Despite getting Beastie ensnared again on the way out this morning, we manage to escape unscathed – just. A case of Deja Vue all over again. I’ve got Beastie’s length and width figured. From inside, his height remains an unknown commodity – any ideas Rog?
Later, we’re pitched up near the southern shore of Berre l’Etang. It’s a gorgeous first evening on this spacious site, run by a couple of French MOHOmers. Beautifully calm. We’re a stones throw from the deserted pool and we don’t need asking twice. Perfect end to the day.
This Provence region gets subjected to over thirty types of winds. They’ve all got their own name too. One of the most well known is the Mistral. We awake on a rocking boat. So we lower the life-scoot and sail down to Martigues. A pretty little Venetian style port.
The brisk, blustery and unpredictable side winds batter us homewards. We tack and jibe along the carriageways a la Kon-Tiki, confusing the local traffic. Mary-Ann clinging on for dear life like an unseasoned white-water rafter.
Following evening we’re treated to an air display by the local fire brigade. At first, one bright yellow and red prop eases past our pitch at 100ft and 45 degrees. Before long, five are dipping and scooping up gallons of water like thirsty Pteradactyls to disperse and damp down a local forest fire.
It will remain windy for at least two more days, so we move on.