Category: France 2024

In this ultra-modern era of hi-tec, most of us tend to not notice, or choose to ignore, so many wonderful designs and inventions that we come into contact with on a daily basis.

We take for granted the seemingly simple, yet essential variety of packaging. Marvelous and ingenious constructions that enhance sales while remaining completely functional. Destined to end up in the bin.

The brainchild ergonomic appliances that seamlessly make everyday life easier. A kitchen is stacked to the brim with them. Someone, somewhere had an idea.

After our very first trip to France, we realised that Beastie’s on-board Tom-Tom SatNav was exactly the same unit that Fiat fitted into their 500 hatchback. As a consequence it never knew that Beastie was four times heavier; twice as high; twice as long and 150% wider. Many a sticky situation the result.

A standalone tablet, loaded with ‘CoPilot’ has since been our go-to navigation aid. Up until twelve months ago, the tablet has mainly resided on Mary-Ann’s lap throughout each journey. But that has not always been ideal. Sometimes Mr S has needed to see, as well as hear, where to turn.

Now on top of Beastie’s dashboard, above the SatNav screen, sits a weird looking pop-up, pop-out construction. An integral bulldog clip at one end, with some strange wiggly cut-outs opposite. The use of which has never been investigated. Just assumed the clip was to hold a map, or paper notes.

“Why not use the bulldog clip to hold the tablet?” – a consensus lightbulb moment!

So for the last two trips that clip has fiercely held on to the leather tablet cover. Ultimately wearing it through with its daily repositioning. So not a perfect solution.

Then, while cleaning the dashboard, before this trip, curiosity eventually got the better of Mr S. “What is the real purpose of this strange feature? Just what was it designed for?”

Does a holiday start when you step out from your house? Or does it start, when you step off the plane, or ferry; or in our case, the other side of La Manche?

So, at the end of day, before Day 1; or it could possibly be Day 1, depending on your stance to the above, finds us pitched up at the now very familiar. The Blackhorse Farm Campsite at Densole. A few furlongs, or so, north of Folkestone, and a short gallop down to the water jump.

Previously, the run up to D-Day, as ever, felt as if time itself was squeezing and condensing every minute down into tiny bite size seconds. Chewing, then knowingly spitting them out with earnest disregard. As a consequence, our focused efforts were rewarded with the earliest get-away ever. A bunch of keys, some indoor plants and feed-fishing requests left with our fab, over the road friends, Sue & Dave; then we were off.

With a host of minutes left to fill on the drive to Densole, we make a meaningful detour. Put our NT memberships to good use. Take a first visit to Chartwell House and Gardens. Host to one or two ‘Landscape Artist of the Year’ competitions.

We can see why. Even by today’s standards the more than modest house is very livable; amply aided by eight hectares of sculpted gardens and twenty-three of parkland. No doubt at times offering a secluded balm for Sir and Lady Churchill.

We all do it, don’t we? Decide to make a change for the good. Remedy an irritating habit. Try not to be so judgmental. Promise to eat less, exercise more. Pray for more patience. Take up a new class. The list is endless.

Knowing, even before the Türkiye trip got off the ground, that this autumn would find us back touring France, I made a mental promise to brush up on my French. Just a little a day I told myself. Over a period of a few months. Surely that would result in a huge improvement.

And so it was, three days before leaving, I downloaded a couple of ‘French Today’ audio lessons. ‘It’s still not too late’, I told myself. Six weeks immersed in France, interacting with site receptionists, shopkeepers and the odd local, plus my audio practice – it can’t fail, my plan is bound to reap dividends.

Day 2 – We’re currently pitched up for two nights at Camping des Cygnes. About 6K shy of Amiens Centre Ville and 160K, or thereabouts, from Calais. I’m feeling pretty pleased with myself after a French only conversation with the site receptionist. That is, if you can call two sentences a conversation! 🤣 It was one of those where you work out in advance exactly what you want to say. On approach, you repeat it over and over in your head, until you feel sure you’re grammatically word perfect. Then, once uttered, you seductively readjust your beret and hope that the recipient doesn’t think you can speak and understand perfect French by responding in some strange foreign language that you’ve never heard before !!!

Day 3 – In this neck of the woods, the 12th and 13th centuries saw a plethora of Catholic Cathedrals being erected in the Picardy region. Often, funded by fleecing the plebs, while at the same time promising a lifetime of work, followed by an eternity of milk and honey.

Today we venture into town on the number 11. Leave Scoot to ponder why he isn’t chosen as the number one means of transport. Another chance to practise mon ackson. “Deux pour le centre ville, s’il vous plaît”.

Previously, we’d talked about trying to not always head straight for the main religious buildings. Even, giving them the cold shoulder. Yet here we are outside Amiens Gothic Cathedral, another intention gone bust. Attracted like moths to a flame. It’s the largest in France. You can fit two Notre Dame of Paris Cathedral’s in it and still have room for a couple of table tennis tables. We’ve also heard that John the Baptist’s head is here. Well, what remains of it anyway.

After a lunch of quiche and salad (what else), the afternoon brings on a couple of clangers.

Jules Verne lived in Amiens. When still at junior school, the first novel I ever read from cover to cover was Twenty Thousand Leagues Under The Sea. His old house is open to the public. But not today. It’s closed every Tuesday. That’s today. Although we haven’t journeyed quite as far as to the centre of the earth, his old property sits on the outskirts of the centre. A forty-five minute round the houses walk.

Thirty minutes later we’re faced with more disappointment. An eighty minute wait to board a marsh boat at Les Hortillonages for a trip through a waterway maze of floating gardens, proves too long.

So, as two forlorn nomads, in need of cheer, we trundle into Quartier St Leu. Come across ‘Sorbet d’amour’ – offering the perfect pick-me-up, since 1935.

Sidenote – I must listen to some French Today – SOON!

Gambling is rife throughout today’s world. A massively successful industry that’s grown on the back of someone, wanting something much bigger, or better, in exchange for relatively little outlay. It’s been around as long as envy.

A flutter on the National. A lottery purchase. Playing the stock-market – can add a little excitement to life for many. Generate hope of something better, where there may be none. Or simply bring pleasure, if affordable.

Deciding to tour France during autumn was always going to be a bit of a gamble – weather-wise. Like all good gamblers, we weighed up the odds. Considered the possibilities. Balanced the pros against the cons and concluded that of the forty-two nights away, the probability was that on the whole, it would remain mainly dry.

Day 4 – We’re currently pitched up at Camping St Paul, Lyons-la-Forêt – one of many villages in France laying claim to be the ‘fairest in the land’. We’d bet that this one will take some beating.

The site is pretty too and we’ve chosen a nice secluded and what we thought would be quiet pitch. Over the boundary fence is an aire. France is full of them. Cheap overnight MOHO parking, with little, or no services. It starts to fill and spill. New arrivals step down. Loud mouths that don’t know when to shut shop. A chorus of yappy dogs join the throng. Stretch their jaws as well as their legs. No doubt full of pent-up energy after the cooped-up journey.

Our reading peace gets disturbed. We move pitch. Far from the maddening crowd. Fortunately, this site is long and thin.

