Category: France 2017

Bailleul, France 8th May of the great adventure, and we’re securely camped up in the driving wind and rain, not quite as we imagined our first day “en France”. It could have been even more frustrating, but more of that later . . .

When we started to conceive our great get away, we bought into a dream, although nobody sold it to us. We constructed it out of thin air. Wrapped and packaged it. Tied a pretty ribbon around it, and despatched it into the future. All we had to do was get there, or, as it is now, here. Unwrap it and “live it”.
At times I had to stop myself from wishing my life away just to get to this point. Childlike, December mentality kicks in and your focus hones in on the 25th. Nothing else matters, or so it seems. On arrival, the reality of the now has taken over and unforeseen practicalities hide around every corner.
Let me give you an example.

Beastie, is packaged as a 4 berth (5 if you convert some of the seating). Great, we thought. Should the time arrive, then we have room for two more. Hmm – it’s not that straight forward. There’s something called maximum payload and before our trial UK excursion, we discovered that we were going to be perilously close to being over our payload of 340kg. So I started to weigh everything.
Here’s the maths, if Beastie was a Winnebago we’d have to do the math, thankfully he’s not.
Payload = 340Kg
Us 150Kg; 1 scooter 100kg; 2 scooter helmets 5kg; 1 scooter top box 3kg = 258kg
1 scooter ramp 15kg; table & chairs 14kg; 2 bikes 30kg; bag of tools 5kg = 64kg
Essential electrical stuff – laptop, Nespresso m/c :-), kettle, hairdryer etc 7kg = 7kg
Plates, cups, glasses, saucepans & cutlery etc 8kg; towells, bedlinen 6kg = 14kg
So even without adding clothes, food and loads of other stuff we were already over the top and no room for more humans.

When queried with the dealer we were told “well, it is specified in the technical section of the brochure” – I was too dreamy eyed to take that in. So before this trip I became obsessed with weighing everything. Even so, we thrust everything we “thought” we needed into Beastie until we could see his Pot Belly starting to stretch at the seams.

We “that’s us over here” can be such “plebs” sometimes. The reason we are spending a week or so in northern France is to visit some of the WW1 sites. On entering Bailleul around lunchtime we were looking forward to indulging ourselves with our first cup of French coffee and maybe a “petite patisserie” not to mention putting into practice our newly honed French ackson. All seemed very quiet. We parked up in the huge “centre ville” car park and wondered where everybody was. It was just gone 1.30pm, blowing a rainy gale, with the temperature feeling sub-zero. We togged up and ventured out. Everywhere was shut. Perhaps it’s just  the customary two hours closing down time – we just needed to wait until after 2pm. So we warmed up by taking a look inside the massive church overlooking the square. A novelty, a church warmer inside than outside. 2.15pm passed and still the town had a Marie Celeste feel to it. Where was everybody? Confused and a little disgruntled we left and made our way to our first site only to be greeted with a hand written note on the reception door saying that the office was closed for the rest of the day and could we phone “this” number on arrival.
Now ever since touching down over here we have had a communication problem. Most of our trip is planned to cover rural France and despite moving both phones over to EE with their 4G Orange coverage in France, neither phone had signal. Time for a Nespresso and a sandwich (benefits of MOHOing) and a bit of a ponder.

Eventually the on-site owner materialised at the side of Beastie. Beamed down Arnie style, although fully dressed I might add. She ushered me into her office den where we spoke brokenly in each other’s language. Confusion reigned briefly as we struggled to make sense of our pronunciation. With grace and a bowlful of humour we managed “et voila” we had our first night booked.

However, the unwelcome weather was having none of it and cast a glum shadow over our joy at finding our first stop. At least I could utilise my bespoke drying implements.

Mystery solved – 8th May is a National Holiday over here celebrating Charles de Gaulle’s announcement that WW2 had ended.

Obsession with the weather is prerequisite to being “en vacances”, so the clear blue morning banished our lingering frustrations. Replacing them with an eagerness to be up and on our way.

