Category: France 2025

Once hooked, there is no escape. No going back to how things were. It’s pointless to resist. Almost impossible to rise above. Why put up a fight you know you’ll ultimately lose anyway? In today’s society there are so many opportunities for those ‘guilty pleasures’. Yet they often turn into ‘painful pleasures’.

Fortunately, the addiction of writing this 2 Cheeses blog, comes with no risk. Perhaps that’s why at the start of each new trip, I consider whether it’s actually worth continuing. What difference would it actually make if I stopped? Wouldn’t it be far simpler to down tools permanently? Free myself each evening from the process of having to think ‘what shall I write about’. Allow my mind during each day to be more fully absorbed in ‘the moment’, rather than wondering whether to take a certain photo, for the blog, or not. Would that omission derive more, or less pleasure?

Obviously, I haven’t put up much of a fight. The addiction of writing down random thoughts and observations does result in a certain amount of pleasure. Being able to hold on to thoughts for more than a few seconds, becomes more challenging as ageing progresses, so I’ve reached the conclusion that what little remains of that grey cerebral matter behind my eyebrows, needs some daily exercise. Besides which, it’s a way of recording memories that my brain can no longer hold on to. Scary!

Earlier. Very earlier. Due to a change of strategy, this morning’s unwelcome 5am alarm, didn’t find us bouncing out of bed all bright and breezy. It was dark and miserable outside. Inside too. Yet all of our own making. A Brittany Ferries 8.30am crossing from Poole, the culprit. A case of eliminating the long haul to Folkstone and the overnight stopover. The good idea, not feeling quite so good this early.

I imagine crossings of the English Channel, for the last couple of months, have been glass-like. Courtesy of our exceptional summer. Perhaps I should have heeded the logic of dynamic chance. Not assumed that it would be alright on our day. The longer the balmy summer lasted, the greater the chance of it breaking. But I’m an optimist. The forecast didn’t look good. In fact it looked bad. Being the owner of a stomach that turns itself inside out at just the thought of a rolling sea was already giving me colly-wobbles.

As it turned out, I survived – obviously. All passengers were forbidden from going up on deck due to the ‘inclement’ conditions. Not that that would have appealed to me anyway. For my part I spent most of the crossing with eyes closed, huddled on a corner seat.

We’re now pitched up about 95K south of Cherbourg at Camping Le Lac des Charmilles, Torigni-sur-Vire. A video call with grandson Jason and an indoor pool swim, the perfect tonic.

It can stem from many sources . . . Making up after an argument. Feeling understood. Being alone within the beauty of nature. Paying a long overdue debt. Helping others. Keeping on top of finances. Knowing you’ve done your best. Maintaining integrity. Forgiving others. Forgiving yourself. The list is endless . . .

Peace in life, when it arrives, is often too short-lived. There seems to be an endless supply of corners from around which, lie challenges and circumstances that wait unseen. Ready to jump out. Ever eager to disrupt and disturb. Friends, family, personal choices, innumerable obscure situations the main protagonists. All conspire to create worries and anxieties.

Today’s Camping de Guerame is in walking distance of this afternoon’s go to – Le Musée des Beaux-arts et de la Dentelle – AKA the Museum of Fine Arts and Lace. We’re in the town of Alençon, famous for centuries for its sought after hand sewn lace. Its intricate and exquisite designs, often considered to be the ‘Queen of Lace’.

A short video illustrates the whole painstaking process and reveals that one square centimetre can take seven hours to successfully complete. It’s no longer a skill just confined to history. The current generation have learnt and discovered how peaceful it can be while concentrating and getting ‘lost’ in their sewing.

The afternoon brightens and so we go walk the streets. Remain on the look-out for anything of interest. It doesn’t take long. A massive circular building looms large. An early 19^th Century construction intended to be used for grain trade. Now utilised as a grand exhibition space.

Today’s exhibition shows off the many talents and resulting works from the huge variety of adult and junior workshops available to the public within the commune.

When is enough, enough? When does enough, become more then enough? How much ‘stuff’ does it take to live a life? The dividing answer would indicate ‘It depends’. There can be an infinite number of arguments to justify having and keeping hold of more than enough. It’s all relative, isn’t it?

Accumulation of life’s unnecessaries is the 20th & 21st century’s norm. Ask any children who’ve cleared out a parent’s belongings after death. Yet ever since the first possession was created, man’s intrinsic nature has been to keep and keep hold of.

Although, when it comes to those we consider to possess obscene wealth, then it’s easy to adopt a different attitude. Conversely, those who give up ‘worldly’ wealth are often seen to be truly human and admired. Especially, when dedicating their lives to those in need.

