France

Viva La France!

Well amazingly we have stayed out of France for 6 weeks! We can’t avoid it any longer. French bread, Morbier Cheese, hams, pates, French Markets all beckon. Hang on though, I’m on a flipping diet!Well a little bit won’t hurt. On the other side we get the map and Aires book out (motorhome parking) and head for Plaine Joux. It’s only a few miles from Mont Blanc and apparently boasts the most impressive views of the Mont Blanc range. It may be only a few miles but the last 7 are up a goat track with inclines that would indeed cause said goat to pant a bit and hairpins that send you dizzy. I occasionally get vertigo and looking down over the huge drop to certain motorhome death should I put one wheel out of place doesn’t feel nice but strangely despite knowing it will make you feel sick you feel compelled to keep looking.

The problem with sat nav, internet and maps is they don’t truly show you what the terrain is like and they certainly don’t assume you are driving anything bigger than a Smart Car. We eventually get to the top and its five thousand feet up yet still the vista of mountains tower above us. It’s a truly awesome site but we still can’t see it all properly because of the clouds. It’s now also freezing. Its hard to believe a few days ago it was 30c+. It’s now warm weather gear and I actually start to worry about frost and even snow! For the first time of the trip the heating goes on.

The forecast is not great. It’s hard to believe it could be like this in mid July but clearly the weather these days is just plain wrong. A quick Google tells me it’s not just here but most of Europe above the Med coast is pretty poor.

We leave the mountain and go off towards Lake Annecy in the hope of better weather. It’s still lovely to be back in France again and we take delight in stocking up with our favourite goodies in the supermarkets and decide to hold up in Annecy until its warm enough to jump in the lake!

Staying on the farm with Honker

Annecy is a bit like lake Windermere. Its a stunning lake with mountains all around and its packed to the brim with fit people either cycling, walking, paragliding, running and generally showing off how fit they all are. Hang on a minute though. Last time I was at Windermere it was full of lardy people from Lancashire and Newcastle stuffing fish and chips and over priced beer down their necks. The comparison is only true geographically then.

The weather however is similar to Windermere in summer though which isn’t right. We were here two years ago around the same time and it was thirty degrees every day. We just assumed that was the norm.

The Aire at Annecy is rubbish and always full but Ah Ha! As we were here on Bastille Day (14^th July) last time we know of a quiet spot by the local collage that will be closed for the summer right near the lake and away from the noisy roads. We spend a quiet night there with one other van only to have a knock on the door the following lunch time by the local rozzer who tells us (very politely mind you) that we can’t stay there. What! This is France not Windermere! Parking Le Camping Car wherever one chooses to is a right in France not a privilege. No matter I have heard talk of a lovely little farm Aire for twenty vans or so down the bottom end of the lake.

We turf up and it’s delightful, quiet and tranquil and not far from the lake. It also boasts free wifi and Electric hook-up all for the princely sum of €10 per night (€7.50 if you don’t want hook-up). We decide to be decadent and splash out on the extra €2.50 so we can have the big telly, constant laptop access and stay as long as we like! We are greeted at the site as we arrive by Honker. Honker is a big fat Shaggy Donkey who looks a bit like a cross between an oversized Eeyore and Chewbacca from Star Wars. The baying sound he makes seems on cue to greet every new arrival and he is a major source of entertainment for a while.

Michelle Joins in the with the fit crowd who spend all their time going up and down the cycle paths on roller skates (or whatever they call them these days), skate boards and occasionally bicycles and explores the area on her bike while I conquer yet another lake in the big yellow Dinghy.

Annecy town is delightful and full of fast flowing canals and rivers. The only downside is the main road that runs the length of the lake. No bother when you’re on a scooter as pushing in is accepted here. In fact Johnny Foreigner is so courteous when they see you in their mirror flying up the outside they make an effort to pull over. I spend half an hour waving my right leg at them as I have heard this is the biker thing to do on the continent (something to do with not being able to wave as it means taking your hand off the throttle as they drive on the right). Knowing my luck it probably means get out of the way A***hole. All I remember of similar situations in England is the opposite with the odd sales Rep in his Mondeo actually pulling out the other way to see if he can knock you into the gutter,

We have a night over on another lake called Lake Bourget which is the largest natural lake in France where Michelle heads off to find a market on her bike while I decide to row there. The Market is down by the marina and for a while we are the topic of conversation as somehow we arrive at the same time and I park the little yellow Dinghy between two huge yachts, meet the girl on the bike and go shopping.

We have some reasonable weather but it’s not like it should be and eventually we make a decision to head south. There is only so far you can go south however before you fall off Europe. The plan is to do the Verdon Gorges in the Alps de Provence. Apparently it’s the French Grand Canyon. Also its only 60 miles from Nice and the med coast, it has to be hot there! This is the beauty of taking your house with you, if the weathers bad, just Google the forecast and follow the sunshine.Trouble is its pretty bleak everywhere except the Med!