As the first junction of the morning approached everything seemed out of kilter. Like one of those illusions where your eyes see one thing and your brain another and it can never quite marry the two. The signs had all been moved around during the night, by a couple of giggling drunks on their way home from the pub, wishing mahem on some poor unsuspecting UKlander. But there’s no pub for miles. Ooops!! A quick swerve, a frantic 360 scan and a huge double sigh that our “faux pas” had not resulted in grief.

Planning to visit as many WW1 sites as possible on our route to our next stop, Vimy Ridge was top of our list.
We tend not to do much homework before visiting any historical place, but prefer to discover anew. As we meandered through the quiet towns and villages, we became acutely aware of just how many cemeteries of honour are scattered throughout this region. Silent, thankfully and beautifully maintained. Immaculate Jesus rows sharing with him the ultimate sacrifice.
The greater the number of crosses, the greater the urge to stop. They honoured us with their lives and the more we passed the more we became overwhelmed to pay them all due homage, finding it difficult not to stop at every memorial. Were those in smaller cemeteries less worthy of our visit?
How young, how innocent, how come?

Impressively positioned as a permanent sentinel, the Canadian War Memorial at Vimy Ridge came into view. Like a beacon guiding souls to safety and a universal reminder to all who pass its way.
The land generously donated to Canada and its loss, the French Nation forever grateful.

Soberly we sauntered, slowly making our way over to Camping Du Chateau Et De L’Oseraie. Unable to resist the cries of so many, our end of afternoon progress was interspersed with frequent calls to linger a while longer.

You can forget Croque Monsieur, it’s all about being Monsieur Croque!

I’m not really one for making a fashion statement, but after recently acquiring a very comfortable pair of up-market Croque branded flip flops, I came over all iconic and jumped into my first real pair. With alien look-alike feet I ventured out from Beastie to take in a camp site stroll and get the feel of them . . . .

. . . . only to be discovered later relaxing in a typical French outdoor location

A two night stop on this pretty family owned site, gives us the chance to take the canal side ride into Peronne, where we intend to visit the war museum. A summery cuckoo call welcomes us onto his patch, as a grey heron, neck tucked tidily away, approaches. Centre line, like Wallis’s Lancaster, he swoops down in search of his target, comes up at the last second, then about turns before making another unsuccessful sortie.

Madame Shazby, bouncing hell for leather as the soaring temperature was still not reaching the heady heights she needed before wrestling herself free of her fleece.

Every town and village here shares a similar tale of destruction and death and Peronne is no exception. You can but gasp at the scale of sacrifice and suffering. The importance of culture beats deeply within each French person’s soul and we find that it’s cultivated at an early age as we see many children and students out for the day visiting these museums.

 

We’re playing this by ear, like a Marley Jammin session, taking it all as it comes, allowing the high notes and lows to jazz our journey along, reggae style.

With only a few of the fifty-six nights and days on the road behind us before we touch down again en Angleterre, we already have a sense of the band mentality. However, we are keen to ensure our trip is not just about the destinations, but the planned and spontaneous stops. We’re on our way to Cambrai for a three night gig; an enabling waterhole to help us feel part of the whole, rather than  unwitting bystanders being pulled along in our own slipstream.

Although running late (as usual), we make a short detour to visit the British War Memorial at Thiepval. It’s massive, really massive. The biggest in the land. Not beautiful in any sense of the word, not even pretty. Not like the Canadian construction at Vimy. It’s huge and it’s hugely impressive. It’s hugely depressing too. As you try to take in the thousands upon thousands of “the lost”, names meticulously fashioned onto every face of every square column, your brain starts to numb and your heart swell.

We move on in deep thought, through France’s huge countryside. At this time of year the landscapes are decked with every imaginable rectangular shade of green; interspersed with yellows and browns. Invisibly constructed into abstract geometric Auguste Herbin-like images and we delight in them and they help to lift our spirits.