Day 5 – A long day’s journey of 266K ends at Huttopia’s Les Châteaux site – a hundred metres from the village of Bracieux and fifty metres from the Max Vauché Chocolate Factory. Both offering every good reason for a walkabout – we do just that.

It’s easy to overlook the apparently innocuous. That ache that comes and goes. The headache that bursts out of nowhere for seemingly no reason. That splinter that didn’t get cleaned out properly and days later is festering.

Things never stay as they are. Living or inert, they are subject to change. And often, when that change occurs, it can seem sudden. Yet most likely, a subtle unseen transformation has been going on behind closed doors.

After Scoot’s impromptu debacle last August, he spent some time behind the scenes being nurtured back into his former showroom glory. In Türkiye, he got to show off his brand new lilywhite bodywork. But, unbeknown to us, underneath that shiny coat of admiration, something was afoot. Suddenly and inexplicably his petrol cap wouldn’t close shut. Gaffer tape came to the rescue, but at the cost of his vanity.

Back on home soil and after a couple of wasted repair shop visits, Mr S decides to take matters into his own hands. Removes Scoot’s front cover panel. Take a decco. It seems that after his snatch and grab, the metal cable housing had taken a knock. Not enough to sever it from its mounting. Then, over the course of our ensuing journeys, vibration had dutifully been nagging away at the weakened joint. Until ‘ping!

With our site a mere 8.4k from Château de Chambord – the largest in the Loire, it’s time to give Scoot his first run out. An ideal opportunity to test his new mend.

Oddly, having visited France many, many times, this is our first Chateau experience.

Inside, the three floors are connected by a central double-spiral staircase. The amusing feature being that two people can pass one another, see one another as they pass, but not meet! Work that one out if you can.

We step off together. Get blown over by the wonderfully exquisite engravings of Octave de Rochebrune. He created nine masterpieces of Chambord, over a period of twenty-six years. The images contrived with unbelievable patience, attention to detail and the ability to capture light and shadow.

There’s enough English translation throughout and our audio-guide/Histopad (8″ tablet) was not really required. It did have a a neat 360 feature though. In any room you could slide the image back to mid 16thC to see how it would have looked then.

We break off for a lunchtime sarnie. Unthinkingly, order a couple of ‘normal’ coffees. Get served espresso’s in tiny paper cups, no more than 60mm high. “Could we have some milk in one, please” “Yes, of course, that will be an extra 50cents!” – the added milk would have barely filled a desert spoon.

Our four hour visit ended with an all-time first – a parking fee for Scoot – 6€ !!

There are few things more frustrating than making a plan. Deciding when or how to implement it, then only to see it get thwarted. Preparation, anticipation and hopes go to waste. Become hard for your ego to swallow. How you react can frustrate you, annoy you, or even annoy someone you’re with, just by how well, or not, you cope.

I’ve never found dealing with that type of frustrating situation easy to handle. At times in the past I would let it get under my skin. Fester and spoil the moment, or day. Find it difficult to shrug off. Motor-homing has helped to change that – mostly. The weather and other impromptu outside sources can sway their influence. Bend you this way or that, as easily as a sapling. ‘Go with the flow’ – my current rule of life.

Day 7 – Starts where it left off . . .

Half way along today’s planned route, paranoia strikes. Its unseen guillotine blade silently swoops down from above. Like a couple of headless chickens we’re unsure of which way to turn. Look to the heavens for an answer. Not a good idea. Pick Flower Camping L’lle d’offard, just outside Saumur. Importantly it sits to the west of the east moving front. More importantly, it’s renowned for its great wine!

As we approach Saumur, it’s clear we’re in a race. A massive grey and purple cloud conglomeration is gathering strength ahead. Ominously it hovers over the town and surrounding suburbs. Day starts to turn to night. From left to right, lightning dances behind the threatening curtain, and a thousand timpani pick up the beat. Out of nowhere, an invisible force joins the throng. Huge trees are bent low, as if the master and star of the show has just entered the room. The atmosphere is condensed into tiny droplets of anticipation. Held in abeyance by awe.

However, we’ve seen this show before. Don’t fancy a repeat. Eager to get pitched up as soon as possible. Preferably before the curtain goes up, or in this case, comes down.

Unexpectedly and frustratingly, we pull in behind a queue of camper-vans. All waiting their turn to register. As the first droplets announce the main act is about to start, a woman in light summer gear and carrying sunnies, quickly heads into reception. Mr S togs up in his anti-water garb. Keeps his quick drying flip-flops on. By the time he steps out, it’s as if he’s been transported to Mumbai during the height of monsoon season. He can barely squeeze between the stair-rods. It’s not a question of life or death; simply wet or wetter.

The short 10metre dash, or should that read splash, obviously unexpected. His grand entrance is received with a mixture of admiration and astonishment. Least of all by his flamboyant courtesy.

Duly signed in Mr S prepares to step out once again into the full-on raging torrent. Beastie is barely visible. “Excuse me. Sorry to ask. But do you have any room in your camper for me?” – it’s the woman with the sunnies. Mr S, typically slow on the uptake, immediately thinks she’s looking to shack up inside Beastie. Has she been abandoned and thrown out by her loathsome other half? The seconds of puzzlement spread across his face in a mosaic of bewilderment. “It’s only that I see you’ve been allocated 45 and we’re pitched up really close to you. If it’s not too much trouble, can I cadge a lift?”

Day 8 – It’s dry. Château de Saumur is destined to be given the cold shoulder. Despite its pretty proximity. We’re off in search of something much more butch.

So we head off to the far side of town. Across river. Our site sits on a small island in the middle of the Loire. It’s Sunday. No busses. No room on the muddy pitch to exit Scoot. We become a couple of piétons

We spend two hours inside one of the largest tank museums in the world – the Musée des Blindés. A chronological tourway from WW1 through virtually every war campaign up to present day. All information in clear English.

A couple of our quirky favourites were these small amphibious creatures.

Our walk back to base camp takes us past one of these. An underground recycling collection centre for the local community. Each top connected to its cavernous cave below.

It’s difficult to imagine what another person has endured, or suffered, without having gone through the same. Likewise, it can be difficult to grasp how a community can survive; even flourish and prosper in places and under circumstances that by today’s western comfortable standards seem far inadequate, or inhabitable.

Yet, they have and still do, in innumerable places around the globe.

Today’s short traverse of 105K to Camping Le Bois Vert in Parthenay is enhanced with a stop off at the Troglodyte village of Rochemenier. Now a museum housing two of the forty underground farms that used to occupy this area. A village of medieval troglo (cave) dwellers. Still inhabited into the early 20^thC.

The fascinating museum exhibits, furniture, tools and photographs describing the lifestyle of the last inhabitants. Living rooms, kitchens, bedrooms, wine cellars, ovens, stables, barns, chapels – all bespoke made and cut out of the stone by the residents – as one does.

Our visit follows a clearly marked route of twenty ‘rooms’, with plenty of English, so no head scratching.

The soft tufa stone made it easy should a new born, or two, come along. No need to sell up and move. You’d simply dig a little further into the rock and create an extra bedroom – sorted!

Without seeing and witnessing how the construction of these caves was accomplished, it’s difficult to believe that they managed to conceive and build such underground structures. Yet somehow they did.