The Verdon Gorges (Awesome but stomach churning)

As we hit forty three degrees south its warm and sunny at Dinges Les Bains, like it should be, hurray! The Aire is up in the hills and a pleasant time is had by all and we are back out on the bike in shorts and T shirts. It lasts twenty four hours before the rubbish weather comes back like it’s followed us south. It doesn’t last though and a couple of days later it’s hot and sunny and forecast to stay that way.We aint going north for a while that’s for sure.

We find a lovely little Aire just near the Gorges Du Verdon at a little ancient picturesque village called Trigance. It only has space for five vans and has all the services including electricity for the princely sum of five Euros a night. We plan to do the Gorges tour from here on the bike.

Once again we stumble upon one of those days where nature’s wonders are thrust upon us with sights and delights so fantastic the like of which we have never seen before. The main gorges tour involves a circular route along a narrow road called the Route De Cretes. The circuit is about fourteen miles long and just getting to it over the first twelve miles is awe inspiring enough but nothing prepares us for the vistas that await us or the stomach churning journey on the little bike. At its highest the gorge is over seven hundred metres deep or nearly two and a half thousand feet and there are people climbing it! I have to drag myself to the edges to look down despite the fact that the viewpoints have railings. I don’t suffer badly from vertigo but enough to give me a horrid feeling in my stomach and (I’m concerned about going public with this one) groin area!

Below us vultures and eagles sore and every few hundred yards or so there is another twisting corner with yet another more impressive view point. I’m not sure how high we climb but the air gets cooler which is little relief for the poor bike whose single little piston is screaming to get out as the slopes get steeper.

Finally we reach the top and begin to descend but there are no crash barriers and as I squeeze the breaks and try not to look over the edge for a moment I get a bit of a wobble as I try to shake off the awful feeling of falling through nothingness. It’s a magical journey and we are glad we used the bike and not the van. If you are ever within two hundred miles of this area in a motorhome, make a diversion and do this trip.

Michelle observes the Germans and isn’t happy

Michelle isn’t the biggest fan of the Germans. She thinks they are rude and miserable and stare a lot. I constantly remind her of what people must think of the English when they visit the UK and encounter disinterested fish and chip shop girl, some of our wonderfully friendly shop keepers or heaven forbid a Caravan Club site warden! I also point out the fact that it was a German man who spent half an hour giving us details of where to stay in Germany before presenting us with his Map of the Mosel and Rhine but it’s no good the mould is set and as I observe the proceedings I fear she may have a point.

As we wild away a lazy day on the lovely little Aire at Trigance we notice a trend. A van will pull in, plug into the Electric to charge up and maybe have some lunch and then a walk around the village. A couple of hours later away go’s the hook-up cable and they bugger off without paying! Now on most Aires in France where there is a charge a little man or woman will appear around seven pm for the money. Now remember it’s just five Euros and the only reason for it being there is to bring in tourism to the little village which frankly is slightly off the main gorges route anyway. It must be run at cost only or maybe even a loss and is good value even without them providing electricity. At least three vans pull in throughout the day and do the same thing.They are all Germans! The final straw for Michelle is when a German van pulls in to stay the night and parks in a way that leaves too much space between him and the next van but not enough to fit another van in. They then proceed to put out their awning (sun shade) to maximum length and spread their stuff all over.

This is bad form on an Aire, even one you pay for (many are free). As evening comes many vans appear looking for a spot but the five van space is now reduced to four. Nobody says anything to them or asks them to move which is a shame. We have the inevitable debate of course where I state that I would have complained and asked them to move and she says I wouldn’t have the nerve. Hmm, I don’t say too much as its bound to happen to us sooner or later. A few days later though we are to have the last laugh as the Germans luck runs out!

We complete the gorges tour later in the van down the other side early in the morning. I feel like a coach driver as Michelle decides to sit in the back so she is on the “viewing” side of the van and snaps away with her camera. The gorges eventually spit us out into Lake Croix and eventually on the far side of the lake the stunning hill side village of Croix Du Verdon.

Michelle does a Cannobio!

Those of you who have read this whole blog (please tell me someone has stuck with it) will remember Michelle’s delight at the Italian resort of Cannobio where we eventually claimed our prize of the best parking spot on the Sosta (Italian motorhome parking place). We know Croix is going to be mega busy. The Aire is one of the most popular in France and officially holds sixteen vans but unofficially double that number. We arrive about mid day which is the ideal time to arrive at an Aire as hopefully some people will have cleared off and it’s too early for most arrivals. Sure enough I spot a pretty good place near the entrance which is sideways on so we won’t get anyone next to us.It is however on the road side of the Aire with no views. I’m content though as the satellite dome tunes in straight away as there are no trees and all I’m thinking about is getting the dinghy out and going out on the lake.