It’s become apparent that we are carrying an unknown guest. Despite my best efforts he gets very irate when cornering or going over anything other then a smooth as glass surface. Everything has to be kept out of his sight, locked up. We try to remain vigilant. Keep Beastie’s interior in ship shape order or all hell breaks loose.

Like a child going through the terrible twos, stamping from one foot to the other his temper tantrum causes us to pull over umpteen times. Packets, bottles, toilet rolls, washing up bowl and the rest go flying around the floor behind. When we’re eventually certain everything is under “lock and key” and back on our way, he proceeds to sulk by rattling the pots and pans incessantly.

To cap it all, our other, but much more welcome guest aka Pat Nav, is having a bad hair day and getting as confused as we are. After a little double backing, she miraculously gets us to Cambrai and smugly announces “you have reached your destination”.

Ahem, pardon me for asking Pat, but do you really think we’re going to spend three nights parked up on an industrial unit next to this sheet metal works? A few blushes later and we’ve checked in.

Camping Les 3 Clochers, is going to be home for the next three nights. Fortunately we’re pitched nowhere near either of them.

At sunrise, Beastie gets a shock. We feel him shudder uncontrollably. Like when you’ve just got out of bed and the remnant of the cold night air runs it’s course through your warm veins, chilling you to the bone.

A little later, I pull down the blinds to allow the early morning rays dispel our dreams. Two pitches away, a monster of awesome size is snoozing majestically. The Concorde Liner Centurion stretches out to a little under 11 metres (Beastie is 7.43m), housing a 7.7 litre Mercedes power unit and a Toyota Smart Fortwo tucked away under its queen size rear bed. My turn to shudder.

Ever since our ignominious failure at retrieving our scooter from within Beastie, Mary-Ann has been in dread of a retry. But retry we must. I am full of confidence. After our last debacle I got talking to a fellow camper-vanner using a much more usable ramp than ours. Our new Warrier ramp works perfectly and within 5 minutes, Beastie has birthed our getaway.

We’re off on an arty farty jaunt over to Le Cateau-Cambrésis (no, I haven’t missed an “h” out) to check out the works of Matisse. Not really our cup of tea as we prefer the types of work where the subject’s eyes spook you out wherever you are in the room. Most of his works on display were more like Nouveau Cuisine and left you feeling hungry for more detail. He could do it, but didn’t, much. We got lost coming back (that’s novel) and missed a huge downpour by a fraction, but we loved the freedom.

Here’s some info on one of our on-board gadgets – especially for you Lloyd . . .

Now you don’t see it . . .

 

 

 

Now you do . . .

This small and very cheap (12.5 euros per night all in) municipal site sandwiched between an industrial estate and an allotment on the edge of Cambrai is in easy walking distance of the centre-ville.

The Dark Ages brought inspiration to many “Tom the Builders” over here. Their God given skills and imagination raised to life thousands of cathedrals in the hope of bringing light to the masses and there seems to be one around every corner we turn.

We enter an ancient Jesuits abode and are confronted with a hi-tech set up of wires and cables. “Would you like to try on the casque, monsiuer?” “Oui, bien sur!”

I don the virtual reality goggles and find myself twenty feet below in a circular crypt about 8ft diameter, 12ft high. I’m handed a “torch light” and beam myself around the walls investigating every nook and cranny, a kid with a new toy. You can almost taste the wet and musty smell.

 

 

We wander over to visit the fine art on display at the Musée and are bowled over. It’s one of the best we’ve seen. The colours and masterful technique employed leave us gasping. The folds, the lace patterns, the materials, the skin tones, all picture perfect. And those eyes, dark and alive, follow us everywhere.

It’s just as well Matisse & Co weren’t around then or they’d have had us puzzling over our ancestry.

 

 

 

We’ve enjoyed Cambrai, but it’s time to move on. 204K to be precise. It’s a clear and simple route. Even allowing for no motorways (our permanent choice) we intend to be in Varennes en Argonne by early afternoon. We won’t even need to depend on Pat.