Since retiring, we’ve always considered our day’s of MOHOing a wonderful privilege. A blessing that continues to enrich our relationship and one that we never take for granted.

Day 3 – 189k further south we move into warmer weather and Camping Tournefeuille situated in the suburbs of Romorantin – Lanthenay.

Unlike us, the afternoon is still young, so we stretch off the journey along the River Sauldre. The calm reflections delight and enhance our there and back.

Day 4 – 60k east of Romorantin, astride the River Cher, paddles the Château de Chenonceau. Our pre-pitchup look-see. A wonderful decoration built on top of a fortified bridge five hundred years ago. Since then it’s been in the hands of the chequered royals and the rich. Only Versailles receives more visitors.

Like many owned properties of this ilk, the interior rooms are adorned with the lavish trappings of their time; huge tapestry laden walls, intricately carved ceilings, the occasional ‘master’ hanging here or there and of course the elaborate four posters. Although none of these are what draw our attention.

Every room has been ‘prettied’ with amazingly flamboyant and inventive flower arrangements.

On our way out we discover an incredible display of photographs. The theme is ‘In which country was each photo taken?’

Now you see him, now you don’t. Here today, gone tomorrow. Transient as life is, for some who have walked planet earth, the legacy of their short existence can have a lasting impact and be an inspiration for centuries onwards.

Legends enhance. Create gods from little. Historians and writers throughout time conjure colourful imagery. Skillfully compose characters, often from conflicting sources. Yet for those truly all-time-greats, their works reveal their true brilliance. Attesting to the genius resting within.

It’s day two of our two-nighter on Camping Le Moulin Fort. We’re just around the corner from yesterday’s Chateau Chenonceau and a short 14k Scoot from Château du Clos Lucé – home to Leonardo da Vinci during his last three years of life.

Scoot gets woken from his cozy under-our-bed shelter. Slips down and out into another bright warm morning. Readies himself for a shorts and t-shirt recce. Us not him.

Not unlike many skilled artists of his time, L-d-V tended to wander at the invite of a generous rich patron, or two. Follow the money, so to speak. King Francis I in this instance. Rent free with a yearly allowance of one thousand crowns. Not bad for a pensioner! How else was he to live?

Each room allows us to imagine the great man’s presence. Some of his ‘basic’ tools on display, heighten and demonstrate his ability of being able to think outside the box with little at his disposal apart from his genius brain. A number of his paint brushes look to have been codged together using clippings from his beard and tied to a stick with a strip of cloth. Perhaps giving reason to his enigmatic style. As a man of multiple talents – mathematician, artist, sculptor, architect, inventor, engineer . . . he was most likely in a constant mind-set of “what if?” Some of his note books are on display. Even for a fluent Italian speaker, his jottings would seem to be all in gibberish. That is, until you held them up to a mirror!

In Autumn 2017 we had the privilege of visiting L-d-V’s place of birth in Vinci, Tuscany. Spending three memorable hours marvelling at his working inventions.

[The answer . . .

Incredible as it may seem, every one of those photographs from yesterday’s post was taken in a different region of France.]

The ironic lyrics from Pete Seeger’s 1955 politically charged timeless classic “Where Have All The Flowers Gone?” will forever ring true. As long as the very worst traits of humanity continue to pass from generation to generation to generation, then peace and harmony throughout the world’s peoples will remain a hopeless cause.

Day 6 – We end today’s journey at Camping La Forêt-de-Tessé – a little gem tucked away in the Charente countryside. In 2013 and after seven months touring Europe, ex-MOHOers Mark and Hungarian wife Ildiko decided to buy an overrun plot of land. Six years later they opened their ten pitch site.

Earlier in the day, with no sign of a Mr T, we stop off to pick up some supplies (mostly wine), from an Intermarché supermarket. All goes well. The trolley is chocker-block with lots of food (wine is officially designated as being food in France) There’s just one last item we need. Some wet wipes. AKA lingettes humides. [wipe wets] Trolleying up and down every aisle we find no sign of any sort of cleaning product. Very strange. We ask un-elper – the reply “Vous les trouverez sous le chapiteau. La-bas, dans le coin” did us no favours. We’d just come from le coin. Understanding some French, but not all, can often be very misleading. Mr Google Translate said ‘chapiteau’ meant Big Top. As in circus Big Top!? . . . Was she trying to make clowns of a couple of Brits?

Day 7 – we visit Oradour-sur-Glane. A village community right up until the massacre of its 642 innocent civilians on 10th June 1944, by a German Waffen SS Company. Only six escape to tell the tale.

The destroyed village was never rebuilt. It now stands as a museum. Left as it was, to become a permanent memorial.

One by one, their names and age at death are softly spoken throughout every day. Over and over again. Forever remembered.