Michelle however once again notices the van opposite in the premier spot of the aire is putting away their stuff. This is the one spot in the whole cramped aire that has uninterrupted views across the lake and town as well as a lovely area by the side of the van to sit out. Again it’s sideways on so you can’t get anyone either side of you just one behind and in front. Now sometimes I am a complete twit (just sometimes? M) and with my tunnel vision and focus on getting out in the boat when Michelle again says I think they are definitely moving I testily say “well were ok here, let’s get out and its corrie tonight and I’ve just tuned the telly in!”. This is met with a profound stare and I start to realise that I am about to commit the biggest motorhoming gaff in history. I come to my senses but is it in time? The washing is hanging off the side of the van there is stuff everywhere and I am in no position to do the quick move we planned so meticulously in Italy but as the departing van leaves I just drive off with the washing still hanging out of the side of the van and nothing on my feet but somehow we claim our premier spot yet again before anyone else has as chance.

This time despite Michelle’s delight at us once again winning such a prime position she feels it’s now her mission in life to remind me at every occasion what a div I nearly was. We don’t have the telly as the overhanging trees block the satellite but we haven’t really been watching it anyway and now we have good weather, who cares? This is not the end of it though. As soon as we are settled a French van pulls in to the spot we exited and that’s it the Aire is full (or is it). The icing on the cake for Michelle about half an hour later as she sits in her lounger is watching the very same German van arrive who ruined the Aire for everyone at Trigance! There is no room at the Inn! They are packed in like sardines down the bottom and it has to be poetic justice as they reverse out and reluctantly drive down the hill to the frankly grotty and even more packed campsite (which also costs thirty five Euros as appose to the six on the Aire). The satisfied grin on Michelle’s face as they leave is priceless.

That isn’t the end though, oh no! More French vans arrive and begin to assemble what Michelle eventually calls the “Mash Out”. Somehow the French will manage to get twice as many motorhomes onto a hundred meter square piece of tarmac than is actually physically possible. Just when we think that there is no way another one could be swallowed into the Mash Out it manages to absorb another van.Nobody seems bothered though. Well it’s tough if they are as they can’t open the doors to get out to complain anyway.

We however are now very smug. Michelle says we are not leaving.Ever. The weather has settled, it’s about twenty seven to twenty nine degrees and sunny every day and like Cannobio the whole village and lake is just centred around having fun. We love it here. Paradise yet again

Near boating disaster and hunted by the Gendarmes.

The lake is stunning, the weather warm and sunny and it’s time for some boating adventures. On one of the rare occasions I have a few beers these days I look across at the village of Bauduen from the view outside of the van. It doesn’t look too far but distances are hard to judge over water. After several cans of lager I pledge to Michelle that I will take the boat in the morning, row over there and come back with a present for her. She nods and grins and says “yes dear” in that automated way couples have for each other after being together twenty years and carries on reading.

The next morning I decide that because of the fitness campaign I have been carrying out for two months I must now be up to Olympic rowing standards and strap the boat on the bike and set off hangover in tow.It’s already hot and I’m soaking in sweat just pumping the thing up but the boat is launched and off I merrily go. It’s a kind of diagonal row to the other side to the village but somehow I seem to be drifting off course all the time towards the huge dam at the end of the lake. No matter how hard I row I still seem to be going in the wrong direction and after counting every hundred strokes and looking round it’s still flipping miles away. I left around ten thirty and after an hour I’m not even half way! By the time I reach the middle of the lake I am completely soaked, boiling hot and surrounded by at least a mile of water in both directions.

My first obvious mistake is that I only took one and a half litres of water with me which has already nearly gone and I’m knackered. The second mistake is vowing to do stupid things the next day when you’re pissed and the third mistake is then actually doing them the next day with a hangover. Can I really be the same person though who set a record time for rowing seventy five miles up the Caledonian Canal and the full length of Loch Ness in eighteen hours when I was twenty three?

I tell myself that this is what a further twenty odd years of living to excess has done to me and press on. Besides I have a distant shore to conquer and the honour of my fair maiden to withhold when I bestow her with gifts from distant shores. For a moment I pretend to be Sir Walter Raleigh and it’s enough for a while to keep me spurred on to reach the other side and hopefully complete my task. You might laugh but its surprising what thoughts enter your head when you have clearly bitten off more than you can chew and are trying to put to the back of your mind the fact that you might actually die in a big yellow rubber dinghy!

I’m still over half a mile from the village and I realise my only hope is to keep going, flop myself on the shore in the style of Robinson Crusoe and pray that some local native Man Friday (young French Girl Friday preferred though) stumbles upon me with a coconut full of life saving liquid. It doesn’t quite play out like that. I eventually land at a yacht club where the first person I meet is a cockney. I ask him where the nearest shop is. “Down there mate, about two hundred yards but it’s a f**king rip off! Not quite the hero’s welcome I had hoped for but I set off and find the rip off shop and buy a further four litres of ice cold water. It could have been a hundred quid a bottle for all I cared. I pause whilst sitting on the little bench outside and torture myself for a moment further, caressing and staring at the dripping cold bottle of life before quaffing the first litre and a half bottle down in one.