Later, much later. We venture up from the camp side river and stumble across a stunningly memorable WW1 American tribute. The peace and calmness of this elevated final outpost places our six hours of traveling turmoil into perspective. It doesn’t stay calm for long though. A squall sneaks up right in front of us and sends us scampering back.

 

Earlier, much earlier. A short way out from Cambrai and the D932 is “barré” 3000m up the road. No alternative deviation signed. No worries. We continue in the general direction “off piste” (a favourite past-time of mine, but not of yours truly) and the aim is to rejoin five or so miles further on.   A village fete looms. Villagers ambling along in the sunshine. Ignorant of our fate? They’re having fun – we’re not. Every rue in and out of this place is barricaded. It’s “Les Mis” all over again and that’s just how we’re starting to feel – feeling lost and totally “piste off”.

We head off into the Cretan-like labyrinth of winding country lanes again. Pat Nav is creaking, starting to crack at the seams, just like us. She doesn’t like it. Heading first this way and then the next, at our whim rather than hers. Repeatedly she cries “Turn around and make a U-turn”, “No Way Pat! This is war!!” Two hours later we come up for air at Guise. Recover our senses and sense of humour, just about. It’s all about the adventure? Right? Pat has lost hers completely and for the rest of the afternoon she pretends to have lost her voice. Thanks a bunch Pat!

On top of that we discover the fridge is leaking and our unknown guest decides to chuck a bottle of red into the general melee up front. I find a safe place for it in my deep driver’s door pocket.  We’ll be OK as long as Monsieur Gendarme stays clear and I resist the urge . . .

 

 We just did it. Don’t ask me how. It didn’t take long. A straight and wiggly journey of just a couple of hours or so.

We’re definitely getting better at it. Not quite down to a fine art-form yet, more Picasso than Rubens, left hand not quite knowing what the right is doing – or should that be ear?

Before we knew it we were pitched up and strolling alongside the beauty of the Lac-d’Orient, centred within the Foret d’Orient, near Geraudot. We passed a group of fellow walkers heading in the opposite direction. Everyone is ultra courteous over here. Greeted them with the customary “Bonjour”. Did the same on the return journey. Same walkers. Then I remembered something that Geraldine on “Comme une Française” had said. If you repeat bonjour a second time to the same person on the same day, it implies you didn’t remember seeing them already. They can take it as an insult. From then on a silent nod of the head and a broad grin became the order of the day.

 

The local bird life join us for dinner most times. On the hunt for scraps. One stays put however. High above us. Out of sight. Some sort of finch. We call him Monsieur Dix-Huit – his four bar repertoire concludes with a syllable sounding “dix-huit” Like he’s saying “Hey, can you hear me? It’s Monsieur Dix-Huit”

Following day we extended our horizons. Take the bikes out as far as the track allows us, just shy of Brienne le Chateau, on the other side of Lac du Temple. The weather’s being kind. It’s hot and sunny, but we’re chilling. Keeping the bikes tucked close in to the lake shoreline and lapping it up. Lower arms and legs starting to resemble Chris Frome’s. The rest will have to wait until we reach the med in a couple of weeks or so.

Day three finds us on the road by scooter into Troyes. This town’s a sympathetic blend of medieval and modern and has a cosmopolitan feel to it.  We really like this place. Not an eye lid batted as we climbed out of our biker gear and slipped into our shorts and T-shirts – on the green opposite this spot below.

Finished the afternoon off with thoughts of returning back to camp with some patisserie.

However, I didn’t notice that the lady was shutting shop, and she didn’t notice me, nose flattened and tongue hanging out. Next second, the metal window guard had clonked down on top of my head knocking any thoughts of cake and coffee into . . . .

. .  . where was I ?  . .. . what was I saying . . .

 

We’re now ensconced high up, on this extremely pretty Swiss run site at Raon l’Etape. A short yodel or two from Strasbourg. Relaxing after dinner, on this almost balmy evening we’re looking forward to more fun and sun.

