Mont Saint Michel and Home

15th-19th September – Mont Saint Michel (Normandy)

The journey to our next site “Camping Saint Michel” (original title) was uneventful, leaving the relatively flat but very pretty area of Le Noirmoutier for Mont St Michel. The weather forecast hadn’t been too good and the nearer we drove towards our destination the darker the storm clouds became and then it poured. When we arrived the umbrella was buried somewhere in the boot of the car and not accessible, but fortunately we could just about reach our anoraks. We walked around the very pretty site in the pouring rain trying to work out which pitch was the least squelchy. Graham is now expert at parking Freda so it didn’t take him long to unhitch. We got rather wet – a new experience for us - but let’s face it, we were being prepared for home!

It rained on and off nearly all afternoon so we made ourselves comfortable “indoors” (we now call Freda home by the way). Later that afternoon the sun popped out so we took the opportunity to explore the site. In a field adjacent to the campsite there was the fattest, most beautiful cow I think I’ve ever seen (OK she may have been pregnant). There were also two donkeys (one tried to bite Graham) and a nicer one. There was a small herd of goats that are found particularly in this region; little legs and big fat tummies (perhaps they were pregnant too) – a lovely attraction for children and for grown ups who like a fence between themselves and farm animals. No E. coli here!

Running out of steam and enthusiasm for the tourist sites by now, we decided on just two trips: Mont St Michel (the reason for our stay) and St Malo.

The next day, bright and early (11ish) we were on our way. We drove through, now, flat farmland, fields and acres of sweet corn, I guess grown for the oil. It was so tall in places we had a quick rendition of, “Oh what a beautiful morning, oh what a beautiful day” (which it wasn’t of course; heavy dark grey skies) “where the corn is as high as an elephant’s eye.” On our next view of the horizon there it was: Mont Saint Michel, once known as the “Mount in Peril from the Sea”. Many pilgrims in medieval times drowned or were sucked under by quicksand while trying to cross the bay to the 80-metre high rocky outcrop. It was a real surprise in such a flat landscape. Unfortunately visibility was not good for photographs, as the area was surrounded in a drizzly mist which shed an eerie light onto the sea as the sun tried to penetrate the dense cloud.

We opted to park the car at the bottom of the town along with hundreds of other tourists. We parked without trouble for just 4 euros. We then made our way to the main “Porte du Roi” where a sign (in English as well as French for a change) warned of the dangers of the incoming tide, so Graham’s pride and joy (the Jaguar) was in peril of being submerged by the incoming tide. I think he was having palpitations throughout the day.

The streets leading up to the cathedral were narrow and ancient, with lots of bars, restaurants and souvenir shops crammed into every nook and cranny. The Rough Guide had warned that it was very difficult to find a good meal on the “Mont” so we had several indifferent coffees which seemed to fill us up. (Girls, there is nothing more irritating than a man, when you are peckish and could do with a crepe or some other “snacklet“ says, “I’m not hungry, you have one.” It’s like drinking - you definitely can’t do it alone. Here’s another gripe – why is it men find it so hard to find a parking space. Graham will drive round and round. Why can I choose a space in no time! (G – She can find the space okay, it’s getting into it that’s the problem!)

The Abbey dates back to the 8th century, when the Archangel Michael supposedly appeared to Bishop Aubert of Avranches, who duly founded a monastery on the island. The site was further developed in the 11th century. The Abbey had been wonderfully restored and our visit coincided with the midday service; nuns dressed in long white gowns with pale blue capes and monks in brown habits... the choral pieces were stunning.

We climbed so many steps that day I couldn’t count how many, but we were both pretty pleased with ourselves that we weren’t panting and clinging onto walls for support.

The next morning we were rudely awakened at ten to seven by the bells ringing out from the Abbey. Ten minutes later they stopped! Well, the bells must have woken up the donkeys! How do they make that noise without ruining their vocal cords – they honked until they were horse (good pun, eh?). Anyway, the doves decided to join in – so we gave up after that and had an early start to the day. A very strong cup of coffee (known by us as our “wake up juice”) got us going. Destination – St. Malo, the most visited place in Brittany.

St-Malo is a walled city built with the same grey granite stone as Mont St-Michel. It was originally a fortified island at the mouth of the river Rance, controlling not only the estuary but the open sea beyond. A two-week bombardment by the Germans forced the city’s surrender in 1944 and destroyed 80% of the city, which has now been carefully restored. From the ramparts of the city there were fine views of one or two rocky islands (sorry, at this stage I can’t be bothered to check what they were called) and miles of golden, tidal flats.
It was a very windy, cold, grey day and we found St-Malo rather dark and depressing. SO, we cheered ourselves up by finding an extremely nice restaurant for lunch; oysters, salmon and il flotant. Graham had pork with java beans and chorizo for starters and seafood platter for main course and ice-cream (his favourite). Who’s eaten “il flotant”? I’m not sure I really like it, but I’m sort of fascinated by its texture and sweetness; I think its steamed meringue sitting on a bed of egg custard. Even now it’s making my mouth water but it’s soooo sweet. The meal was perfect!