Touring with a mini-house on wheels is bound to have its pros and cons. The pros generally, far outweigh the cons. Being able to upsticks at any given moment, due to a change of mind, or circumstance, a definite positive.

Day 8 – We depart the very reasonable ‘Camping-Car Park’ in St Junien with pockets only €14.94 lighter. The pretty island town of Brantôme-en-Périgord, enclosed within a protruding hernia of the River Donne, is planned as today’s go-to. However, upon arrival, we find reception closed and the entrance barrier down. It’s obviously going to be a typically frustrating longtemps lunch. At this point, the dismally grey airborne barrage decides to open its sluice gates. We decide to change our plan – push on southwards to the very French sounding town of Villefranche [du Périgord] and Camping-la-Bastide – just a five minute walk from its medieval centre.

This terraced site has been subjected to a drop or three too. Beastie’s 3.5t belly is prohibited from resting on any sodden pitch. He’s told to reverse the full length of Allee F until he’s alongside his allocated woody spot, which he dutifully does.

There’s just enough of the afternoon left to pootle into Villefranche.

Home living, with numerous DIY outlets within easy spitting distance, creates a relaxed attitude towards those around the house, or garden jobs. On occasion when a tool fails, or a particular item is required for a certain project, it’s good to know you can just pop around the corner and collect within a few minutes.

Having a personal ‘open all hours’ garage, stuffed to the rafters with all kinds of ironmongery, an added bonus. Long gone are the times when garages were actually used to house the car.

Beastie’s working garage is stuffed to the rafters too. Crammed in around Scoot. Though with only the very barest emergency essentials. Aided by an incongruous mix of bits n bobs that Mr S considers might just save the day on occasion. There are lots of different types of very, very sticky rolls of tape for example. Anxiously lying in wait for their ‘chewing gum and string’ moment, should one of Beastie’s engine mounts fail.

Day 9 – We plan an ‘en route’ stop. Having heard that Domme is a very pretty medieval town – [aren’t they all?] and referred to as the Acropolis of the Périgord, it’s one we can’t bypass. However, on approach, we see it’s perched, like a third-year’s school cap, on top of a puzzled very high rocky outcrop. Then discover motorhome parking places up there are zero. Plus a wiggly steep road with no pavement the only other option for those not carrying grappling hooks.

A piece of deserted and semi-abandoned land provides more than enough room to unload all of those bare essentials from Beastie’s backside and enables Scoot to roll down and out. Forty minutes later we’re Scooting.

On the way up, Super-Scoot delights in sailing by couple after couple, pushing their bikes. Obviously, they should have gone to Scoot-Savers . . .

Like two little mice in a cheese-run, we exhaust every nook and cranny. Search out the prettiest portions. Add them to our memory banks. Some to DCIM. Alfresco diners’ chatter bounces around the main square in a warm glow. Creates an aimiable atmosphere and a couple of rumbling tums.

Both sides of the narrow main street overflow with converted homes. Shops housed out front, below living quarters – Roman style. Owners always eager to encourage a sale or two.

We end the day 50k further south at Camping Rivière de Cabessut, Cahors.

Innovators see things others are blind to. They possess a hidden sense that enables them to consider alternatives that may not even yet exist. A special talent that they use to explore, discover, fathom and apply.

Innovators have operated in every sphere of human activity on planet earth since that first footprint stepped forth. Forever shaping man’s progress. Sometimes ridiculed, sometimes applauded, sometimes for better, sometimes for worse. Mostly though, just taken for granted.

During the centuries, the arts, painting in particular, have seen massive innovations in style, medium and technique. Opening up new vistas of appreciation and understanding to the masses and those more discerning. Their talents capable of bringing emotion to the surface with every nuanced brushstroke.

Home to a waterways network of over five hundred rivers and canals, it’s difficult to find a city, town, or village in France that doesn’t have a water course running through it, alongside it, or around it. Cahors no exception.

Our now customary riverside walk into town – heads us towards the Henri Martin museum. Another unheard of [to us] artist of some merit we discover.

Our walk around Cahors’ ancient streets reveals a picturesque secret . . .

Our puzzled exit from town (should we turn left at the river, or right?), brings us face to face with this masterful clock-work innovation.

The best memories are always created when with those you love. These are times that stay remembered long after the event. Locked away and treasured for a lifetime.

Places are merely the stage upon which memorable moments are created. No matter how beautiful, or fantastic, ultimately, it’s human interaction that holds notable significance.

Yesterday, we left Cahors with a warm feeling for the town. Not because of its ancient aesthetics. Simply because on three separate occasions, we were politely asked . . . “puis-je vous aider?”. A kind open offer of assistance to two complete strangers visiting their home town.