“Now go and play, mummy’s got work to do” . . .

Living so close to the elements often creates the need for innovation . . .

Our visit nears its end requiring a stretch of the imagination – not seeing, yet believing.

In five hundred, or even a thousand years from now, will people still be interested in visiting ancient towns and villages? And if so, what sites will still be available to them? Will medieval places even exist? Will the urban sprawl of then have condemned the medieval to the history books only?

The medievals got there first. Chose the best and prettiest places to live. Safety and security top priority, yet they still liked their fortified towns to be both practical and aesthetic. Just like today, they were always keen to create the right image. Put on a front, either to be admired, or respected.

Mention the word medieval in a flyer. Add one or two enticing images and we’re there like a shot. We know what to expect of course. It’s not as if we haven’t seen it all before. There’s hardly going to be a surprise waiting around the next corner. We’re just a couple of suckers. Like many that enjoy this ‘stuff’.

Clutching our cleverly designed map of many colours, it shows we have the choice of over thirty-one sites of interest waiting and ready to be ticked off. It’s Tuesday (this blog is a bit like Mr S – always playing catch-up), so naturally, the first on the list, the Heritage Centre is closed. ✔

The long and winding uphill main street is stacked from top to bottom with beautiful and occupied half-timbered houses. Squeezed in shoulder to shoulder. Each helps the other from falling over. If one goes they all go. Kept in immaculate condition. Owners all do their best to impress. An array of colourful flowerpots add a certain ‘je ne sais quoi’ to the walk-through. Like a couple of judges at a show, we deliberate, make comments and pass opinions on the merits of each building’s rank. The main street is the main facade. Less romantic looking abodes fill in the gaps created by the dark narrow off-streets. There’s hardly a soul in sight away from the three cafe/restaurants – we’ve arrived at lunchtime. Even though it’s cold, everyone is sitting outside, noisily chatting. “Who do you think will win the gold rossette today” top of their conversation – no doubt.

The penultimate of the few ticked off is the impressive 12^thC Church of St Laurent. ✔

This very old entrance below, hides the Dominican Nuns of Parthenay Teaching order. One of twenty-one worldwide centres attached to a school.

The nomadic tribes of old were constantly aware of the weather and all it’s foibles. How it affected their landscape and in particular the available grazing for their herds. They needed to pay heed to any subtle changes in the timings of the seasons. Remain alert. Forever ready to make the decision. Stay put, or move on.

Fortunately for 2 Cheeses, we only have one Beastie to consider. When we’re on the move, he only needs feeding once every other day. His ultra high calorific liquid diet readily available, regardless of how barren the terrain may be.

Day 11 – Beastie is on the move again. He’s fed up with alternate days of rain, coupled with daytime temperatures ranging from 12C to 17C. He could have stayed put in the UK for that. He’s not donned his winter coat yet, so he’s feeling the chill somewhat. “Let’s go south”, he demands. “Down to the Dordogne”. A little bird told him it will be warmer there. We’d hoped he’d got it right. It’s rained the whole journey. At least it relented while we booked in and pitched up. We’re all currently under cover in Rocamadour, at Camping Koawa Les Cigales – as the now all too familiar pitter patter starts again . . . Beastie!!!!!

Day 12 – Yippee! It’s not raining. It’s bright. There’s a big yellow thingy cheering us on – we leave Beastie to dry off while we go walkabout . . .

We’re less than a two kilometre walk from the iconic Rocamadour. Its series of churches cling to the side of the gorge like desperate limpets. Stuck in time. A place for pilgrimage, but now overtaken as a huge tourist attraction. As a pilgrim you’d get the best of both worlds of course – and not only in the here and now.

Each zig and zag of our upward trek to the top is punctuated with one of the fourteen ‘Stations of the Cross’. So aware, or not, every visitor gets to become a pilgrim. Walk with Jesus. At least for a short time.

Obviously the religious in this neck of the woods knew a thing or two about what to expect from the local weather.

A few weeks before set off, there were signs of mice in our garage. They’d gnawed through a plastic sack, that was on a bench and stuffed themselves silly with fish food. Good intentions to provide their freedom via a humane trap never materialised and after a clean up there were no further signs.

It wasn’t until Mr S searched out his special ‘for Scoot use only’ jacket, that he discovered they’d moved on to more nourishing produce. Stored inside an office drawer they’d breakfasted on the drawer base, before finding lunch and dinner at the ready.

Day 13 – Today’s very short hop of 67K takes us west to Vezac and Camping La Plage. Beautifully positioned alongside the Dordogne River. Hemmed in by open fields and stunning golden cliffs, that are typical in this Périgord region. With wall to wall sun forecast, we’re here for four nights.

For centuries the Dordogne course fed life and trade along its banks. Nowadays, as it cuts its watery swathe through this green and golden Périgord region, it’s all about the tourist and their euros. Hardly surprising. When the weather is as good as this, they swarm like wasps around a warm pint of beer.

We have an afternoon to fill. We step out. Go take a look-see around the tiny commune of La Roque-Gageac. Literally, just around the next bend in the river.

A huge rockfall in 2010 destroyed parts of the old fortress. A scary reminder to the villagers that nature must have its way and say.

Day 14 – This morning’s low of 6C comes as a shock. With both showers and loos open to the elements, there is more than a shady nip in the air. The campers’ responses vary. Some defiantly remain in shorts, t-shirts and flip-flops, in spite of the mouth-mist of foggy droplets clouding above their heads. Silently urging the sun to do a and ‘Move on up’. Others, the self-called sensible ones, layer up. Ready themselves for winter’s first snowy blast. But soon regret that. There’s only one peg in the shower cubicle.

It’s midday before we make our move. Like a couple of rustic reptiles, we need the sun’s warmth for mobility. We want to keep our shorts on for the short Scoot over to Les Jardins de Marqueyssac and its 150,000 box trees. Expertly manicured twice a year by a dedicated team of six.

The narrow eight hundred metre long gardens, run riverside on a 192metre high escarpment that give us a birds-eye view of our campsite.

In this world of modernity, it’s so easy to take our era of abundance as a gimme. Take it for granted. As if it’s always been so. There seems to be no thing that’s unobtainable. We moan and decry the supermarkets for shortages. Beans from Kenya, bananas from Venezuela, wines from Australia. Giving no thought to the logistics involved. We demand. We want. It must be so. Now.

We’re in a perfect location. Spoilt for choice in fact. So many touristy sights in easy reach of Scoot. He’s raring to go, but before we zoom off, we need to let the temperature rise a little. Ease those joints into the day. Go find a sunny rock to lie out on. Let some rays tickle our tums.

This morning’s cold 5C start a pretty picture from Beastie’s position.

It’s Mary-Ann’s birthday today . . .

We could have chosen any number of places, but we decide on another hill-top location – Beynac Castle.

Strange to think that in the fourteenth century the Dordogne River formed the border between France and England! With the English occupying castles on the opposite bank, skirmishes were inevitable.

In dreams, imagination runs riot. Like a toddler left alone with paint and brush. While no one is at home, joyously creating disorder, just because it can. For no apparent reason. No good asking “Now why did you do that!” It simply doesn’t know.