Friday, the sun shone (well for a couple of hours) then torrential rain, so we visited our local Carrefour (like an old friend by now) to stock up on wine and bits and pieces for home. Wine is still cheaper and the quality of the food is far superior (I think) to that available in the UK, unless of course you shop at Harrods.
We then packed up as much as possible in case we had rain in the morning and what a good thing we did. Ready to leave for Caen by midday, the heavens opened so we had to delay hitching up for an hour or so.

By the time we reached Caen the sun was out and it was hot. I had never sailed from Caen before (although the port wasn’t in Caen itself) and was pleasantly surprised. There appeared to be only one berth for a ferry, Brittany Ferrys’ “Normandie”, a lovely new boat, and the facilities on board were super. We dumped our stuff in a pleasant lounge with reclining airline type seats for the six hour journey to Portsmouth. Of course we had to have one last meal to round off our trip. The restaurant on board was super and we had the most delicious meal (again). We arrived home just before midnight.

Well, all good things must come to an end (I ask myself why) but there were some commitments I made before leaving for our epic trip which I had to fulfil, so the desire to turn around and drive south was (just about) overcome.

What a journey – Graham and I have to look at our itinerary sometimes to remember exactly where we’ve been. But for me – Toledo, Santa Elena and central Spain were extraordinary – the desolation, isolation and wide empty horizons, travelling through all the different types of scenery (in an air conditioned car remember, but stepping outside into blistering 40+ degree heat). All those miles and miles of olive groves, sunflowers, sweet corn, grape vines, soaring eagles and other birds of prey – just wonderful, but our stay in the Ardeche and, of course, Marbella came close seconds. And of course not forgetting all the lovely people we’ve met during the course of our travels, many of whom have kept in touch via emails and encouraged us to visit places they’ve been to.

Freda has now been spring cleaned and is spotless, tucked up in her waterproof cover for the winter. Living in a confined space has definite advantages: housework five minutes, cooking outdoors so no kitchen to clean, no worries about what to wear, no post, no TV, although occasional phone calls (none urgent) and the delight of waking up in the morning without any responsibilities. We were free – well, for three and a half months. Home again; the washing machine churning endlessly, a house and cars to clean, Sainsbury’s (and the disappointment of made-to-measure vegetables and fruit). BUT, it is lovely to be home and catch up with family and friends, particularly my old Mum, who has been terribly ill whilst I’ve been away. I’m pleased to say that she is rallying a bit, but as I’m now retired I can spend some quality time with her.

Next trip is Bangkok to visit my son and his partner in the New Year. We’ll spend a week or so at a lovely unspoilt resort called Khao Lak, just outside Hua Hin, and just enjoy being together. It would be exciting to take Freda - but I think we’ll fly instead!Next summer? Well, Italy sounds nice. Watch this space!

Vandee to Benodet (Brittany)

5th September-15th September – Noirmoutier, Vandee to Benodet (Brittany)

Camping Le Bois Joli is a pleasant, small site, within the tiny hamlet of Bois-de-Cene. The area was ideally suited for cycling – very flat. We were only there for three nights and, arriving late, we could do little the first evening. So we got to know our English neighbours! As soon as they found out this was our first camping trip we were inundated with advice!

On our second day we cycled to “Le Petit Moulin” a working windmill which had been in operation (and in the same family) for some 300 years. Does anyone remember Camberwick Green and Windy Miller with that lovely noise the sails used to make as they rotated? Sadly this windmill didn’t have that sound track; the sails moved effortlessly and silently. For 3 euros each we were given a guided tour by the miller ALL IN FRENCH! He gave us a written English translation but it seemed rude to be reading while he was talking, so consequently we didn’t understand much. We nodded politely every now and then. After our tour we felt obliged to sample Madame’s crepes with a glass of local cider (yummy) in a delightful tearoom full of old artefacts.

I’d chosen to stay at Bois-de-Cene because of its close proximity to the Ile de Noirmoutier; a fascinating 20-kilometre long island reached by a causeway. Noirmoutier was an early monastic settlement from the seventh century, with a twelfth century castle and a church with Romanesque crypt and, surprise surprise, a lovely market. It just happened that we had picked market day for our visit - quite accidentally of course! The little town was delightful; low, squat, whitewashed houses surrounding the castle and church. We happened upon a lovely little restaurant (which was absolutely packed) and although our meal took some time to arrive (oysters, stuffed fish [cod?] and fromage blanc with fruit puree) it was just 17 euros each and was delicious. Yes, I’ve put on weight...