The present is quickly purchased which is a little leather bracelet.Nothing flash but it will turn out to be the hardest earned gift of my life.

After a swim at the yacht club I wonder about heading back. It’s really hot now but I have plenty of water. I am feeling rather shaky though and ponder if I should wait it out for an hour or so and hope for cloud cover. It’s Ironic that the bad weather we were running from has now gone and the blue Mediterranean skies that we prayed for and endless sunshine now beat down upon me with the severity of the mid day heat in the Sahara. I decide to go for it but promise to myself that at the first appearance of one of those huge Vulchers over head from the gorges I will call 112 and ask for a taxi or helicopter rescue.

I can now see the navigational error of the outward crossing, I had clearly headed for the wrong place and must have doubled the distance. The land mark I thought was the village is at least a mile and a half further up the coast. The row back is excruciating and I’m really starting to burn. Despite the beaches and sides of the lake being busy with people, pedalos and little electric boats there is nothing out here.There are no power boats allowed and when I stop again in the middle the sound of silence is eyrie and oppressive when it should be delightful. Eventually I pick up the sounds and sights of Croix and I know I am going to make it without turning into a gibbering sun stroked madman running up the shore and slicing little kiddies heads off with a plastic oar. The cacophony of sound of people enjoying themselves on the beach at St Croix gets louder and for once it is welcome. As I reach the shore I down the last of the extra four litres of water and swear to myself not to do anything so stupid again. Well at least not for a few days.

The present is very much appreciated but I suspect just like with poor old Walter and Queen Elizabeth the first she will never truly realise the toil and hardship endured to deliver such precious gifts.

Rather disappointingly I later chart my epic journey on the map and laptop. It’s about eight miles. For the rest of the day I flake out in a heap and don’t move until the next morning.

We are settled here and as the days drift by we have no urgency to move on. I’m still reminded every day that I nearly ruined it for everyone by refusing to move to the Aire Penthouse and as usual she is right. We spend our days flying through fields of Lavender down deserted little French back roads, visiting little mountainside villages and of course messing about on and in the lake. Our collection of water toys now boasts a boat and two lilos and the bike when packed for a day on the lake looks like it’s all set for the Paris Dakar rally.Somehow “Pig” the little bike who is getting on a bit now is still going.It’s been thrashed up Alps, gorges and hills so steep that even the mountain goats avoid them yet still he faithfully takes us and our belongings wherever we point him. He has however made a few rather alarming spitting noises on steep hills over the last few weeks and he does smell a bit. Michelle says I’m the same but there you go.

People often say we are really foolhardy to belt around on a motorbike in flip flops, shorts and T shirts. They are right of course but caution has never been one of my strong points and let’s face it you would look pretty stupid driving a scooter around St Tropez harbour in a full set of black leathers.

One morning however I am quickly reminded how fragile life is and how quickly your day can go from one of excitement and fun to disaster with potentially fatal consequences. I have arranged to meet Michelle at the bottom of the steep hill to the lake to go out on the boat. The procedure is that I pack everything on the bike and she walks down. By the time she gets there I have usually parked, got everything off and the boat virtually pumped up. As I head off just fifty yards from the Aire and around the first steep corner I hear a clatter behind me and see flying objects in the mirror. At first I fear the whole boat and our stuff has fallen off the back of the bike but as I quickly look around I see a cyclist just yards behind me take a horrendous fall on the steep bend. I park up on the steep gradient and rush back to help. The guy is hopping around, bleeding and has clearly badly broken his shoulder as his collar bone is sticking out.

He seems ok though (well alive and talking) but doesn’t speak much English and my French is only good for ordering bread, beer and cheese not ambulances or first aid. Very soon a French woman appears and they start jabbering away but neither of us has a phone.Michelle has mine and she will already be walking down to the lake to meet me but down the path and not the road so she won’t know I have stopped on the hill.

After a few minutes I notice the chap doesn’t look right. He seems a bit wobbly and I’m not happy about him sitting on the crash barrier over which is a steep drop so I grab hold of him to steady him. Just in time as he immediately collapses. I manage to get him away from the edge just in time as he goes completely limp in my arms, his eyes roll, he goes grey and he isn’t breathing anymore! At this point he is laid out in the road in my arms and despite not knowing anything about first aid I remember to tilt his head back a bit and as I try to open his mouth and clear his airway. He suddenly comes round. It seemed ages but perhaps just twenty seconds. I didn’t notice but there are now perhaps ten people stood around.