Even when conscious, our mind creates disorder. We give it credit for being much smarter than it actually is. Yet it’s still a work in progress mostly. It’s never around when you really need it. It has an irritating habit of switching off without letting you know. I mean, if it told you it was going for a nap, why on earth would you start the Times Crossword, or try and remember what day it is!

Having last visited Sarlat on our very first French MOHO trip in 2017, our minds have since discombobulated our time there into a series of impressions. Savaged our memories. Ripped them up into tiny fragments. Rearranged them as a random collage of Renoir look-alikes. Making it impossible to remember the specifics. We do remember being impressed though. Will it still live up to that?

We hope this afternoon’s foray into Sarlat’s Centre Ville will bring back some memories . . .

Dating back to the 13^thC it’s in fine order inside and out. The fifteen roomed house creates a viable impression of what life may have been like for those nobility fortunate to have resided here.

We walkabout some more. Search out the nooks and crannies of the cramped corners and alley-ways. Vainly hoping to recognise at least something . . .

We say goodbye to Sarlat. Leave with a new set of memories – for now. At least we were impressed.

Earlier in the day our first Scoot stop came at the stunning Water Gardens of St Rome – Carsac.

We’re joyfully greeted by a few of the residents . . .

It’s out of season so we’re given a rare treat. (No senior concessions in France) A reduced price to compensate for the lack of colour, now that bloom time is over.

Relaxation comes in many forms. And in different ways for different people. For some it’s a switch to a mental activity. For others to something physical. The bottom line being that a change is as good as a rest.

Today our change of address is a very short 34K up the road switch to Camping La Fage. Positioned slap bang between two places on our radar. We do an on the way stock up shop at an Intermarché supermarket. Come 3.30pm, we’re fully pitched up and the sunny afternoon beckons some leisure time. Mrs S fancies a sit out and read. Suggests Mr S could go ride-about. He doesn’t need asking twice. Plots a route, using Plotaroute app and then he’s off. Leaves Mrs S with some peace and quiet. (that was probably her plan really)

Very few of us can claim to have a true vision. Then patiently work at it over an extended period of time. Sometimes for decades. Even to not live and see its completion. Or witness its full potential.

Today we’re visiting another point on the constantly spinning triangle that’s Périgord. Roques, chateaux and jardins.

Scoot’s earning his keep on this trip. He diligently bumps us 20K south-east. The surface of the narrow country lanes provide an unexpected shaky bronco ride. While he cools down in the shade and catches his breath, we go explore the ten hectares of Eyrignac Gardens.

Over five hundred years, the gardens have been owned by twenty-two generations of the same family. It wasn’t until more recent times (1960s) that Giles Sermadiras started to draw up plans and start work on his new vision for the gardens. Creating a masterpiece within what was then, a wilderness. Nowadays lovingly cared for by his son Patrick.

We round our visit off with a couple of timed photos . . .

Scoot has another treat in store for us on the way back to temporary chez nous.

Some people can become fixated. Totally absorbed by one thing alone. Unable to resist the urge to indulge. Driven to the point where it becomes a need.

We’re not quite at that point. Yet. Fascination and an inquisitive nature, draw us towards visiting more of the same. Yet they are far from that.

Today we Scoot over to two more troglodyte residences. Step back in time. Stop one, visit a place first inhabited during the Upper Paleolithic era of about 17,000 years ago. During the days when the wooly mammoth was still roaming around. It didn’t become a troglodyte village until the 9^thC.

A steep cliff face. Rock shelters within it. A close-by river. Three ingredients required for troglodyte existence. A perfect mixture evident at Le Village de le Madeleine, situated within a looped meander of the Vézère.

With the back wall of your house already in place and likely to stay that way for centuries to come, it provides a good starting foundation for your new abode. Add a wall here. Another one there. Veranda darling? There you go . . . sorted.

The village architects of the time had a good eye and knack for melding their constructions seamlessly with the natural undulations.

Looking at the kitchen below, it doesn’t take too much of a stretch to imagine how hard life would have been.

A village is not a village without a church . . .

A little further up the road we stop off at what could be described as the Troglodytique Pièce de Résistance.

A most unusual three storey medieval chateau positioned 80 metres above the Vézère river. Its mouse-like maze a treasure trove. Mrs S becomes my personal guide for our visit.

Down in the basement below living quarters, an extraordinary exhibition is housed. It seems every conceivable instrument of torture that man has ever invented, is on display. Each with a graphic description of it’s purpose. How it was used and the effect upon the helpless victim.

Bone snapping; skin scourging; eyeball piercing; joint popping; tongue slicing; limb removal; boiling; roasting; impalement; not forgetting head removal!

We Scoot back to camp in a somewhat sombre mood – I wonder why . . . ?

Does an interest in the past, naturally increase the older you get? Is it inversely proportional? Or is it simply when there’s less future ahead, it becomes easier to look behind. To gaze beyond the point of your own existence coming into being. Dare to imagine what it would have been like B.Y. (before you)

As a schoolboy history nincompoop, it’s come as a surprise to me over the last few years, how fascinating history can be. To accept its relevance, by being able to visit first hand the places where ancient civilisations rose, flourished and perished. But I guess that can apply, no matter where your feet may be planted. Without digging deeper beneath, how can you know?

We’re still on the theme of cave dwellers. Today’s 8K Scoot finds us at Lascaux IV. Four because this exhibition site is the latest to ‘house’ the world famous iconic works of cave art that were first discovered by four teenagers in 1940. Ancient works of art that very few of us can claim not to have seen, at least in part.

To protect the artwork from further deterioration, the original cave has been closed to the public since 1963. What we visit today is the very latest laser scanned and reproduced facsimile. Not just of the art, but the whole original cave!

Once down inside the air cooled to 16C ‘cave’, Samuel, our English speaking French guide reminds us “no photos or videos“. Not that the reproduction needs protecting. It’s a purposeful means that allows us to fully focus on the images and what he has to say about them. Which is a lot! Yet, conversely, he opens by telling us that we can ask a question at any time, but don’t expect any answer other than “I don’t know”.

Other than fat burning holders, no other sign of occupancy has been found. No artifacts, no bones, no nothing. Begging the questions. Who? & Why? & When? (the mineral paints used are not easy to accurately carbon date). Samuel doesn’t hoist any propositions on us. He allows us to make our own considerations. Come to our own conclusions. Enjoy our experience for what it is. That’s how it should be. It’s art. In all its magnificent glory.

To get our ‘photo-fix’ we exit into a galleried area. Certain additional sections have been reproduced and suspended – allowing the realistic ‘walkthrough’ above.

With unanswered questions to ponder and discuss, we leave none the wiser. But before we do, Mrs S does get one question answered. “Where’s the cafe?” After over an hour at 16C with no jacket (she thinks it was well below that – although not quite as cold as Tesco), she needs a coffee to warm up.

What happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object? Who knows? What happens when an unstoppable force meets two movable objects? Who knows? We do!

Day 21 – Co-ordinates entered into CoPilot. Aiming for La Pelouse Municipal Camping. A two night stopover in Bergerac. Another been there, done that refresher course.