The island is as flat as a pancake with estuaries dividing the landscape. Salt is harvested from large salt pans and baby oysters are “grown” in inland saltwater lakes. The island is also famous for its potato crop. The day we visited the weather was perfect but it didn’t take a lot of imagination to picture this flat island in the winter. Apparently the weather during spring is fickle – sunny one moment, stormy the next – and the heat of the summer cultivates a vicious mosquito population! Thank goodness we missed both – perfect for us.

We said cheerio to our site neighbour Graham (who was travelling alone in a VW auto-cruiser and had been visiting the area for many years) and were off early to our next destination - Benodet.

I’ve described our next destination as Benodet but in fact we were just 3 kilometres from Carnac, 7 from Auray and around 60 from Benodet. What can I say about Brittany? It was all perfect. I can’t begin to describe each town we visited. It was all “chocolate box” pretty, clean, friendly - and very English. Our site, De Kergo, was run by a rather tired-looking woman; who looked as though she needed a holiday. However, she was very helpful and friendly. Each evening we would leave 90 cents out in a bowl and next morning she would leave a baguette outside our door. Graham christened her “the bread fairy”, as we’d wake up in the morning and there, like magic, would be our bread, lovely and fresh for breakfast.
We seemed to have lost our usual Dutch neighbours in favour of Brits. Graham was calling the site Little Britain there were so many. We became friendly with Jock and Ivy opposite, lovely young newly-weds Mark and Gemma (Graham wanted to adopt Gemma and take her home with us but I explained that Mark might have something to say about that) and Rick and Andrea “next door”. In fact, on our last night there we had Rick and Andrea over for a booze-up in Freda (with cheese to help soak it up), which went on until about 1.00am.

The site was pleasant enough, with large pitches divided by mature hedges and trees. However, although the sun shone for six days with deep blue stunning skies, the wind was strong and probably originated from Siberia! Once the wind dropped however, the weather was glorious. Our nearest seaside town was the most delightful little resort and port - La Trinite Sur Mer - and the yacht basin was full. The town was charming, with old stone houses and window boxes stuffed with geraniums.

We also visited: Carnac a nice little town famous for its megalithic stones, which are prolific in Brittany and looked like rotting teeth, but all in perfect alignment. There were hundreds of them! Unfortunately, the French don’t believe in sharing their heritage with those who cannot speak their language. Okay, we should be a little more fluent, but we tried! So thank God for the Rough Guide. The stones, two thousand or so “menhirs” stretching for over 4 kilometres to the north of the village – constitutes the most important prehistoric site in Europe, allegedly predating the Pyramids, Stonehenge and the great Egyptian temples of the same name at Karnak. See photo.

Carnac, Benodet, Quiberon, Concarneau, Quimper, Auray, Pont-Aven; we did them all – stunning. Perhaps my favourite was the historic centre of the small town of Auray. We parked at the “Marie” and walked down a narrow, winding, road to the estuary and old port. The centre was a tiny knot of old “Elizabethan” houses dotted around the waterfront, with narrow, steep cobbled lanes leading away from the waterfront. We were not surprised at the window boxes, as wherever we went towns were festooned with them. I would be here all day if I was to describe all these ancient towns but we are now seriously running out of time and the blog can be very demanding! Our next destination, Mont St Michel in Normandy, beckons and I’m sad to leave Brittany. But move on we must!

Captain’s Blog Supplemental

Captain’s Blog Supplemental – Tour Date 20 09.8

Sue’s been doing a sterling job of keeping you all informed and entertained with her blog of our travels, but at this point I thought I’d give you an idea of our general day-to-day routine. Obviously it’s not etched in stone, but we seem to follow a daily pattern which goes something like this:

I normally wake up first, sometime between eight and eight-thirty. Sometimes it can stretch to nine-thirty, but who’s counting? The first job is to put the kettle on for a cup of tea, and while I’m waiting for it to boil I put on a pair of shorts or my dressing gown and go to the toilet block.
By the time I get back to the caravan (sorry, Freda) the kettle’s boiled and I make two cups of tea. I place the cups on the table that separates our beds and while sipping my tea, I wonder what the coming day will bring. As it relies totally on what Sue has planned, this train of thought lasts about thirty seconds and I start to get bored. I prod her and tell her that her tea’s poured. This doesn’t go down too well, but it has the desired effect inasmuch as she wakes up and I’ve got someone to talk to. Alternatively I might turn the radio on, which has the same effect. In Spain I could usually rely on two or three stations that play a high percentage of British and American music. When we were in Marbella I was spoilt, as not only were there three English-speaking stations, but I could pick up the British Forces Broadcasting Service (BFBS) from Gibraltar. In France they’re much more parochial and I usually don’t bother, as rock music with French lyrics sounds a bit like a cat with laryngitis slowly being strangled! Another option is to listen to BBC Radio on the laptop, but this depends on whether the campsite has a decent internet speed and wi-fi range. In Spain it was pretty good, but France is abysmal and I’m convinced their campsites have unilaterally decided not to recognise the fact we’re in the 21st century when it comes to the internet. But after saying that, I’ve been told by a few Brits that most English campsites haven’t emerged from the middle ages yet, so maybe I shouldn’t complain too hard.