Mr Weatherman had other ideas. From 10pm onwards it hammered down solidly for 18 hours. At 4pm we popped out gasping for air, itching to scratch the surface of this area. The day’s plan sunk, torpedoed before we could bail out. It wasn’t all doom and gloom. An hour’s table tennis later and we’d shaken off the last of the wet faster than a Dyson Airblade.

We’re further south yet the daytime temperature has dropped 12 degrees. Full togs on as we scoot up to Lac de Pierre-Percée. Hang up the helmets and navigate the south eastern woods bordered shoreline of this man-made lake. A quick sarnie (wishing we’d brought a hot flask on this trip) before U-turning back.

We’re moving even further south tomorrow, heading towards the foot of the French Alps. Yours truly hopes it’ll get warmer the further down we go, but rumour has it is that it’s going to get nippier. So, we decide to nip to the local l’eclerc hypermarche. We need to top up on food and LPG for the on board heating and cooking systems. Tomorrow we want to make an early getaway.

What transpired, may find its way into the Great British Book of MOHO Mutterings.

Under pressure. My hands and eyes with less co-ordination than a blind amputee.  Woman in the pay booth was under pressure too.  I wasn’t helping. Cars piling up like it’s clocking off time and people itching to get home.  Problem was I couldn’t see which LPG adaptor to use. She rushed out of her booth and Frenched something to me. Que? Rushed back in. I fiddled some more. Getting hotter. So was she. She rushed out again. This time faster than Usain Bolt leaving his blocks. Adaptor in her right hand, relay style. (Perhaps I wasn’t the first idiot to cross her path.) Fitted perfectly. She filled the LPG (PLG over here) gas tank for me. Took a little under ten seconds. A new Olympic and World Record perhaps? No more than one euro 70 cents worth could be pumped in. She looked at me with eyes rolling back in their sockets. Like a Great White’s just before it takes its first jawful. Seems we didn’t need a top-up. Oops.

Happy just to have negotiated Beastie out of the super twisty fill up area, we line up opposite the supermarche car park. 2.8 metre barrier ahead. Still feeling discombobulated I didn’t think straight. Instead just went straight. Suddenly and rather surprisingly, it sounded as if a herd of Buffalo were trampling, head to toe, over the full length of Beastie. Our heads turned to meet. Questioning eyebrows. Mouths gaping like a couple of old basking sharks. Simultaneous realisation of what’s just transpired.

Here’s a Multiple Choice Question for you.

How do you get a 2.9 metre high Beast under a 2.8 metre barrier? Is it . . .

a) Bumpily?   b) Noisily?   c) Embarrassingly? or d) All of a, b &  c?

Beastie caused quite a stir on the other side.

Here’s another question for you . . .

How do you get a 2.9 metre high Beast under a 2.8 metre barrier again?

You go and ask the nice man at customer services and repeat many times . . “Je suis un am-ber-seal”

And the reason they don’t allow access to “Camping Cars”? (Check out  picture above?)

Yes. You’ve got it. They have provided Beastie spaces this side of the barrier.

Nuff said . . . .

 

 

Away early for the short journey into Strasbourg. Our first night’s stop at an “Aire” planned. These are money saving (mainly free) stopovers with limited facilities. There are thousands all over France, but only one in Strasbourg. (Can you guess what happens next?)

A little unsure of where we are and with very little help from Pat, we tag on behind another British MOHO. Sure that they know where they are going. They sure do. We both end up outside what looks like a disused compound and an apologetic note informing us of this Aire’s closure. The nearest site is south and outside the city. We decide to move on. We can check out Strasbourg next year when we’re the other side of the border. It’s a 400 metre walk across the Rhein from Germany. Pat guides us briefly onto a short section of motorway and the above lanes signs are all showing “Solidarity with Manchester”.

We check in early evening to “Camping de Medieval”, Turckheim. Many of the towns and villages in this Alsace region have a German ring to them. It’s a hugely busy and popular site, due to the fact that some are virtually in tact from Medieval times and so attract many visitors.

