quackless version the French breed. We turn another corner. A surprise visit. Eight squadies.

What do they know that we don’t? Out of shot – their sub-machine weapons . . .

With weather like this, who needs a touring holiday.

Our sites are well and truly turned northwards. It’s 22.55. We are pitched up on the edge of a small wood. A few miles south west of Saumur. It is absolutely hammering down. We feel good to have made the right choice. Hightailing it for home. Better to be motoring than sitting, static and stuck inside. Aiming to bring our tunnel crossing forward by a couple of days. We’ll see. Mary-Ann is planning our great escape. Two more nights should do it.

All things considered today was a “plain” day.  We simply ploughed on across country. Watching the landscapes change. They do that a lot over here. The rain washing away one picture, the sun revealing another.  Moving from one department to another. Then into the next region.

A small piece of gravel to the side of the road presents us with enough room to pull Beastie in and stretch our legs. A random stop. We’re in no man’s land. Nothing for miles.  Yet someone has been here many time before. A discreet shrine to Mary. Created and secluded within the trees and bushes.  Directing travellers. It’s her job.

We’re within the Anjou department. However, not many vineyards planted on our route. Mainly rolls of damp hay. Mary-Ann is keen to capture a full field of open sunflowers. They scatter the hedged-in fields like confetti. Caught napping, she misses opportunities as they either wizz by, or are not in bloom. Two miles from our destination she is rewarded. Almost.

I wonder if you can guess whose maison we dropped in on today?

Penultimate day finds us pushing Beastie along our longest day yet. 225 miles. All non motorway. Pat’s having a whale of a time. We ignore her when we know better. At such a time we stop for a milk and chocolate biscuit break. Randomly double checking her “route” against Mr Google’s we can see Claud Monet’s place is twelve minutes away.  Fifteen or so years ago we were this way. Made a special trip. It was August. The place was heaving. Queues, queues and queues. We gave up. So we abandon the notion of getting to the next Aire as early as possible. Too good an opportunity. We are not disappointed. The garden and lilly pond filling our internal storage with some memorable images. We are not alone. Facebook must be filling up fast too. Everyone is a photophanatic. I heard that the total number of photos taken worlwide last year was greater than the previous ten years combined.

Since we’ve been over here we’ve noticed only three static speed cameras. They are completely different to ours back home. Discreetly blending in with the road side furniture. Like aesthetic aliens. Predator like. Invisible unless you look very very carefully. We are wise to their disguise. “Zapped” in week one. “Zapped” in week eight (today) – not wise enough though! A muddy coating over both number plates required.

We’re 7K east of Boulogne Sur Mer, at Pernes-les Boulogne. Killing time before the crossing. It’s a small secluded family run farm site.

Not to be disappointed as we approach the entrance to this small village it is “Route Barré“. What else? We do a 5K loop deviating to the other side. Same again. Huge machinery digging and moving. The whole of the main Rue taken up. Preparations for the new Rue. A quick word with one of the workman and we’re through. A bit wet and bumpy, but Beastie doesn’t mind. It’s good practise for sterner stuff we have in mind.

Our last dinner is blessed with a perfectly calm and warm evening. The type we regularly yearn for back home. We even have the use of a pub style table and bench. Our after dinner drinks disturbed by a local prowler. Plates cleaned of any salmon residue saves us valuable washing up time.

Our tunnel crossing awaits. Saturday 12.20pm. Providing this little scoundrel gives us some peace tonight. He’s penned up 20 metres from us. I find him cute. Mary-Ann wants me to put on my Death Reaper outfit.

We’ve drunk our fill of Fantastique France for now. Our thirsts are not quenched however. Like two hungry Billy Bunters we are greedy for more. But first Italy invites. Eight weeks to catch our breath. Catch up with family and friends. Beastie and scoot both need a rest too, along with a few tweaks. By this time tomorrow Beastie will definitely not be parked up on our drive. That will wait until I’ve put my hammer to good use – again.

So, like a couple of rolling stones our “petite adventure” is at an end. It’s been good to share it. At times good therapy too. Just to get over some of the crazy situations we’ve (I’ve) created. We’ve had fun 99.9% of the time. Not a bad score I’d say.

Thanks for journeying with us.

A la prochaine . . .