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!