The man suddenly springs to his feet and he is coherent again and talking. I can’t quite get the jist of what’s going on but the gatherers seem to be trying to phone his mates not an ambulance! Clearly this guy needs to go to A&E now but I don’t seem to be able to get this point across and they just gabber away in French to each other. I stay about fifteen minutes and he seems ok and I’m now worried that Michelle will fear something has happened to me as she will no doubt have got to the bottom of the hill and will be wondering where I am.

Reluctantly I gesture the OK symbol to the man and the gatherers and they and the cyclist thank me and wave me goodbye.

Luckily Michelle hasn’t arrived yet and when we meet is oblivious to the drama that unfolded just a hundred yards from the Aire. We have a nice day out but its marred by the fact that such an awful incident took place and I of course am concerned for the injured cyclist and wonder about how he is getting on. The vision of him collapsing and so nearly falling over the edge haunts me all day. I have a strange feeling though all day that it won’t be the end of it.

Later that evening as we casually leave a bar and head up on the scooter to the Aire the Gendarmerie have set up a check point. I’m assuming they are checking cars at random for perhaps drunk drivers.I have on occasion seen this in France and of course not knowing we are British they pull us over. This has happened before and as soon as they realise it’s two Brits on a British bike they can’t get rid of you fast enough.

Not this time. The first Gendarme starts jabbering away in French and of course we don’t understand him. The chief Gendarme then appears who thankfully speaks very good English and starts to explain that they have been looking for a British bike that left the scene of an accident this morning without reporting it! He starts to lecture me on how it’s against the law not to report such a thing and it takes a while for me to realise they think I was somehow involved in the cyclist falling off. It seems the chap again took a turn for the worst and went very grey and collapsed again. I now feel really bad as I thought he was ok when I left and there seemed little more I could do. This is compounded by the fact that someone has told the Gendarmes that I might have been involved. I suspect it was the first French woman on the scene and later I realise that when she arrived she will have seen a scooter stopped with GB stickers on it and a crashed cyclist so may have automatically assumed I was involved. The worrying fact is the cyclist who is badly injured can’t remember anything!

The Gendarmes are very nice to us though and seem perfectly happy with our version of events. I wonder all that evening however if we will get a visit from them but we never hear anything further.

Some of the roads are lethal around here and the speed that some of the cyclist’s belt down some of the passes is phenomenal. I’m not going to have a go at them as I’m a huge thrill seeker myself, I just prefer to have a gallon of petrol and an engine between my legs. I suspect the local emergency services are used to scraping cyclists and motorcyclists off the roads. I think this chap actually had a lucky escape but the whole incident leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

St Croix has a weekly market just like all French villages and towns and they are fatal. Well, fatal for diets anyway. The food seems to be just that much tastier than the stuff back home (home?) and we can’t resist freshly cooked chickens, the plethora of cheeses which we spend ages trying and then purchase what we like and lovely fresh veg and breads. We land back at the van with our wares and fall about them for a mid morning feast. There is nothing better. Why does everything at home seem to look nice but taste bland? It’s not cheap but I don’t care if it tastes lovely like it should but I’m going to have to wean myself away from the dreaded but wonderful markets!

We find our own private beach which we can only reach by boat and spend many hours there away from the throng and noise of the main village beach, only disturbed occasionally by the odd electric hire boat or pedalo but they don’t stay long.

One evening we have a look round the Lac de St Croix exhibition which is at the local Marie (Town hall). It’s all about the development of the artificial lake which was built in 1974. There are pictures of the early years and models showing the lake before and after the valley was flooded. As usual however everything is in French and despite it being interesting we don’t think we will be there long. No chance of that! We are collared by an old lady who speaks no English but despite us not speaking much French she is determined to give us the guided tour and tell us all about the history of the lake.

It turns out that she had a house not far from our little beach we found which is now under a couple of hundred feet of water. Despite the language barrier she makes a real effort to tell us the story and it’s fascinating. We get a bit stuck when she tries to explain each of the ancient farming implements to us but we get the general idea and nod at the right times. I try to be clever and point at an instrument which I think is for harvesting lavender and say in front of the old lady and the now gathered crowd of local dignitaries “”est-ce pour le tranchage des agriculteurs”? You see I know tranchage (pronounced Tranchay) as it means sliced or chopped when ordering bread. What I have actually said though having later googled the phrase is “Is this for slicing up farmers?”. I wondered why they stepped back and looked a little worried as I stood there with the big rusty cleaver in my hand and mad grin on my face. Luckily I don’t think any of them have heard about the mad English bloke who tried to knock the French cyclist over the cliff so they laugh it off. I really must make an effort to learn French properly though!

Later the village puts on a country and western evening which turns out to be line dancing classes for anyone who wants to join in. We don’t.

All good things come to an end and a bad decision

Despite our love for this place after a week or so we decide it’s time to move on. It is sometimes hard to tear yourself away when you find little gems like this but there is lots of France to see and you can’t stay in one place to see it.