This same morning another MOHOman, most likely does the same. Although his co-ordinates are different. Ours are set west. His east. Also most likely, is that we are both presented with two, or three route options. Shortest, fastest, most scenic. There isn’t a safest option. More’s the pity. Mr Google’s Maps isn’t yet sophisticated enough, or should that be, intelligent enough, to determine points of very high risk. In any event, oblivious to one another, we make our choice.

Sometime later, the narrower than usual main road is clear ahead. Nothing in front. Nothing behind. Beastie’s trundling along nicely at approximately 35-40mph. Minding his own business. Doing what he does best. Mr S is humming a happy tune. Enjoying today’s short ride.

MOHOman east is doing the same, most likely. Mr S rides along close to the grassy verge. His left hand drive opposite number is riding in the crown of the road. Along the white line. As is Mrs S. We both spot the other. Neither slows. Combined approach speed probably 75-80mph. Beastie has nowhere to move, other than the ditch, just off the verge. He holds his ground. He’s been in many a tight spot before. It’ll be OK. Won’t it?

Both MOHO’s are manufactured to the same Ducato spec. Wing-mirrors positioned at exactly the same height. Mrs S sees the fast approaching impact first, as it rushes past that point of no return. Lets out a scream a nanosecond before the two movable objects meet that unstoppable force. An almighty thunderclap shatters both objects. As if hit by a cannon shell. Debris explodes and flies into the air like windswept confetti. Mr S slows to a halt. The contorted remains of Beastie’s nearside wing-mirror are swinging by an electrical umbilical chord. In need of emergency treatment. We hope monsieur MOHOman’s beastie has suffered the same fate. Fairs, fair and all that.

Day 22 – This severely outdated riverside camp site is a mud bath. Eight hours of overnight rain create perfect sticky goo. A toddlers playpark. By the time we reach the sanitary block, our footprints are four sizes larger. Its only saving graces, we have a riverside view and it’s a ten minute walk into the centre.

By late morning the rain eases, then clears. We step out, along, then over the Dordogne River. Make use of the pretty bridge.

We head for the Tobacco Museum, it’s a free entry day. As in all old quarters, there’s usually a surprise waiting around the next corner. Or in this case sleeping.

Ninety-five percent of the displays are in French. When your language skill is bordering on tepid, it can make for a slow and very tedious walk-through. Even using Google Translate can become trying and tiring. So we end up looking, not reading.

As it happens there is plenty to see. The museum tells us little about tobacco and its production. Although, it comes as a surprise to learn that from 1637 until the 1970’s many farmers in this south-west region of France, relied on income from tobacco farming.

The museum focuses on the satellite industries, that grew as a result. Mainly pipe design and construction and the machinery needed for that. It shows a bewildering amount of pipe designs, from the very earliest as used by the Sioux, up to current day. From very basic, to crazily complicated.

Of course painters had to get in on the action too . . .

Astronomers point to the distant past. Mathematicians calculate to the n^th degree. Astrologers look to the heavens above. Philosophers remain unsure.

As finite beings, walking a finite timeline, we can look back, but never go back. Our linear walk is always forwards. We can look ahead, but never get ahead. Its infinite line is something we tread. Each for a determined number of seconds. Unique to every individual. We live lives limited by time. But not governed by it.

Day 23 – We’re 60K further west in Rauzan at Le Vieux Chateau Camping. The old castle looks down over the site. Like a disabled war-torn veteran on crutches. It’s seen better times.

We arrange to meet Paul & Kath at the castle at 2pm. A fifty-year long friendship that stretches from Christchurch to Sheffield and beyond. We both plan to stay three nights in the area. Allow our timelines to touch. Run parallel briefly.

It’s Monday. The ‘chateau’ is closed. Naturally. Perhaps it’s done us a favour. We wander the lonely streets, like four time travelers, lost in space. Once an orbit or two is completed, we agree there’s not much to see in this part of the universe – apart from the Grotte Celestine. That’s closed too. Viewing by appointment only.

However, we round the day off at Paul & Kath’s AirB&B to celebrate Kath’s Sunday birthday, with a meal, wine and laughter.

Day 24 – We keep all eyes on the weather forecast for today. We don’t want our visit to Les Jardins Sardy at Velines to disappoint. A first time visit for Paul & Kath. We were last here in June 2017. The day remains in our favour, warm and dry.

We’re surprised and delighted, to find we have the run of the gardens to ourselves. Nowadays, it’s owned and maintained by son Frederick and his young wife Ninon, who has plans to enlarge the gardens and increase footfall.

We unpack our sarnies for lunch. Settle down on the tabled terrace. Frederick comes over with a freebie. A bottle of Chateau Sardy. In his cultured English, he kindly suggests a glass, or two, might enhance the ambiance. How did he know?

Day 25 – Paul’s booked a 10.45am cave visit. But first we have to get into character . . .

Once helmets and wellies are donned, we come over all serious. Helmet light leads our spiral down. We play follow the leader. Our tour is in French. We’re issued info booklets and strict instructions not to take photos or videos. (Yet, these are readily available on the website!? – and very easy to copy and paste!!!)

The cave was first discovered in the 1940s by a shopkeeper above. He needed a supply of water. Decided to dig a well and got more than he bargained for. A little later during WWII it came in handy as a hide-out for four resistance fighters.

Two hours later, we’re perched on a stone bench in St Emilion. It’s sarnie and crisps time again. The cafe’s and restaurants are over laden. The locals are tucking into their gastronomique delicacies. Oblivious to what they’re missing . . .

Our self-guided tour is welly-less. Starts at the foot of the monolithic church, impressively carved directly out of a massive block of limestone.

But before we do, we share another meal and some St Émilion red, bien sûr.

We head back to our own universe. Promise to coincide again. At some point in the not too distant future.

À bientôt Paul & Kath.

Some circumstances we find ourselves in, whether of our own making, or not, can have a direct impact on the way we feel. Cast a dark shadow. If they bring you down, then best chase them away.

Despite very mixed weather and unexpectedly low temperatures, we’ve had a decent run for our money. So far only one morning has been lost to rain. However, shortly after saying our goodbyes to Paul and Kath, that changes. Over twenty hours of non-stop rain, sees to that.

We decide to do a runner. Head south. Aim to lengthen our days. Shorten our shadows. Rid ourselves of those threatening overheads.

Day 26 – At the end of our rainy drive we navigate Beastie diagonally onto a rectangular piece of concrete that’s too short for his wheelbase. Les Pommiers d’Aiguelèze Camping has at least tried to make some provision for when it’s wet. Although the ground around this solid island resembles nothing short of muddy swampland. If a croc were to suddenly slither its ugliness across our path on the way to the shower block, it wouldn’t look out of place. We stay one night.

Day 27 – We head towards Montpellier and Camping le Parc, in Lattes. It’s in easy reach of the centre. Our next planned go-to. Knowing there’s a possibility the coastal sites are still overly busy, Mr S almost books online. Almost. Baulks at the on-line booking fee of €10. Decides to arrive on spec. Oops. On arrival reception is closed. ‘Complet’ reads the sign on the door. “Sorry Mrs S”.

We decide to phone ahead to the next nearest. “We only have three pitches left. You’ll need to book online, to make sure.” We do and we don’t.