Before we go pitch up at Camping Le Faucon d’Or, a few kilometres north-east of Montricoux, we go visit the Chateau de Montricoux, which houses the Marcel Lenoir museum. Another unknown [to us] French artist.

Currently owned and run by the Namy family since 1983, its grand, though rather dilapidated entrance gives nothing away to its inner secrets . . .

On first impression inside, our jaws drop to the floor. Weighted down with incredulity. Each room’s display of effects, along with the paintings, seem to have been codged together, with little, or no thought. It’s as if we’ve walked into a hoarder’s house. It seems so crazy, laughable even. It brings on the giggles. Can they really charge €5 entrance?

‘Le Salon’, seems to be a mix of bric-a-brac finds. The stars of the show clutter around the room’s perimeter, as if too shy to enter into the central spotlight. A blue toy spaceship is separated from it’s matching pink twin, hidden behind the easy chair to the right.

Plastic flowers overflow from a couple of vases. Elevated for special effect on pedestals. Untidy gaudy pink wraps feebly attempt to enhance their sad demeanour.

A horse bides its time in front of the window. Presumably brought into occasional play should casual conversation lapse at some point.

The monopolised writing bureau overflows with. . “Ah, now where can we put these?” things – “Ah, yes just the place . . . “

We wonder, have the owners created their own piece of artwork here? A surreptitious allegory mimicking the messiness of mans existence? Or more likely their own?

Just when we think it’s all over, our ‘host’ [the owner’s daughter] leads us across the gravel courtyard to a locked side cavern. We step inside. Once more our jaws drop. For a very different reason. An amazing display of some of Alain Laborde’s works.

Quite how our visit lasted just under an hour, a mystery. We regain our senses with a short walk into town. Short, because we haven’t gone more than an alleyway or two when Diego spots us looking at the CLOSED sign on the entrance to his art gallery. He lives right next door. His lunchbreak is over. It’s a quiet side street that probably sees few visitors. We feel sympathetic. He entices us inside with his bubbly enthusiasm to show us his collection. He has over 500 (bought by him) Marcel Lenoir paintings, spread over three floors! Some he’s paid more than €2,000 for. He’s a lifetime collector and has stories to tell about many of his acquisitions. He’s rightly proud. We imagine he’s been able to finance his purchases on the back of a ten year stint working as a commissioned sculptor in Saudi.

He recounts the time he travelled to Anfield in 1977 to watch St Etienne play Liverpool in the Champions League semi-final second leg. His lasting memory less about the match. More about being firmly told by a horseback bobby “Shut up!”

For some it comes naturally. The ability to chill. To totally switch off. Relax. Take it easy for a day. Do next to nothing. For others, that can be more difficult than it seems.

Day 12 – With the weather showing encouraging signs of heating up, we decide to gamble. Book a three nighter at Albirondack Camping, a forty minute walk from Albi centre-ville.

It’s a self-called spa-site. [apart from a heated pool, it has a jacuzzi! – big deal!!] Our allocated pitch is not what we expect for the price we’ve pre-paid. A piece of hardcore, barely large enough to house Beastie’s belly, or his backside. It’s Sunday evening and the terraced wooded camp is choca. Beggars can’t be choosers and all that. We make do, for now.

Earlier in the day, the clear sunny morning finds us giving our calf muscles another work out as we step the steep and cobbled way up to the picturesque 12^thC century Bruniquel Chateau. Sublimely perched at an altitude of 820ft.

Before we can sneak and peak inside the chateau, a weather front sneaks in behind our backs. Outflanks us on all sides with its drizzly mist. Which is soon replaced with the real McCoy. We’re totally unprepared. Wonder how long we’ll have to sit it out inside.

An hour later and by the time we’re back inside Beastie, it’s relented. The day is still young and we’ve heard of yet another pretty town, worthy of our presence – Saint-Aintonin-Noble-Val. A lively ambiance that attracts shoppers and diners. It stays dry.

Day 13 – It must be 15th September then. Mary-Ann’s 75th Birthday and she’s still looking as beautiful as ever. With breakfast and pressies done with, we stroll roadside down into town.

First stop, the extraordinary Sainte-Cecile Cathedral.

Next door to the cathedral, the world’s largest collection of Henri Toulouse-Lautrec’s works are housed within what was once the Bishop’s Palace – itself a massive construction.

His life can be summed up as having a sad beginning and a sad ending, but with a glorious inbetween.

Day 14 – Unable to ‘waste’ the day just relaxing, we discover a much more éco-friendly route into town. L’Echappée Verte, hidden and huddled between the suburban growth, is a meandering mix of delightful tracks and mini river crossings.