We have been to the Med coast once before and we both toy with the idea of trying it again knowing full well it’s August and it will be packed.I plan a rough tour of St Tropez, Cannes, Nice and Monaco but it’s crazy. It’s the one place Le Camping Car is not welcome and despite having the bike finding good places to stay that don’t cost a fortune is not going to be easy. It’s not far though so it seems a shame not to join the seaside throng and have a look. We head to St Tropez.

The Aire we choose is one I recently found out about and the reviews are great. It sounds like a little farm site like the one in Annecy, is just a mile or so out of St Tropez and is only three hundred yards from the beach. Sounds ideal? Well it might be out of season. As soon as we pull up Michelle gives me that look and says “Hmm, I don’t like it”.Once again though I have tunnel vision. I have in my mind that everyone said it would be nice, we have a chance of the last space and it has electricity and the batteries do need a good charge so this time I win over.

You should always, always, always listen to your wife on any motorhoming trip when it comes to picking somewhere to spend the night. We pay up for two nights and immediately I start to see why she didn’t like it. Perhaps the female mind takes in the surroundings quicker and registers what’s good and what’s bad when you arrive somewhere but all to late I start to notice the hordes of feral children running amok, the adults don’t look much better and it seems many of them are set up for the whole summer. It just doesn’t feel right.

St Tropez is buzzing however and we manage to get round all the sites as well as a dip or two in the med but after two nights we have had enough. We encounter serious mozzies for the first time and get bitten to death, it’s as hot at night as it is during the day and the inconsiderate neighbours and their children drive us bonkers. They clearly don’t like us which makes it even worse. They all seem to know each other and some of them appear to be going out working.It’s all very strange and we can’t get out of there fast enough.

We try one other Aire by the sea but it’s full and there is a queue of vans waiting outside on the off chance that someone might leave. Err, no thanks. This isn’t fun and to be honest I start to ponder the appeal of the Cote d’azur. It’s packed, it’s dammed expensive, you can’t move and the traffic even on the bike is murder. Another thing I have observed about the Med is people change. They are obsessed with trying to pose and looking mean and moody. Gone are the friendly smiles and bonjours to be replaced by glares and fashion victims.

I don’t fit in here, Michelle gets away with it but I stand out like a sore thumb in my cheap turquoise Shorts from George at Asda, flip flops and scruffy T Shirt with a hole in it. I make a bit of an effort the second day by putting on a nicer buttoned T shirt with matching deck shoes to try and get the boat crew look but I still manage to look like the local tramp. When I stop for a rest and sit on the wall by the harbour I’m sure a couple of passers by consider throwing loose change at me.

Now I’m not having a go at people (Well I am actually) but why do they all feel the need to gather in these places? From people in Tents to billionaires they are all here. Posing. The bay is jam packed with yachts that you can park helicopters and other boats in and the Porsche’s and Mercedes cruise around and around with the top down and the music drumming and if I can manage it the smell of two stroke oil in their face as I scoot past them. Why??

I mean if I had a two hundred foot yacht why on earth would I bring it to what amounts to a massive yacht car park (yacht park? You know what I mean). I would cruise some lesser known Greek Islands and tie up off one with no one on it. I would have to sack all the crew as Michelle wouldn’t want them around so she can run around the decks naked and laughing at all the poor people and no matter how rich she was she would always clean her own bog and knickers. People however are like sheep no matter how wealthy they are. And it’s the place to be seen apparently. Seen by whom though? Other people who are also being seen? Nah, I don’t get it. St Tropez we discover however does have the best kebab shop in the world. Just off the main square, simply fanastique! And its the only item for sale in the whole place in single figures.

So that’s us. We leave and head up to the Luberon region of Provence near Avignon. In a rush to get away we even pay and use the toll motorway. The van flogs down the near empty three lane motorway at a frankly too fast seventy five miles an hour until I put a hundred miles behind us.

We eventually turf up at the lovely village of Gordes. The Aire is large, away from the road, very quiet and free. Bliss! Happy smiling faces are restored! Back in proper France.

Update 29th August

The area around the Vaucluse River is stunning. It’s very hot but not unbearable. We spend hours flying along little roads visiting interesting hill top villages, getting lost and just bumbling through France. This is the life. Sometimes we just stop in the middle of nowhere for ages and just listen to the sound of the countryside, insects buzzing mingled with bird song and perhaps the baying of a distant mule. Ochre seems to be the big selling point here which is a brightly coloured pigment dug out of the cliffs around the area and used for textiles and as a mix for painting materials. It colours the rocks, houses and countryside in deep reds and pinks and is most prominent around the charming village of Roussillon. (Flipping heck this is starting to sound like a proper travelogue!).