So, in short, just lately Sue’s been getting a lot of prodding in the morning.

We then drink our tea and discuss what we’ll be doing during the day. This involves Sue telling me and me agreeing. Like, am I bovvered? It saves me from making any decisions and I can just go with the flow, which is the way I like it. We then have breakfast, which can be Crunchy Nut Cornflakes (I love them, but they’re not always easy to find in European supermarkets) the continental (ham and cheese baguettes) or the full English of bacon, sausage, eggs and tomatoes (grilled on the BBQ) with orange juice, marmalade on toast - and coffee. It all depends on how much time we’ve got and/or what’s in the fridge. All this eating takes place outside of course, under the shade of a tree or trees, as the sun is invariably shining and the temperature is in the mid-seventies to eighties by now. It’s a hard life on the road, but someone’s got to live it!

Breakfast over; it’s time for the morning ablutions. This can be tricky on Spanish campsites, as the women have a propensity for congregating outside the toilet and shower blocks – invariably the men’s – where they shout at each other in an approximation of conversation. I therefore find myself, clothed only in my dressing gown, having to run a gauntlet of bawling women. I’m never sure whether to feel aggrieved or relieved that they take absolutely no notice of me whatsoever. In France this doesn’t happen, because the shower and toilet blocks are mixed. The natural English reserve can be sorely tested under these circumstances, but I’ve got used to it now and try to ignore the ladies that pass behind me as I stand at a urinal doing what comes naturally.

So, morning ablutions over, we then go off for the day’s sight-seeing. Of course, we occasionally have a “rest day” involving lying around reading, sunbathing, writing up the latest blog, or house keeping. The house keeping can vary from hoovering out Freda, cleaning the car, doing the washing and ironing, general maintenance and other stuff like that. I wish I had a euro for every Brit (usually a northerner) who comes up to me while I’m covered in sweat through doing chores and asking, “'Ot enough for you is it?” Bless ‘em!

As the end of the day approaches we start to think about the evening meal, and I have to say that Sue has produced some wonderful meals on Freda’s primitive propane gas stove as well as the barbeque. These have included everything from Bolognese sauces to full duck or chicken roasts. Occasionally I’ll take over on the barbeque and do a sausage, beef burger or pork chop grill (or all three) while Sue knocks up a salad to go with it. With a gin and tonic beforehand and a bottle of wine during and afterwards, life doesn’t get much harder but, as I said earlier, someone’s got to live it!. Meal over, it’s off to the ablutions block to do the washing up. (God, I miss the dishwasher!)

We then laze about reading or occasionally watch a DVD on the laptop. The DVD issue can be a slight source of contention, because Sue brought her romantic comedies (Notting Hill, Woman In Red, Shakespeare In Love – that kind of thing, while I brought my shoot ‘em up and burn ‘em thrillers with Arnie Swartzenegger, Jason Statham, etc. However, we’re pretty democratic about it and I’m prepared to get in touch with my feminine side if Sue can get in touch with her male side. But I have to say it was a strain on our relationship when I had to sit through six episodes of the BBC’s Pride and Prejudice serial over two consecutive nights. But that’s what you do for someone you love!

A few people have asked me if there’s anything about Sue that irritates me, as she used her blog at the start of our trip to list a few about me. Well, what can I say? No, let me re-phrase that. What can I say that I can get away with...?

...Ten minutes have gone by and I’m still stumped. Let’s face it. She’s perfect!

“And so to bed!” as they say. The end of another brilliant day! There have been a lot of them lately. Three and a half month’s worth actually.

Who knows, we might do it again next year.

Dordogne to the Bassin D’Arcachon

25th August-5th September - Dordogne to the Bassin D’Arcachon (Ares nr Bordeaux)

By the second day of our stay Graham is feeling pretty rough (man flu). So we had a gentle stroll down to the Dordogne which is wide, very green and very deep in places; meandering through gorges, wooded hillsides and little stretches of beach. The beach or “plage” at the entrance to our site is a sandy stretch of river bank 20 metres or so long. Campers were swimming, children were bobbing like corks in inflatable tyres (with parents hanging on) and canoeists positioned themselves to go down the gentle rapids. With the current surging mid stream some swimmers sped by like Olympians but struggled to get back up river to their base.