With our weather compass pointing one way, then the other, we decide to leave it spinning on its own axis, as we head east and plant roots for a few days.

Day 15 – 102k is today’s calculated trip. Ample time for an en-route Carrefour top up. A mix of solid and liquid food gets tucked away. As temperatures soar and clouds clear, the decision to drop anchor is an easy one. Saint Martin Camping, 4k short of Millau, our new calm harbour, for a few nights.

Owned, run and massively improved by Jérôme & Laetitia since 2017, it’s a camp site more than worthy of its five star rating. Not least because of their friendliness and attention to detail. It’s not often, as in never, that an owner will greet you by your Christian name and enquire “Is everything OK, Brian?”

The afternoon is actually spent in total relaxion poolside. Like a couple of Birds Eye fish fingers we horizontally sizzle for a couple of hours. Aim to turn golden brown and not too crispy. Occasionally go warm up the pool.

Day 16 – An extremely cold single figure start to the day. All campers, well, those that are up and about at just gone 8.30am, are all togged up in jerkins, sweatshirts and joggers. We have to remember we’re an hour ahead, so it’s really 7.30am temperature wise. Plus, the site sits surrounded by high cliffs, so hours of daylight are foreshortened too. The sun sleeps in until 10am and says night-night at 5.30pm.

Two weeks on the road with two weeks left means it’s time to wash the bed linen. While the duvet covers hang about sunbathing, we make use of the under-cover and shady table-tennis table.

Then, with a cloudless blue above, yesterday’s afternoon is duplicated to a T, as 2 cheeses slowly melt like a couple of Welsh Rarebits.

At one point, a couple of loudmouthed Dutch couples annoyingly spend their time standing in the pool, or sitting on the edge, feet dangling, as if being pedicured by a shoal of Garra rufa. They vociferously exchange travel stories. [Mr S knows this to be fact, because although he doesn’t speak a word of Dutch, he does understand the words, Greece, Norway, Copenhagen, Madrid, Barcelona et al.]

A proud Welsh couple, well into their 60s, frequent poolside too. They take pride in telling anyone who may be interested, that they are Welsh. The Michelin Man shaped wife must think she’s a Welsh Rarebit too. Takes pride in going topless. Her folds of fat present a severe visual challenge. It’s difficult to establish which bits are boobs and which are belly. Only a more discerning and gifted Renaissance painter may have been capable of deconstructing this abstract image. Understandably, her husband places himself some distance apart. Only coming together when she enters the pool ‘covered’.

Day 17 – With our sunny afternoon of guilty pleasure earmarked, and before the temperature sky-rockets, we make the decision to go do a bit of hill climbing. We’re based in the middle of the Regional Parc des Grands Causses, so no excuse. Mr S plots a route with his favourite app ‘Plotaroute’. Its a short and doable wiggly 3.6K with a 40% gradient at one section. A total ascent of 197metres at its highest point of 594 meters – the perfect calf, knee and thigh workout.

2.5 hours later and back at base camp we indulge in more of the same. TT, Connect 4, and by now, you know what . . .

Everybody wants to be in control of their own life. Feel that they have a grip on their own destiny. Nobody wants to live under the control of another.

Every person on earth should have the right to live freely, in peace and without fear. Yet, what should a person do if that right and freedom is removed? What should a person do if they are subjected to oppression? For decades! Multiply that a million fold. Two million fold. Then what should a nation do?

When those in power refuse to listen. Refuse to act. Refuse to change. Then what course should a person, or nation follow?

When even elected leaders of the world’s most prosperous countries are effectively oppressed and brought under virtual subjugation by one super-power, then what hope can there be for the individual?

The weather man informs us that this is going to be our last day of sun. Scoot is brought down and out from his shady hideaway and into the dazzle. He’s got places to go, people to see.

First stop – the observation platform that looks out across the valley over to the Millau Viaduct. He’s barely a third of the way up to it when the tarmac runs out and is replaced by a bumpy unstable track. With Scoot’s tiddly tyres totally unsuitable on this surface, he refuses to spin another cm.

All is not lost though. Even from here, we are rewarded with an impressive sight.

With the second ‘cascade’ stop a further 3k on along this track Scoot shakes his head, about turns, Scoots into Millau Centre Ville. We’re surprised at how busy it is. The traffic is piled up and slow moving. Then we discover why.

Our duplicate afternoon is a triplicate. We remain poolside until the last remnants of sun have run their daily course across the heavens and disappeared. Then we do likewise.

Worldwide, the holiday industry constitutes a massive ten percent of global GDP. With France leading the way with total number of yearly visitors; closely followed by Spain.

A recent survey indicates that when questioned, fifty-nine per cent of UK adults said they’d be taking at least one holiday this year. A high on the agenda activity, now for many, regarded as a necessity, not a luxury.