We trace the source of the Vaucluse to the village of Fountaine De Vaucluse where the water spurts forth from hundreds of miles of underground caverns and rivers. Unfortunately it turns out to be the premier tourist hot spot of the whole area and is packed and sadly the long walk up to the source which is stunning has been taken over a little too much with tat stalls and fast food outlets. The Aire however is quite nice so we spend a further two days there.

Cities and Roman Stuff (hot and boring)

We don’t normally do Cities but everyone keeps banging on about Avignon and the Pont Du Gard as must see places in France. As we are only twenty miles away we reluctantly decide to visit both.

The Pont Du Gard is an aqueduct built by the Romans to provide water to Nimes. Yes its interesting and picturesque but (and I’m sorry to all you historians) it really isn’t that exciting. The exhibition and museum are flipping miles away for some reason and we seem to spend ages in the searing heat wandering around reading stuff that really is quite dull.

Avignon is quite interesting but it’s way too hot to be tramping around cities and we do the whole place and the Pont Du Gard on the same day when its well over thirty degrees. They have another bridge here called The Pont Du Avignon where the world famous song comes from (no, I don’t know it!). Again it’s a major tourist attraction and people are paying a lot of money to walk on it. Unlike the Roman’s bridge which is still intact the French one over a thousand years younger is knackered. Shortly after it was built in the 12^th century most of it was destroyed in a siege in 1226. The French made various attempts to rebuild it but couldn’t really be arsed so it remains just a quarter of its original size jutting out into the Rhone.

After an exhausting twenty four hours we head back up into the Provence Mountains and to Mont Ventoux which is the highest feature in the region at over 6000 ft. We stay around the villages of Malaucence and Vaison La Romaine which are lovely and provide us with a free aire for a few nights. Since getting back to France our average cost per night is plummeting but its way over what it should be thanks to having to use campsites in Switzerland and Italy. Usually the average cost is around £2-3 a night but currently it’s running around £8!

Wasp Attack again!

The sting chart goes up to four as I am stung on the arm heading up into the hills on the bike. I just brush it off now as it seems to be par for the course this summer to get stung. The next day however its Michelle’s turn as exactly the same thing happens. The little shit lands on my arm in exactly the same spot where the one landed the day before and stung me but I’m ready for him this time and despite the bike plummeting down a rather steep and narrow road at around forty miles an hour I manage to swipe it off, straight onto Michelle’s leg where it promptly stings her instead. That brings the sting score to three one!

L’Ardeche (more gorges)

We head to a place called Pont Du Gard in the Ardeche region which a chap we met in a converted mobile library says is the most beautiful part of France. We give him the benefit of the doubt and he isn’t far wrong. The whole area is stunning but there is just one problem. He must have told everyone in France as it’s very very busy. We are lucky to find a little Aire about a mile and a half out of town which is attached to a small campsite. Hook-up, free wifi, water at your pitch and all for a tenner in the middle of August in one of France’s premier resorts.Can’t be bad. There is only room for five vans at the top of the Aire where the electricity is and five below.

We park on the end spot but the couple we are next to are leaving and our new neighbours are a French family with two kids. Michelle gives me the look and worries about them being noisy or a pain in the neck and suggests we move to the other end where there are just a couple of oldies when a space becomes available. Later though we are humbled by how polite and friendly this little family is. The children, two boys aged about eight and ten are very well behaved and very polite to us.

They are very interested in Pig our scooter. They seem very pleased with themselves saying “hello” in English and at about ten o’clock each evening Mum kisses and hugs them both and sends them off to bed and you never hear a peep out of them. Dad seems keen to chat to me but speaks less English than I do french but we get by and spend a lot of time complaining to each other about how hot it is. He must like me as he offers me a rather expensive looking cigar and we have a smoke together.

They have set up their TV outside hanging off the door but we can’t hear it and one night when we are catching up with Coronation Street inside the van I decide to pull the bed out in the back lounge so we can sprawl more. It’s massive, about 7ft by 6ft and It does make quite a noise when you pull it out which is unmistakable to other campers that you’re making a bed up. When I pop outside a minute later for a cig our neighbours spring up and ask us if they should take in their telly and go to bed!

No No! I tell them. I’m not sure just how to explain what we were doing but I’m sure if I had said yes they would have packed up and turned in.

We decide even if a space at the other end comes up we could never move now as it would look rude. Two days later when a space does come up and we are out our friendly neighbours move into it!! Cheek.

Deliverance!

I have visions of the duelling banjos and being hunted by red neck inbred's when I finally persuade Michelle to go canoeing down the Ardeche and through the rapids. The reality however is quite different.We go early to avoid the crowds which works well for an hour or so.We are dropped off in a mini bus, told to be at the other end in four hours time and that’s it. Our canoe looks indestructible which is just as well as it gets a right battering. Michelle isn’t scared but is apprehensive that she won’t be able to do it. I haven’t canoed since I was a teenager but at the risk of sounding big headed we just take to it like ducks to water and are very quickly paddling as quickly as we can towards the next rapid and hurtling ourselves down them and through like experts.