Wednesday was market day in Sarlat. Fortunately Graham felt well enough to drive the 15 kilometres. What we hadn’t bargained for was the traffic. An absolute nightmare; Sarlat was gridlocked and we spent an hour and a half trying to get out. We were fairly fed up by the time we returned to the site and I was longing to go back to the wide empty spaces of the Spanish interior. Although I was unnerved by the amount of traffic still on the roads (we’d thought they would empty out by the end of August) there were just two places we wanted to see - Rocamadour and Sarlat.

Well, we’d failed miserably to see Sarlat so we set off the next day for Rocamador. The architecture in this part of the world is quite unique, with solid looking buildings crowned with steep roofs and rounded turrets in villages or “bastides” that were built around the 13th and 14th centuries. The bastides were originally founded for economic and political reasons but as time progressed and tensions between the French and English intensified in the late 13th century, so they became increasingly military. The bastides secured the land along the frontier and at this point they were fortified. As an incentive anyone who was prepared to build, inhabit and defend the bastide was granted various benefits in a founding charter. All new residents were allocated a building plot, garden and cultivable land. The journey from Montfort, where we were based, to Rocamadour was spectacular, with deep gullies, lush fertile valleys and orange and white cliffs overhanging the Dordogne.

We parked up just outside Rocamadour and walked the kilometre or so towards the town. Nothing had quite prepared us for the spectacular setting. Rocamadour is perched high up on a steep cliff side overlooking a deep canyon. Houses hang perpendicular to the rock face. You descend or ascend using the 223 steps, or use the cable car running through a tunnel blasted out of the rock face that took a year to build.

The Chapelle Notre-Dame dates back to the 12th century and pilgrims have (and do) flock to this site, drawn by Rocamadour’s Black Madonna. (Quote Rough Guide: Legend has it that the history of Rocamadour began with the arrival of Zacchaeus, a tax-collector in Jericho at the time of Christ. According to one legend he was advised by the Virgin Mary in a vision to come to France, where he lived out his years as a hermit. When in 1166 a perfectly preserved body was found in a grave high up on the rock it was declared to be Zacchaeus, or St Amadour. The place soon became a major pilgrimage site and a staging post on the road to Santiago de Compostela in northern Spain). The tiny, crudely carved walnut statue glows in the mysterious half light – it’s pretty ugly actually, see photo.

It’s Saturday and we attempt to get to Sarlat again. We set the alarm for 7am. Success! We managed to park in the old town by 9.30ish and although the sun was bright it was cold. We settled with chocolat chaud and croissants before shopping. Market day is pretty special and every narrow street in this ancient town is crowded with mainly 15th and 16th century houses in mellow, honey-coloured stone and, according to the Rough Guide, is “an excellent example of medieval organic urban growth” – whatever! The atmosphere is fabulous, with street entertainers, every kind of food imaginable (I took a fancy to the prune tart – see photo, although I was reluctant (for obvious reasons) to try it. We searched in vain for a restaurant which had been recommended in the rough guide but to no avail. At a “y” fork in the road I peeked over the wall of a terrace to see a rather empty restaurant. I muttered, “Well this won’t be all that good, there’s no-one in it.” But we (I mean I) was hungry and thirsty and desperate for food... (And a drink of course). Amazingly, within 15 minutes, the place was packed with French families and the meal was absolutely delicious. The atmosphere was pretty special; young and old sat together sipping aperitifs and studying the menu as though it was an A-level paper. Our meal was perfect. Afterwards we strolled contentedly through the emptying streets to the car.

Our nearest village, Montfort, is a tiny hamlet (bastide) with old stone houses crowded together sharing tiny squares and courtyards in the shadow of a large castle like something out of a child’s story book .

As we prepared Freda for our onward journey (I had by now caught Graham’s cold and was feeling rough) fellow campers were muttering about a cyclone and that the weather would break. We had checked out the weather forecast the day before on the Internet and our next stop, Bordeaux, was shown by the satellite picture to be covered with a swathe of dark angry looking cloud. Well, the sun doesn’t shine all the time! The “cyclone” caught up with us on our way to Ares, a tiny village on the Basin d’Arcachon. The temperature dropped and it poured in torrents. Still, we were comfy in the car listening to taped stories, so what the heck! We were on our way again.

Ares, Basin d’Arcachon

Our new campsite, Camping La Cigale, was just outside a tiny village with an enormous church in the square. We were pleased to have the choice of lots of pitches; Graham decided we should park Freda under the shade of a large oak tree full of acorns. The pitch was enormous, being large enough for Freda, the car, the awning (for my daughter Emily and her boyfriend Ian who were arriving the next day), a boules pitch - and we could have had a vegetable patch had we stayed long enough.