In general, 2 Cheeses don’t consider time touring to be a holiday per se. We refer to these travels as trips. We never leave with an expectation to have an extended period of doing ‘nothing much at all’.

Of course, the definition of a holiday and what it actually is, varies from person to person. Even from one holiday to the next. A matter of choice and taste. Fortunately, being away for an extended number of days, creates greater options and variety for 2 Cheeses on each trip.

Depending on the weather, or as our mood takes us, we have the flexibility to mix-n-match, as it pleases.

Day 19 – With access to innumerable weather apps, we were never going to extend our stay at Saint Martin Camping, more than four nights. Despite it being up there in our top ten sites. The consensus indicated that today was going to be a full-on day of rain. Perfect for travel.

So that’s exactly what we do. The rain belt sweeps across southern France with its new broom, ushering in the arrival of cooler temperatures. So we sweep under it and drop down to Perpignan. Drop in on spec on the five star Le Brasilia luxury camp. The rain is just starting to ease as Mr S steps into the accueil. The last available pitch is up for grabs. He grabs it. It’s a very popular destination. We know this place. It won’t disappoint. We stayed here last September on Day 29.

It has direct access to a beautiful beach, paddle board hire, an incredible pool complex, first class sanitaire blocks, restaurant, hair-dressers, shops, gym, tennis court, football pitch, volley ball, table tennis, and most importantly, a patisserie!

Opened in 1964 with its first three hectares, this mini-village is now immaculately organised over eighteen hectares, offering seven hundred and thirty-five pitches. That’s 735!

An automatic ‘go-to’ for many young families. Young kids safely play and wander around unaccompanied on their tiny wheeled scooters and balance-bikes, even past dusk. For a brief period, they unknowingly experience kid-life in the fifties.

Days 20 & 21 – It’s so easy to drop into ‘Holiday’ mode when the circumstances are right. Windy beach walks. Windy poolside sunning. Set the tone for our three nights, two days of doing diddly-squat. Evenings spent likewise. Hooked on Clarkson’s Farm.

With a dramatic drop in temperature and no sign of further good news on the western front, we forego any further thoughts of holidaying and get on with what we know and do best.

Day 22 – Beastie has crossed many French regional boundaries so far. He’s our passport king. A visa free agent coordinating each day’s activities. Our travels however, don’t stop the minute we’ve landed and pitched up on site. Oh no. Beastie’s accumulation of kilometres is more than matched by our accumulation (read consumption) of as many regional wines as is possible, during the course of each evening’s meal. [I’ve just realised that sentence can mean more than it does!] Even within one region there are so many varieties on offer. Why the French need to spend more than €5, or €6 on a bottle remains a mystery.

Today’s journey takes us along one of several official wine routes that criss-cross the Pyrénées-Orientales, itself a Catalan area within the Occitainie region.

At one point, the D117 waves au revoir to the multitude of vineyards either side. Gets replaced by 700 metre high cliffs of the scenic Pierre-Lys Gorge. With many a similar route tucked under his belt of fancy colours, Beastie’s bravado leads the way.

We spend the night on Municipal Camping l’Orme Blanc. With its 5 star reviews we expect better. It’s a muddy heap (luckily dried), with a portaloo-style sanitaire facility that would sit well at Glastonbury. The crowning cherry on the cake though comes at 6.39am. A barking dawn chorus from a couple of tethered dogs. Sometimes it’s so hard to be a dog lover . . .

Day 23 – Back to doing what we do best, we’re on our way to Camping Paradis Vallée du Lot. Plan an en-route stop off at Moissac, a pretty and tidy town. They power wash the pavements here!

Moissac is home to the famous Abbaye de St Pierre, itself a pilgrim stop on the route to Santiago de Compostela.

Just through the intricate sculpted porch, a photographic tribute to the life of Saint Thérèse of Lisieux, along with her life’s biog, welcomes each visitor. Her brief life is still a worldwide inspiration that demonstrates the power of leading an ordinary life, doing ordinary things, for ordinary people. Her simple, yet profound motto ‘Love is repaid by love alone’.

A paid entry into the cloisters encourages us to study more of the displays within each side room. Get our money’s worth. It’s always amazing to view ancient writings and manuscripts. How could they ever achieve such incredible neat accuracy?

Quite a skill to create such an elaborate illumination using a tiny palette of powdered pigments, a quill and a sea-shell for mixing purposes.

Visit over, we head back to Beastie. Wonder whether we should offer a lift . . .

With fewer warm sunny days, coupled with evenings now drawing in more quickly, many sites close their doors on 15th September. Go into hibernation for the autumn and winter months. Consequently, the lack of open camp sites means beggars (us) can’t be choosers.