We discover they have an on site baguette delivery service, no butter though, only Stork.

The local chimneys and high points being favourite nesting sites for these impressive creatures. We have a young family perched at the corner of our site.

 

There is one particular wall cupboard in Beastie, that during the first week or so I came to despise. Whenever I came into close proximity it would seemingly reach out and whack me over the top of my head for no good reason. I don’t know why, I never did it any harm. I’d be quietly minding my own business packing away some stuff and then “thwack”. As accurate as a guided missile, always hitting the same spot, causing an explosive reaction. Laughter coming from you know, which didn’t help.

These repeating occurrences reminded me of one of my Uncle Jack’s favourite witticisms “You should always never do that”.

And so it was a little later on that day, on our short bike ride to visit the postcard perfect Eguisheim, that Uncle Jack came to mind once again. This time however, I was not on the receiving end.

But before the main event, we happened upon a “B” trailer. Less than one kilometre out from the site. Mary-Ann commented that her shorts were feeling wet. We stopped to investigate. All seemed strange. They were looking quite saturated. We continued a little further. Stopped again. She wasn’t prepared to walk around the streets looking as if she’d pee’d her pants. (spoilsport) Either we went back to site or the spare cycling jelly shorts would have to be utilised. I resisted the urge to suggest that perhaps some sort of early dementia related incontinence could be the cause. After all it has to start at some time. Maybe today was the day! I felt her saddle. All seemed OK. Then I pressed it. Water gushed from it’s sewn seams. What? Then we realised that the eighteen hours of rain up at Raon l’Etape had been soaked up sponge-like, so that she was carrying enough water to see a Dromedary through the Sahara and back. What a relief . . .

Two corners later I hear a bit of a kerfuffle behind me. Turned just in time to see Mary-Ann desperately trying to right her bike. Like a speedway rider’s back wheel, hers was sliding away from under her as she mounted a shallow kerb at too acute an angle. Clatter. The bike won. Her knee and big toe lost. A few cold water dabs later and she soldiered on.

Eguisheim didn’t disappoint.

So we’re off on our scoot-mobile today. Into Colmar to check out the dedicated musée celebrating Frédéric Auguste Bartholdi,  the French sculpture who designed the Statue of Liberty. Seems he created something very very similar for Egypt, but they declined to pursue the project. Maybe they thought the Pyramids and old Tut was enough. Got his old mate Monsieur Eiffel to construct it. And when you get up close to the actual size of one of the ears on display, that’s exactly what you get – an eyeful.

We scooted in following the “centre ville” signs – Colmar’s pretty large. I asked Mary-Ann to leave a trail of breadcrumbs, suspecting we’d need them. When it was time to depart they’d vanished. With it any chance of getting home before nightfall was fading. I went “off  piste” for half an hour heading towards the setting sun, aka the general direction of home. Usually works. Not this time. Ended right out in some backwater, which was basically a dead-end loop.

All very interesting. Headed back to the centre. Ended up knowing the inner ring road like the back of my hand. Buildings becoming more and more familiar. “La gare” passed for the third time was no joke.

Tempted to abandon any idea of escape, by escaping to a familiar sounding waterhole. Taxi home instead? Decided to follow a sign pointing to Europe, which we’d been ignoring. We were already in Europe, weren’t we? And what do you know . . . .

We’re dragging our heels a bit now. During week two our central door (the main one we use for in and out) decided to open, but not fully close. We have an appointment on 1st June with a dealer a little further south to see if he can fix it. Doesn’t sound much of a big deal, does it? But the central door step is about about a foot lower than the two cab doors. Even higher if we have to prop the wheels up on uneven ground. If we can’t get it fixed, then Mary-Ann will either have to start growing a beard,  or master the art of grappling ropes. Doing both of course  would fit in nicely with our traveling circus.

In the meantime we’ve moved on to a really beautiful little site at Pont-les-Moulins , 2K from Baumes-les-Dames.