The rain had stopped and we set up. It’s strange sometimes; everything went well, but for some reason we couldn’t get the awning “square”; we fiddled around for an hour or so before we got it right. (G – It was the triple G&T that did it!)

What can I say about Ares; a poor little village with squat houses but just yards away from the “baisin” or estuary. After the Dordogne it was the sublime to the ridiculous, i.e., from stunning architecture, elaborate houses, manicured lawns, gardens and vegetable plots to Ares - a disappointment and as flat as a pancake (The reason we had chosen this particular campsite was it was convenient for Bordeaux - a city Graham had wanted to revisit). I tried to find positive things about Ares; the campsite, the boulangerie and the amazing view over the estuary. The tide was in and boats bobbed about in the sheltered waters. It was excellent country for cycling.

Bordeaux airport was easy to find and so were Emily and Ian. I had so wanted the weather and the area to be perfect for their short visit, just three nights, arriving on the Wednesday and leaving late Saturday. It was windy and bright, but with rainclouds hovering on the horizon. However, we were very lucky it only rained at night BUT the noise as the acorns dropped like cluster bombs onto Freda’s roof and awning kept us awake for hours.

The next day we decided to visit Arcachon. It sounded like a nice place judging from the Rough Guide’s description and it was. We parked at the port and walked along the beach for what felt like miles. It was only as we left Arcachon on our way to Plat Dune that we realised there was far more to the town than just port and beach. Lovely shops - Emily and I gasped in awe but it was too late. The guys said we’re on our way to Plat Dune. As we travelled towards the Dune the road became steeper and steeper and we only glimpsed the beach through tall pines; a barrier between the road and beach.

We parked at Plat Dune unaware of what was ahead, except we were expecting a higher than normal sand dune. Wow! We couldn’t believe what we were seeing - the tallest pile of sand, 105 metres high and 2.5 kilometres long; the biggest sandcastle in Europe! Plastic stairs made an easier path up the side of the dune. I’m not too keen on heights and the side of the dune felt perpendicular and I felt pretty nervous. Once at the top the views were extraordinary. On one side the Atlantic was pounding onto sand banks and into the Basin d’Arcachon and on the other were dark pine forests which stretched for miles. It was an odd sensation. On one side it felt like desert and on the other were lush pine forests... bizarre. After a long photo-shoot Emily and Ian decided to walk down the dune, sinking up to their ankles in deep sand and leaning backwards to keep their balance all the while. Graham solicitously told me he would “look after me” as we started to descend from a dizzying height – next minute he’d gone charging down the dune with Emily and Ian, finding the challenge irresistible – men!

Next day we set off for Bordeaux, with Jane programmed to take us to a car park next to a square where we sat in brilliant sunshine drinking coffee. In Roman times Bordeaux was capital of the province of Aquitania Secunda. Rough Guide: “With the marriage of Eleanor of Aquitaine and King Henry II of England in 1152, it quickly became the principal English foothold for their three-hundred-year Aquitanian adventure, and it was to their presence and particularly their taste for its red wines – imported back to England and termed “claret” – that the region owed its first great economic boom”. Streets are filled with students and there’s a lovely buzz about the place. Emily and I managed to do a little window shopping while the chaps were distracted by a glass domed building which gave Ems and me some space for young and old girlie things (old girlie being me). A nice day finished off with a BBQ.

Saturday dawned hot and sunny – so we’d promised ourselves a trip to Cap Ferret - a small resort at the end of a thin strip of land bordered on one side by the Atlantic and the other by the estuary. After much debate we parked the car in a pine forest, but which way was the Atlantic? After advice from a French family, who explained with much waving of hands that it was a rough track and quite hilly, they warned us not to swim as it was very dangerous. Oh well...

The kilometre walk to the beach was exhausting as we trudged along a track up to our ankles in sand. Getting to the dunes was all up hill and down dale, it was very hot and I felt like Lawrence of Arabia – would we ever get to the beach? Then we could hear the distant pounding of surf on the shore and knew we were going in the right direction. The surf became louder and louder until eventually we climbed the last dune... and spread out before us was the Atlantic; with an empty beach that stretched for miles. The sky was a brilliant deep blue; with the aquamarine waves breaking 50 metres or so from the beach. I could see now why we were warned that it was dangerous. As the waves hit the beach the water hissed angrily onto the warm sand. Emily and Ian decided to build a sand sculpture – of Emily; dressed in very little except a shell bikini with shell finger and toe nails and seaweed for her hair – a work of art!

Back at the campsite we relaxed by the pool until it was time for their flight back and sadly we returned with them to the airport. Next morning we packed up ready for our journey to Bois de Cene in the Vendee, where we would spend three nights.