Mrs S prefers hot showers, hot wash-up water and enclosed warm and draught-free sanitaire blocks. (can’t say I blame her) None of which are necessarily a priority for French site owners, when in general, summer temperatures are in the high twenties or thirties. Who wants a hot shower when you’ve got a sweat on?

Despite an online indication of still being open until 1st October, our first port of call is closed. It’s 4.30pm. We still have plenty of time to find an alternative. Which we do. Fortunately only 7k further up the same road.

At Camping Le Pontillou, we’re thankful to be welcomed on site by Thierry and his wife. A two man (read person) team with twenty-one pitches and eighteen mobile homes on offer. We believe they are equally thankful to receive another customer. Immediately doubling today’s income.

With sanitaire walls that don’t reach the roof, and doors that don’t reach the floor, the cool evening air is given free access. Refreshes those parts usually reserved only for drinkers of Heineken beer. As a consequence, shower time is like watching a very old silent movie, where all the characters are whirling around at normal plus a half speed.

Earlier, our day’s amusement is a visit to another château. An ideal way to break the journey for an hour or two, with an interesting leg stretch. The tiny commune of Biron has been dwarfed since medieval times by its namesake castle.

It’s almost a village in itself and has hosted film crews for many a film and series.

Everyone, I imagine, loves a nice surprise. That unexpected show of love. A small gift. A helping hand. A thank you. A friendly telephone call. Made extra special when there’s no reason behind the action.

Nice surprises aren’t always governed by another person’s direct actions. Sometimes you may find yourself with a beautiful panoramic vista in front of you, that springs out of the blue. It’s been waiting there silently. All you had to do to receive it, was to turn that corner.

We leave Villamblard and head north. With plenty of corners ahead to look forward to. We’re aiming for the sun. Aware that with just one week left we need to keep this engine moving. Tans topped up.

Beastie catches something unusual out of the corner of his eye. Some sort of flying object. Noisy too. It’s far too slow and low to be Superman. He’s intrigued. About turns.

By lunchtime we’re pitched up on a very small family run site. Les Pilotis du Cognac in Bourg-Charante, operated by a very friendly Franck & Martine. They speak as much English as Mr S speaks French. Booking in becomes a very humerous duo-lingo affair. We all attend a mini language lesson. Mr S learns the meaning of la vielle (the day before), they learn how to pronounce chips, with a ch and not a sh.

The wished for blue sky continues to hide itself behind grey cloud. Plays hide and seek. Occasionally shows its colour with a brief glimpse here or there. Mainly there. Regardless, we do what all good mature cheeses do. Go sniff out the local locality. Walk the twist of deserted lanes like a couple of lost gorgonzolas.

Unsurprisingly, being set slap bang in the middle of Cognac Country, there are wall to wall masses of special vineyards. Special, because they grow a certain white grape that’s perfect for cognac production.

A picture can paint a thousand words. So, it’s probable that a video can paint at least a million more. But if that’s true, then why do the sales of word-books far exceed those with just pictures? And why did the silent movie industry collapse so suddenly then?

Whether spoken, or written, words come with the ability to translate and transform. Create a reaction. Convey an emotion. Shouted. Whispered. Silently mouthed -Lineker-like. They can remain with you a life-time. Leaving joy, or pain. For some, they’re a festering splinter that never stops hurting. While other’s can bathe in the glow of love and praise. They can unite and divide. Disrupt and dismantle. Advise and dismiss. Subject and give comfort. Imprison or issue freedom. Profer understanding and confusion. Incite hate, relay forgiveness. Convince and dissuade. They can bring down a government. Rally troops in resistance.

Day 26 – It’s Sunday. A shorts and almost t-shirt Scoot into Cognac – today’s entertainment. The famous Hennessy brand HQ, situated Charante-side, our first port of call.

We forego the ‘grand-tour’ which includes a tasting. Not really our cup of tea. Instead we settle for the cheap and cheerful (as in free) A-Z of the Hennessy dynasty.

Today, Hennessy holds the largest collection of cognac eaux de vie in the world, with more than 470,000 casks maturing in its cellars.

With taste buds tickled, we move on over to the Musée des Savoir-Faire du Cognac. A fantastic walk through details the trials, tribulations and successes of cognac production. From planting, to grape, to bottle, to marketing, to delivery, to consumption.

It’s easy to overlook the multitude of mini industries that were, and still are, so critical to the brand’s survival.

You need to increase sales. Therefore you need more bottles, more quickly. They are currently hand blown. You have an idea to speed that process up. So you outsource the manufacture of a new piece of kit.