It’s a too slow 20K. Crammed in with the Friday afternoon rush hour over to Fabrègues and Camping Le Botanic, is not the perfect way to end any journey. Despite their booking system giving us green lights and seemingly taking our upfront payment (no booking fee), on arrival we discover neither booking, nor payment has gone through. Fortunately there are two pitches left. Beastie jumps at plot 16. There’s just enough room to squeeze his fat belly between two trees.

Day 28 – We give Montpellier a miss. We’re out in the sticks. It’s too far to Scoot and there are no transport connections. Spend a very breezy, yet sunny afternoon, lazing around the man-made lagoon.

As time passes ‘science’ becomes more sophisticated. More technologically robust. Nowadays, answers more questions than we can think of to ask. It can unravel the ‘how’. Predict the ‘when’. Discover the ‘what’. Yet, because it’s only capable of studying the mechanics, if asked the question ‘why?’, it can flounder. Why do our physical senses react in ways to create emotional and spiritual responses?

Day 29 – We’re now on a mission. Determined to find more of that feel good factor. We head further south. Aim for Le Brasilia Village Camping, in Canet-en-Rousillion, 10K from Perpignon. Just about as far south as we can go and still remain in France. It’s not long before the landscape changes dramatically. More barren. More sandy. Even the trillion rows of vines have lost that succulent Frenchness. Village houses resemble mini haçienda’s. Masses of red tiled roofs give the game away. “This looks like Spain” – no wonder. Perpignon used to be the continental capital of the Kingdom of Majorca.

It’s Sunday. 12.34pm. Lunchtime. LIDL is closed. Only open until 12.30. We’ve probably lunched more times on a LIDL car park when traveling, than anywhere else. Today is no exception.

We’d previously passed a bronzed topless bike back-packer. Unexpectedly, he appears at the hab door. (habitation door. Beastie’s centrally positioned in and out) His opening greeting even more unexpected. “Hello. Did you buy any beer from LIDL just now?” “Sorry, we don’t drink beer”. [Not even Guinness]

He settles for a glass of mango squash. Originally from Sweden, Frederick is a lifer. He’s broken free. His entire belongings cling to his Scott bike. He’s been on the road for the last nine years. Like a peddling philosopher, he graciously accepts what little rewards each day brings. His outlook on life resonates. He is a gentle wandering soul. Like us, he’s heading south for warmth.

Day 30 – This five star luxury site lacks nothing. An enclosed family village with all amenities on tap for a perfect stay.

We save and savour the planned poolside lounge for later. Scoot scoots us over to the arboretum at Mas Rousillion. A short 8K. Its not what we expect. Gravel avenues with formal lines of unfamiliar trees. It’s mostly in its infancy. A work in progress.

Our highlight – the beautiful collection of cacti.

Our sarnie bench-view, begs the question. Why do we see beauty? Why do we appreciate it? Why does it make us feel good? As a species we can survive without these perceptions and emotional responses – surely?

There are many tales surrounding impending disaster, where people suddenly have the compulsion to change a plan at the very last minute. An inner feeling of doom rises to the surface and shouts out “No. Don’t!”

Not boarding a plane that then goes on to crash, the ultimate example. After an event, how many times have we heard ourselves say “I just knew that was going to happen”.

Today we have a couple of places of interest in Perpignan to Scoot to. First up is the Palais de rois Majorque. We park in a side street directly alongside the massively high outer walls. Mr S usually leaves Beastie’s ignition key in his jacket, which gets stored under Scoot’s seat. Today he has a feeling something might happen to Scoot. What if Scoot is stolen, or broken into? Decides to carry the key with him.

The palace rooms are bare. Red brick stone walls. Terracotta floors. A chest here, or there. A couple of chairs against one wall. Look miniscule. Like dolls furniture under 30ft high wood-beamed ceilings. Emphasised by the huge acreage given over to each room’s footprint. It’s like walking through a ‘Vacant For Sale’, with no forward chain. Info boards in French and Spanish do little to stir the imagination as to ‘what it was like’. Both chapels are equally lacking, but at least shed a little light on the grandeur that would have existed back in the 13th and 14th centuries.

The barren nature of each room gets countered downstairs. Firstly, by an exhibition of artistic graffiti . . .

Then in one of the underground rooms, a weird light show for kids is in full swing. The palace through the seasons.

Finally, and with full info in English too, we follow the fascinating history of the garnet gemstone and it’s manufacturing process as adopted in Perpignan. The same strict 17thC practice is still maintained today.

In those days it wasn’t easy to pass your jewelry apprenticeship . . .

It’s now 2pm. Two hours have flown by, somehow. Two peckish tums head back to Scoot. The keeper of all things sarnie. Mr S decides to move him to a more salubrious location in front of the palace and a bench.

Scoot’s security Titan disc lock has always been a bit tricky to release. Mainly because Mr S has to bend so low to get the key in. This time it slips in easily. The central cylinder pops open as it should. But not the holding pin, which should release with it. A wiggle and a jiggle (of the lock) does no good. It’s decided to grit its teeth. Happy being where it is. Scoot is stuck in its steel gnasher.

At this point Mr S is not concerned – much. He’s an ace fiddler. He’s now lying side-on in the gutter, trying to use his X-ray vision. Hoping to conjure an imagined image of the inner workings. Constantly turning the key this way then that in an attempt to get some purchase, or fool it into thinking it should release. Ten minutes of optimistic fiddling go by. A passing dog stops. Sniffs to see what’s going on. Resists the urge to do what comes naturally. Moves on. His master’s voice calling. “Don’t you dare!”

Thirty minutes later the lock wins. Mr S concedes. Googles 24/7 emergency locksmith. His shop is just over 1K away. Mr S should have phoned first. His shop is locked. Shutters down. Obviously he’s out on an emergency job!

A phone call where neither party fully understands the other, ensues. A text is sent. Back at Scoot the scenarios start playing out in our minds. Will we need to get a taxi back? Will Scoot still be here when we return tomorrow? Will we need to call a tow truck? Even then, how do we get Scoot back up the ramp into Beastie’s backside? Will Monsieur Locksmith materialise? Has he read the text? Will he have the right tools?

It’s now 4pm. The grey clouds darken. Under Mrs S’s prompting, Mr S engages a young father. He’s out walking his baby. He willingly speaks to Monsieur Locksmith on our behalf. Success!!

Our perceived saviour arrives at 4.50pm. He emulates Mr S’s previous flawed attempts. Even a squirt or two of WD40 proves useless. Pulls out his black bag of tricks. Pins and needles of all wiggly shapes and sizes. Like the types you see used in a crime movie when a safecracker is at work. Sadly no stethoscope. All to no avail. Decides something with a little more oomph is required. A small dollop of gelignite peut-être?

When a plan is made and executed to perfection, it feels good. Yet, oddly, when that plan gets turned on its head, the ability to adapt, accept and overcome a new set of circumstances, can be equally rewarding.

Day 32 – At this time of the year when many campsites are closing for the season, the day’s plan is simple. Find one that’s still open, in striking distance and head for it. We arrive quite late at Flower Camping Le Lac de la Thésauque, just as the site manager is about to head off for a rendezvous to pick up her son. She kindly delays. We’re today’s latest and last arrivals. Like many French sites, it’s situated in a beautiful location, yet let down by its sanitary facilities. This time of the year us old foggies can do without bottomless and topless doors that let the cold outside creep under and over our nether regions.