The journey was a nightmare; not Jane’s fault this time but the poor signage in Bordeaux, where they had closed the very bridge, Port d’Atlantique, we were supposed to cross. We tried following the “deviation” signs only to find they petered out. We must have spent an hour going round and round the ring road before we could place where we were on the map. Seven and a half hours later we reached our destination. A pretty little place and good cycling country!

The Ardeche

11th–25th August – Languedoc/Roussillon and The Ardeche

We arrived at Camping Le Dauphin having had an uneventful journey - apart from Graham’s bike of course (see previous posting). Once settled on a decent sized corner pitch, we took the bike to “Sport 2000”, the French equivalent of Halfords, to see if we could get the wheel straightened. Much to our surprise a tiny young girlie, who told us she was studying to become an engineer, made light work of the repair. Having hoisted the bike on to an inspection rack she quickly assessed the damage; 45 minutes and a visit to Carrefour later, we were mobile and decided to explore.

This part of the coast is referred to as the camping capital of France (we hadn’t known that otherwise we may have headed for a different destination) and consequently, being the middle of August, it was gridlocked. But at least we were mobile with the bikes! The beach stretched in a gentle curve for a mile or so, with a port at the southern end. Miles of golden sand and all of it empty except for the 15 feet or so from the sea where holidaymakers crammed into every available space.
The cycle track along the beach was nicely shaded with an avenue of trees, behind which lay an area of one and two-storey buildings; mainly shops, restaurants and bars laid out in a perfect grid. They were very clean, with water spray being released from the awnings every 60 seconds or so to keep diners cool. It was nice, but lacked character. We cycled on towards the port. Again, it all looked newish, with a variety of sailing boats ranging from expensive yachts to traditional fishing boats and, as a backdrop, the Pyrenees in the distance.

In Graham’s never ending search for a pharmacist to buy nicotine lozenges (he’s been a non-smoker for a couple of years but is now addicted to the lozenges) and my desire to find “La Poste”, we came across the old village of Argeles. It was absolutely charming, with a pedestrianised street, quaint old houses and a town square dominated by an ancient Church. We sat with a beer in a nice little bar and, as you do, got chatting to a retired English chap who’d moved to Argeles seven years ago. I asked him what he missed about the UK. He thought for a while and said, “Books, Chinese food and rain!” As we wandered aimlessly around the town we came across a house for sale; a little terraced, two-storey, ramshackle house with a roof terrace. It clearly needed some tender loving care, but it had a lot of potential for 190,000 Euros.

We had decided on Argeles for our base in order to be within easy reach of the ancient town of Carcassonne. It is stunning; “the epitome of the fairy-tale medieval town”, a double-walled and turreted fortress that crowns the hill above the River Aude. It was absolutely packed, which rather spoiled our visit. We also made the wrong choice for lunch by stopping at a very pleasant looking restaurant packed with French as well as other tourists (usually a good recommendation) but had a dreadful plat-du-jour - the only bad meal of the holiday so far - which rather soured my view of Carcassonne. Then it was back to Argeles and Carrefour’s, and the struggle to buy our groceries amongst, it seemed like, a thousand other shoppers who tested our patience to the limits...

The following day we visited some ex-neighbours of ours from Langley Vale, Linda and Noel, who now live in a delightful, tiny hamlet called Malras; their nearest town being Limoux. The drive through the austere Aude Valley and the Gorges de Galamus to reach their home was absolutely stunning; mountains, ravines and, in the valleys, vineyards. It was nice talking about all our yesterdays. Our sons were good friends before Oliver moved to Thailand. Of course we were delighted to be shown the local beauty spots and the views over the valley from Malras were stunning. We stopped for a pleasant beer at a bar in Limoux which overlooked an ancient square. By the time we’d left Limoux we were starving and Linda volunteered to cook dinner... roast duck with all the trimmings - delicious! We stayed much later than we’d intended and arrived back at “Le Dauphin” around midnight, but it had been a super day.So that was our look round the Languedoc area. Although Argeles is a pleasant little spot, I was pleased to move on to my favourite area - the Ardeche...

Our journey from Argeles to the Ardeche was straightforward and, because I knew the surrounding area/villages and towns well from previous holidays when my kids were young, finding the campsite presented no problem. Graham and I also spent our honeymoon in a little gite overlooking the River Ardeche, just a short walk from the ancient town of Ruoms.

Ranc Davaine has pitches for around 420. Some are permanent fixtures, such as mobile homes and large, well equipped tents. It felt quite intimate and much smaller, as the site is tiered and pitches are well defined, only overlooked by neighbours each side. Our pitch was ideal - we were surrounded by stunted oaks which provided natural shade. The site is bordered by the River Chassezac and high, boulder strewn hills. This area looks wild and untamed and although the tourist spots are very crowded at this time of year, there are isolated, wild places dotted with tiny villages and “mas” - the ubiquitous ancient stone houses. Cultivated valleys run alongside the River Ardeche, where vines grow in abundance producing hearty red and delicious light rosé wines.