Day 27 – We treat ourselves to a day off from study. A wall to wall blue day is promised, from sunrise to sunset. It’s too good to be wasted. We go explore the local area around the very charming village of Bourg-Charante.

What is this picture actually saying? On its own what does it portray? Can the water temperature be established? Who was with the photographer? Was there agreement regarding the beauty of the scene? Did a boat come by a few minutes later to disturb the reflections?

Would the above sign work minus the words? Or is it better with them? Does it mean this way to see boats? Or, boat harbour over there? Or ferry port ahead? . . .

Sometimes, you can reach the end of a day, look back on it, scratch your head. Find it hard to think of what actually happened. Just what did you do with all of those minutes?

It’s easy to consider it a wasted day. Chastise yourself. Kick your own backside. Determine to be more productive . . . tomorrow.

Even when ‘doing nothing much’, there’s always unexpected stuff going on. Usually out of sight. Behind the scenes. We wonder if this wonderful spinning act witnessed yesterday, could still be tripping the light fantastic?

Day 28 – A simple journey to Le Moulin des Effres Camping, whereupon we do nothing at all except sit out in the sun reading (well, Mrs S did). Mr S tried his hand at catching flies . . .

Day 29 – Our rule of thumb almost gets broken. A planned double attack averted. We retreat our idea of invading Thouars and Angers on the same day. Reconsider tactics. Fall back to take on more necessary supplies at a convenient Super U. Keep to our tried and trusted strategy. Angers can wait. Tomorrow always comes.

Tempted by the marketing moguls use of the word ‘medieval’, we leave Beastie basting in the midday sun. Take advantage of some free parking, courtesy of Mr Super U. Thirty minutes later we’re entering through the ancient city walls via the Tour du Prince-de-Galles.

Of course, we try not to, but we can’t help ourselves. The door of Église Saint-Médard is wide open. “Welcome. Please enter” – we do . . . Inside it’s a pretty standard looking structure. BUT, the quality of the stained glass windows is superb.

Walking back we come across this incongruous threesome. At first sight, we thought number 4 had drawn the short straw. Then we noticed number 5 . . .

It’s always a good feeling when a tackled task gets completed and accomplished without any serious problems. You can pat yourself on the back and say ‘Job well done there. Not sure how that would turn out. But, hey it’s OK’.

Every 2 Cheeses trip throws up its unique set of occurrences. Some seemingly within our (Mr S) control one second, and not the other, where he may have momentarily lost the plot. Whereas other incidents crop up out of the blue, with no way of being able to prevent a particular incident happening.

As it is with all aspects of life, the more you practise, the better you become. The ability to handle, what your old novice-self would consider to be an insurmountable obstacle, becomes second nature. You’ve been there , done that. You now know that things have a habit of getting sorted. One way or another. By this time next week, or next year, it’ll all be history anyway. Merely another archive.

This is our last ‘proper’ day. Tomorrow we exit, where we came in, via Cherbourg. So with weather set fine, we go visit the mighty fortress that overlooks the city and the Maine river – Château d’Angers.

Our fully equipped goat legs make easy work of the hundred and one steps up to and past Angers Cathedral. An impressive sight, currently undergoing major works that were due to be completed by spring 2025.

Lots of good English make it easy to gain a clear picture of the characters and the parts they played in the life of this superb castle. Each room’s sets create a glimpse into the lives of the strange and distant past.

The chateau’s pièce de résistance – the Apocalypse Tapestry – a large medieval set of tapestries. Commissioned by Louis I, the then Duke of Anjou, and woven in Paris between 1377 and 1382.

The never ending debate as to whether colonialism was a good, or a bad thing, will never die. History books never reveal the true effects felt down at ground zero. Far too many undocumented life stories have vanished in the mists of time. Perspectives and opinions undoubtedly continue to contrast and conflict on this matter.

The very nature of life is about living in the present and not dwelling on the past. This means that often all one can do is to simply ‘get on with it’. For some, not always an easy ask.

A nice feature, that comes free with this blog app, is its statistical arm. On any given day, week, month etc. it logs how many views are received, for how long and from which part of the world. Then a little man gets his crayons out. Colours green to indicate where all of those views have come from.

It appears 2 Cheeses have gone International, but not quite Global.

This has been a mini-trip. Although to be honest once we’re away for just a few days it always seems much much longer. This short long month has felt no different.

Statistically, we’ve only travelled 1,755 miles, at an average speed of 29.5mph and at a rate of 24.9mpg.

With storm Amy fast approaching and scheduled to greet and meet our departure from Cherbourg this evening, Mr S is more than likely to become a green statistic too.

If you’ve been a member of the dark green team, or a lighter shade from further afar, then thank you for dropping in from time to time. We always enjoy knowing we’ve got company out there.

À la prochaine