Day 33 – A long day in the saddle, finds us sidling alongside, rather than onto Camping Ventoulou. The entrance has red and white tape across. A sign says “Fermé”. Despite the website indicating it’s open. A quick phone call confirms. Two more motorhomes arrive. More frustration and disappointment after a long day no doubt.

Phone calls to other local possibilities prove unsuccessful. We head to an Aire [unattended dedicated parking areas for campers – some are free, others paid – a sort of communal wild camp facility]. This one needs a payment. If only we can get in. A twit has parked his van in front of the entrance/exit.

In any event, we decide not to pay. Instead head into Gramat. Another Aire awaits. [free]. We take the last place. Mrs S gets dinner on the go. Doing her usual juggling act. My phone rings. There was no reply from one site I phoned. It’s him. “We’re open. Come. We’re very close.” We’re sort of settled, but we do prefer a bit more. We pack up. head the 2K across town.

Twenty minutes later it’s a definite feeling of déjà vu . . .

Vegetables and cheeses galore are on display and offer. The French don’t mind paying prices that we would baulk at back home. €4.95 for a cauliflower! Mrs S splashes out. Buys one medium sized broccoli €3.20 (Tesco price 85p)

Next plan – get to Bordeaux before sunset.

It’s not unusual to find that the most famous and successful people have a burning passion for what they do. Rarely driven by financial gain. Often for altruistic reasons. Nearly always, because they couldn’t imagine doing anything else.

Day 34 – With a little over a week of this trip left, we halt our northward climb. Turn left. Back-track a little. Head for Bordeaux. The week-end weather is set to be mainly dry. We’re currently pitched up at Village Camping Bordeaux Lac. About 8K north of the centre.

We aim to shake off an unhappy distant memory. A 1979 camping holiday. Our red Datsun 180B. Parked in a Bordeaux side street. Broken into. Back in the day when bent coat hangers were the tools of the trade. Mary-Ann’s rings from the glovebox stolen. Sentimental value – included her mum’s engagement ring. Thought to be safer there than left in the tent. Frustrated form filling at the Gendarmerie followed. When English was as much a foreign language as French. In the days when NCR (no carbon required) sets were all the rage. Why make one copy when five would do? A French formality that came to nothing. We now wonder ‘who is wearing those rings today?’

Day 35 – The free walking tour of Bordeaux is given a miss. It starts at 10am. Far too early for non-early-birders. However, the tour itinerary is listed on-line. That comes in very handy. Creates our must-do list in one foul click. Sorted. First on the list is The Cité du Vin – the Bordeaux wine museum. Sounds right up our street. Tram 15 drops us virtually alongside.

The €22 pp entrance fee is worth every cent. Video presentations by the owners of important wine producers from around the globe, describe the conditions in which their vines flourish. We see and learn how vines are cultivated in such a way that they’re able to grow in the most unusual and extreme conditions. From the Chilian arid desert, to the Swiss snow-covered mountains. From the Polynesian Islands in the Southern Pacific, to the foothills of Mount Fuji.

A fly-over across many of the types of terrain used to grow vines starts our visit.

A shortened snip-it . . .

Interactive displays graphically inform in novel and innovative ways.

After three hours, there’s only two things left to do. 1, choose a complimentary degustation glass on the eighth floor . . .

2, delve into the cave . . .

From there, we walk 2300 metres in record time – go submerse ourselves in a bit of culture at second on our tour list – Les Bassins des Lumières. A huge portside concrete construction. Created during WWII by the Germans, to house a fleet of U-Boats. A perfect base from which to prowl the Atlantic. The four docks have been converted into one massive digital arts centre. A spectacular light show cascades the works of famous painters to music.

When future historians of architecture look back to the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, what will they think? What will they see? Buildings of substance and beauty? Or a mash of inconsistent, uncoordinated plans and designs?

Of course, the answer to that question presupposes that many of these buildings will still be standing. Unlike their predecessors that have proven to stand the test of time.

Yesterday’s bus, plus tram trip is a no can do. No buses on Sunday. We either pay €21.60 to Bolt, or leg it. We leg it. 2K. Jump on tram 15 again. A morning stroll plus €3.60. We’re quids in.

Today’s first stop on our walking tour list is the forty-three metre high Monument aux Girodins. Situated at one end of Place des Quinconces, one of the largest squares in Europe. [currently occupied by a massive ferris wheel and its accompanying fairground attractions]

We edge closer towards le centre ville and ouir next ‘tick’. Very few cars. The pace is calm. Quiet. Mainly pedestrianised. Trams rule. It feels civilised. Maybe because it’s Sunday. People always behave better on a Sunday, don’t they?

We’re on a roll. So we roll on to La Place de la Bourse with its Miroir d’Eau. A modern feature that keeps the granite slabs watered and misted from April to October.

It’s impossible to visit a city without checking out its cathedral. Walking towards it, a queue comes into view. Three or four deep. Is there a show on? An upcoming concert maybe, needing tickets? It rounds the corner. So do we. They’re patiently waiting to get into the three storey Restaurant L’Entrecote. An extraordinary ‘steak and chips’ rendezvous.

We’re not anywhere near Paris. No sign of a beret. Or string of onions. But France isn’t France without the sound of an accordion – though we’ve not heard it played quite in this jazz-funk way before.

Don’t you just hate it when the writer of a book, or a film, leaves you dangling at the very end. Abruptly stopping, just when you really need to know what happens next. Leaving the storyline to free-form in your mind. Play out in any direction. Or, in other words, do their job for them.

Life can be like that though. Quickly go one way. Then just as quickly the other. Take you by complete surprise. Like a balancing act at times. Sometimes you’re in control. Then you’re not. It’s as if life’s director of events has snatched your prepared script from you. Scribbled unexpected changes. Causing you to lose the plot. Suddenly put a foot, or even both, wrong.

Day 37 – Le Lambon Camping in Prailles, Deux-Sèvres is tonight’s one-stop. A pretty site next to a pretty lake. We waste no time in pitching up. Go walk its 2K perimeter. Minimum reward for a long day. With less than a week from Homeville, we’re hoping that each day’s leg will provide a little something to entertain, or amuse.

Day 38 – Les Vaugeons Municipal Camping in Écommoy is where we find ourselves for another overnighter. Webbed toes have become a necessity over the last couple of days. There is still more yet to come according to the forecast.

We make good use of an unexpected window. Clear for one hour. The weather app is spot on. We pop down into town. Another end of day reward. We lap the square. Like a couple of ‘OffVille’ inspectors. Pass comments back and forth. Deciding which aspects of the town are meritorious.

At the side of the square, a parked van is selling unusual goodies. Awning out. Side down. Counter brimming with nibbly take-aways. So we do just that. Spring rolls. Samosas. Prawn thingy’s. Spicy dips. We’ve a half bottle of Gewürztraminer patiently waiting inside Beastie. The perfect aperitif combination.

Then it’s onwards and upwards towards Le Mans. We should get there within 24hours . . .