We’ve been blessed with some really lovely neighbours over the weeks and this stay was no different. A Dutch company called Roan has a concession on the site that allows them to have several large permanent tent installations and Johann, Anke and their two sons Robin and Gordi were on the next plot . Graham called the area we were in “Little Holland” because there were so many Dutch people there. And it was all the better for it! On our other side though, we had a French family in a caravan and the husband was a bit on the large side - tall as well as wide - and Graham immediately nicknamed him Obelisk.

My sister Barbara and her husband Alan were due to spend a few days with us, travelling down from their house in Le Touquet. They had reckoned the journey would take them seven hours but that didn’t take into account a second lap around the Paris Periferique or finding the Michelin instructions incomprehensible at a strategic point. Ten hours later they arrived, but in good humour. In the meantime we’d struggled again with the awning. At one point we thought we’d lost one or two of the supports; I had visions of B & A having to somehow fit into Freda. But we managed and after a nice BBQ and a few G & Ts’ it was off to bed. The next morning they struggled to get their limbs moving again – apparently it had been very cold in the night and they’d been disturbed by what my sister thought was a rat munching its way through a rubbish bag!

After a BBQ breakfast of bacon, eggs and tomatoes we were fit to “market”. Ruoms has a super market, lots of craft stalls (rather than tat), fresh fruit, cheeses, hams; you name it they have it. The “boys” disappeared for a beer as they couldn’t keep up in the temperatures of 38 degrees. Barbara and I shopped ‘til we dropped!

We spent the afternoon in the pool complex, whizzing down tunnel and other slides and generally cooling off.

The next day we toured, stopping first at the river under one of the bridges going towards Ruoms. At the bottom of the gorge the Ardeche runs crystal clear with fish the size of dolphins with the steep sided gorge retaining the heat of the day. No other place but the water to cool off (apart from me that is... I have a fish phobia - not to mention butterflies and moths). We then went on to the popular and famous Vallon Pont D’arc where the river is spanned by an enormous natural stone arch – see photograph. B & A spotted canoes and kayaks and my fate was sealed.

Next day saw us back at Pont D’arc hiring canoes. I insisted that Graham did not steer us anywhere near the rapids, but most of the time we were trying to avoid other canoes, swimmers and kids stone-walling from the cliff-sides.

All good things come to an end and after three days B & A left for Le Touquet. Their journey this time was relatively uneventful but even longer. I missed them. Johann and his family also left on the same day, only to be replaced later in the afternoon by another lovely Dutch family - Guido, Geertruida and their two sons Pepyn and Ruben. They had travelled with Geertruida’s twin sister and family, who were in the tent next door.

Apart from pottering around on our bikes we didn’t do a lot; swimming, keeping cool and (sometimes) enjoying the “entertainment” – a very professional set-up. We enjoyed a group, Les Toons, (sounds corny) but they were absolutely excellent and played some fab stuff. Graham says that French don’t do rock and roll and I’d agree but “Les Toons” played all English stuff: Stones, Queen, Beatles – it was a really good evening. Not so good was the “Spectacular” – a dance troupe so amateurish and wooden we few Brits and Dutch were embarrassed, but not the French, who applauded like they’d never seen anything so good. Strange people the French... Graham said that if they’d appeared on “Britain’s Got Talent” Simon Cowell would’ve pressed his buzzer two seconds into the act and then run to the toilet with his fingers stuck down his throat. Diversity they weren’t!

The day before we were due to leave we saw reports on the weather forecast of a cyclone about to engulf the area. As we packed to leave the sky did look rather black and sinister... but we managed to get away without getting wet. However, once on the road to our next destination, Sarlat in the Dordogne (nine hours; avoiding mountains), the sky blackened and then it RAINED, our first experience of it in two months. Our first thought was that at least it would clean Freda up a bit. However, we weren’t prepared for the drop in temperature. As we drove into a service station the temperature hit an all time low of 18°C and I shivered for the first time since leaving Northern Spain. Trying to be positive I said, “Well, we have to get used to the real world again”.

We arrived in the rain at a lovely site just outside a tiny hamlet, Montfort, near Sarlat in the Dordogne. The site is pretty perfect (as is the area). Nice, screened pitches and WI-FI. The rain dried up shortly after we arrived and having set up we decided to go to the bar and listen to the “entertainer” who turned out to be an excellent guitarist/singer who was brilliant.

Sadly Graham has come down with a nasty cold so we will be marooned for the next couple of days or so. What a good thing I brought the Benylin Night and Day capsules!