We’re not in. We’re out on our bikes again. Some hilly uphills taking the long route. Joyfully rewarded with a huge downhill to the river Doubs and a fabulous flat run home. After a riverside sarnie of course.

We’re sort of adopting a similar pattern. Park up. Bikes out. Scoot out. Move on.

So we scoot-mobile out the following day to visit a brilliant outdoor historic houses museum. A bit like the Weald & Downland one in Sussex. But better. Now we can make better sense of all the beautiful farm house conversions we pass. Should have taken some photos of the houses at this point, but got side tracked.

All very pretty . . .

If you’ve got to the bottom of this page then you’ll be wondering why something weird hasn’t happened by now. So were we. We’re on a hat-trick!

Scoot allows us to get right up into the hills (almost mountains) to visit a pretty waterfall and then onto a glacier cave for Mary-Ann to do a bit of cat-walking at sub-zero temperature.

 

“Huttopia”  is a form of camping Utopia – or is supposed to be. And that’s where we are today. Well, at least at one of the group’s sites based at Ounans “La Plage Blanche”. Delightful riverside pitch. Close to good cycling and scooting. Close to nature – but more of that to come.

This site is huge. Six hundred and forty three paces to the Poubelles, (one way) Most people get around the site on their bike. There are tenters, caravanners, MOHOmers and a few sneaky motorbikers, who set up camp late evening and whizz off early morning before reception is open.

Arriving nice and early, we break free the bikes and head off into the nearest forest. The New Forest like track gives us a homely feeling, but soon runs out. We’re now bouncing downhill like billy-o through a closed in and denser part, on a parched dry single rut that looks as if a one wheeled tractor wheelied this way one very rainy day. A couple of seriously narrow sections later and Mary-Ann says nothing. She knows I love this sort of challenging terrain. She hates to be a killjoy, but I have to be sensible. It was a good ride though.

When you are hungry and thirsty, there are few combinations that better a cool glass of milk and chocolate digestive. Now I’m a little older, perhaps red wine and beef tipple the scale. Two good reasons to scoot over to nearby Arbois. An i-pad directed guided tour of Louis Pasteur’s home and working laboratory gives us an insight into his genius.

I forgot to mention that it seems to be haymaking season around here. The other side of those trees on the opposite river bank is a farm. The wind blows our way. We lived in the Cotswolds for five years in the late seventies (20th century). Fabulous area. Not if you suffer from hayfever. Mary-Ann does. Badly. She would do the gardening then wearing a “Planet of the Apes” look alike face mask, but white. Like the ones you see Japanese wearing today. She’s had a terrible night and is feeling worse than groggy. She needs sea air. We decide to cut short our stay and head to the Med.

 

We gather speed and high tail it down towards the med for medicinal purposes. We’re on a one night stop a few K (specially for the Ozzie readership), just south of Grenoble. The run in towards the city becomes more and more visually stimulating around every hairpin bend. We’re in the Rhone-Alps Region. Stunning!! As we drop into Voiron this amazingly positioned cathedral greets us.

Hemmed in on three sides by mountains we land on a small farm site that has one of the best views from the wash up area we’ve experienced so far. French only spoken. This is why we’re here.

Previous evening at Huttopia I’d had the pool to myself for half an hour at the end of day. Kids packed off. In my element. Hoping to do some more trawling here. But now we’re here and what’s this?

Apparently this was a childrens’ size paddling pool when they blew it up last week. It is now 50ft x 20ft x 8ft high and still growing. Sadly out of bounds.

There’s a constant humming sound in the camp. It’s as if the Treorchy Welsh Male Choir are limbering up for an upcoming eisteddfod. I suspect a huge bees nest nearby and investigate. Seems we’re pitched right under the power supply crossroads running up to Grenoble. The ants don’t mind. They’re preparing for bigger things to come.

Better move on tomorrow morning as early as possible. Don’t want Beastie growing an extra foot or two!

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 . . .