Throughout history, men have sought to be challenged. Seeking to test their physical and mental strengths. Finding ways to stretch themselves to the very limits of their powers. In extremes of heat and cold. To the highest points and the deepest depths. Longest. Strongest. Fastest.

Our day ends pitched up at Municipal Camping Le Sans Souci, in Fresney sur Sarthe. A handful of kilometres from our earlier afternoon of pleasure. Courtesy of the Le Mans 24H Museum.

It’s one of those days when you just have to grin and bear. Cover to cover rain. Often torrential. We arrive in it. Leave in it. From the car park opposite, the barely visible entrance throws up a conundrum. Which will be quicker? Crawl, or butterfly?

We arrive a little over one hundred and one years since the first race. Then, it was conducted around the public streets. Nowadays each 13.626K lap is a combination of permanent track and public roads.

Visitors have the option of a combined ticket. Museum plus circuit. Today it’s limited to inside only. Beastie bemoans the weather. Having watched the film Ferrari and more recently Le Mans, we’re keen to do a dry lap. We shrug off our wets. At the drop of the Tricolor we head down the first straight.

We stay in first gear. Make a pit stop at every hoarding. Refuel with informative and interesting bits of info. Then we round the first bend. Faster than the first winners?

Not quite. They were André Lagache & René Léonard in their Chenard-Walcker Type U3 15CV Sport Convertable – capable of a top speed a little over 150kph.

Entering the first chicane, we catch, then overtake the best looking car by far.

Exiting we slow down, almost come to a spluttering standstill. Think better of it. Put our foot down, accelerate . . . leave this sore sight in our rear view mirrors.

We sweep over the finishing line to the chequered flag. Our three hour Le Mans doesn’t set any records, but at least we complete one full lap. Not every entrant can claim that.

Since 1978, motorbikes have done their own yearly thing too. Our lap of honour brings on a view of a fantastic looking moto.

The heaven’s are still crying their eyes out as we climb back into Beastie and his warm belly. When the weather is like this, there’s only one remedy . . .

The chronology of earthly war, certainly backs that statement up. When will man ever learn? There is no place on earth that can be permanently owned, or occupied. What did Hitler gain, apart from a bullet to the head?

I can think of at least two other current day leaders that could benefit from such a trigger.

In 2024, more than ever, we witness the devastating effects of war on the civilian populations. It’s nothing new. WWII proved to be no exception. Over twice as many civilian recorded deaths than military. A staggering thought to consider, next time we stand in front of rows and rows and rows of white crosses.

Today, we take a detour on our way to Camping Risle Seine Les Etangs, in Toutainville. Go visit the Mémorial de Caen, dedicated to telling the story of WWII, D-Day and the Battle of Normandy.

The museum details every aspect of the build up to and then the war itself. The obvious ineptitude of the European leaders in their belief that a war, so soon after WWI, could never happen. We walk the timeline. It starts with Hitler. A little man on the horizon. A nobody, who wanted to become a somebody.

Each section combines memorabilia, graphics, recordings, documentation and film footage from actual events. Daringly shot by incredibly brave journalists. English spoken and printed narration is of the highest quality.

The Japs, as an info board points out, were keen to enlarge their empire. But for their mis-judgement at Pearl Harbour, they probably would have. Photos of military training exercises showing live Chinese soldiers being used as bayonet practice, serve as a reminder why many a soldier hated them to his death. Even long after the war had ended.

The towns in north east France took the brunt. Not only from the Nazis. Allied Forces hit 1,570 towns and cities across France. Civilian ‘collateral’ damage – at least 68,778 dead – sound familiar?

The final figures are a blasphemy to the human race . . .

Mrs S reckons I’m short of a gene. (probably more than one) It’s the one that’s supposed to make you fearful of embarrassment. Enable you to bite your tongue. Swallow an inappropriate thought. One you shouldn’t have even had in the first place. Deter you from acting stupid (difficult) and making a proper Charlie of yourself.

Day 41 – A simply long day of travel from A to B. Or in our case, from one campsite to another. We shorten both time and distance (not by much) by deciding to utilise a Péage, or two. €30 sees us roll into Camping Du Grand Sart, near Péronne-en-Mélantois, at 5.57pm. Three minutes ahead of schedule.

Day 42 – Today is Saturday. We plan to visit Lille. Have a look-see around the vieux ville. Go see the birthplace of Charles de Gaulle for one. We’re 15K south of the city. A bus and metro away. The only thorn in that journey’s side, is that the bus doesn’t run between the hours of 9.45am and 2pm. (and not at all on a Sunday) We discover this fact just before leaving. It’s a cold day. Summer has disappeared further and further into each morning’s chill. Curled itself up into a tight huddled ball. In a vain effort to retain a little heat, before hibernation. As purely warm weather Scooterists, Scoot is considered a no-go. Taking Beastie into towns and cities, where parking is mainly dedicated to cars, can be risky. With the help of the site owner, she points us to the only suitable car park in town. It’s near the ancient citadel and in easy reach of all we want.

It’s raining. We umbrella it to 9 Rue Princesse. There’s a very short queue. A clipboard man is asking for names. Checking them against his list. Ours aren’t on it. Why would they be? We (Mr S) didn’t book. It’s a museum. Don’t you just stroll up, walk in and pay? “Non” – we can’t enter without a reservation. Next available pre-paid slot? 27th October!

So we turn tail. Tails between legs. Join the rest of Lille. Walk the old cobbled streets.

When it’s cold and damp, we can always rely on a church, or in this case Lille Cathedral, AKA Basilica of Notre Dame de la Treille. It’s been fitted with a weird looking facade. Added on in 1999, to eventually complete the construction, which had started as late as 1854. Almost ugly. Grey marble slabs, juxtaposed with grey metal scaffolding.

Once inside, the facade takes on a whole new look . . .

We leave the city to its grey. Pick up some apple and chocolate beignets – tonight’s second course.

The last day of any of our trips has its own routine. As we head towards our final night at Sangatte, and tomorrow morning’s early crossing, we start to switch our minds from the here and now. Start to think about home-living again. The chores that are there waiting for us. But more than anything at this time of the year, Mrs S is dreaming of a warm bathroom.

Today is different. We plan to make two more excursions. Cram the cookie pot full to its brim. Set an earlier than usual alarm clock. We needn’t have bothered. This chirpy cockerel got there first at 6.07am.

We head back into town. Park in the same place. 2K later we’re standing in front of this beauty. It’s going to be a day of photos.

Inside, the architecture is as stunning as the paintings and sculptures it displays.

One hundred and fifty minutes later, we’re heading across and out of town to Roubaix. A small city of 99,000. 13K north-east. There’s a swimming pool there we want to visit.

We’re using in-phone MAPS as our guide. Not always a sensible choice. At this point Mrs S is just shy of a meltdown. We’re suddenly running out of roads big enough for Beastie. Lille is a mass of street furniture and narrow rat-runs.

Built in 1932, the swimming pool on the Rue des Champs closed in 1985.

By 2001, it had been transformed into a wonderful Art-Deco museum.

One of our many favourites is this ginormous painting by Marcel Jambon and Alexandre Bailly, completed in 1911, three years after Jambon’s death.

Another trip comes to a close. To you faithful followers – thanks for traveling with us and for giving me an added reason to write.

à bientôt