It doesn’t last though as more and more canoes appear until the river is awash with them. Its fine as nobody has a clue what they are doing and nowhere is this more apparent than at the start of each new rapid where it quickly becomes a mash up. The river is too low in places so when one canoe gets stuck all the others just crash in after it until there is a massive canoe pile up!

We do our best to avoid the mash ups by either just battering through at great speed or picking our moments but inevitably we end up stuck a few times but there is only one bottom trembling moment where I release the canoe and its off down the rapid with just Michelle in it and not me. Luckily when I launch myself at the canoe I somehow manage to bounce back into my seat by pure luck. We carry on like we know what we are doing and had deliberately planned the manouvre.

It’s the best £30 we have spent for four hours of pure fun and the only thing we want is bigger rapids and faster rivers! As a plus nobody got shot with a bow and arrow or abused and told to squeal like a piggy.

The Pont Du Arc is the only natural stone arc over water in France. It is stunning but it’s just heaving with people. The drive through the gorges is the same but luckily for both visits we take the bike. Which means we can stop where we like, look at the view or have a swim and move on.

We enjoy our time there but it’s time to move on to another region which should be as stunning but much quieter.

Up into the Massif Central

Our next move takes us West up into the Massif Central and we suddenly realise that pretty much the entire trip has been centred around mountains and alpine environments. The Massif Central is just that, a massive rising of mountains in the middle south bit of France which covers an area bigger than Wales. This clearly is our preference of terrain then. Lakes, rivers and mountains do it for us. Scenery rather than cities is our thing and France has it in bucket loads. The next escapade is to do the Tarn Gorges before landing at a couple of old favourites St Rome De Tarn and Lake Pareloup.

We spend three days at the lovely mountain town of Florac. The Aire once again is free and the town very interesting. The tourist information office gives us a very well presented English guide with all the points of interest to see numbered so even we manage to follow it and it includes a free exhibition all about the surrounding mountains and people. Smashing.

I finally get to play French Boules (Petanque)

I’ve been on at Michelle for ages to get a set of Boules so we can join in the national pastime. Just like the French seem to be able to always find a place to park Le Camping Car they always seem to find somewhere to make a boules court. Our new neighbour Christian comes over and asks me to be his partner in a game against another couple. I’m delighted and leap to the challange.

I’ve never played before. I once had the opportunity at school when the French Teacher took us all out to the hockey pitch to learn. I was stood next to Mad Stu who when it was his turn to throw the little ball (little piggy or whatever it’s called) promptly throws it over the fence and into the woods never to be seen again. Stu was dismissed and sent for a detention and just because I was stood with him laughing I was too! So I’ve never played. Until now.

Christian speaks as good English as I do French but we manage and I quickly pick up the rules. I consider googling them secretly in my iBone so I don’t make a complete tit of myself but decide they may think I’m cheating or something. Anyway I’m a star. It may be their national pastime and Christian is quite good but the other two are crap. They don’t believe I haven’t played before so I make a joke of it as we stuff them 13 – 3. The next day to Michelle’s annoyance I rush out and buy a brand new sparkly set of boules. She’s not keen to play though and as yet they haven’t been bouled in anger.

The Aire is busy but again we manage to get the best spot. Not sure how we keep doing this but we notice on the last day we are there that there is a mass exodus. Everyone leaves. It fills up again at night time but we surmise from this that the French are on the move. They are heading home, which in France might take several days if they live in Calais! I can’t make myself believe that September is just around the corner!

Tarn Gorges and back to some favourites

All I ever hear on Motorhome Forums is The Gorges De Tarn are a must see. Simply the most impressive site in France! Well no actually.Make a bit more effort and travel further east to the Verdon Gorges which knock the Tarn Gorges into a cocked hat. It’s not that they aren’t nice and impressive. They are, just not on the same scale as the Verdon Gorges. We are all gorged out now anyhow. The road through the gorges is at times a little tricky with overhanging rocks but it’s not the nightmare I was lead to believe by a huge margin. For the first time since leaving the UK we set an alarm though end head through them very early when its quiet.

St Rome De Tarn was one of our favourite spots on our first trip and it’s a joy to be back. A superb wild camping spot but no facilities. One of the things that’s being annoying us with all this twisty and hilly driving is we lose nearly half a tank of water sometimes through the overflow which must be siphoning the water out on bends and hills.The previous day I spent ages going through every bin in Florac looking for a wine cork. Now you would think this would be something easy to find in France. Nope. God knows what they do with them. In the end I spend an hour witling down a piece of wood to the shape of a wine stopper which I ram in the overflow inside the tank. Hurray! On our arrival at St Rome De Tarn I check the tank and it’s still full! Who said I was hopeless at fixing stuff huh?

The water is a welcome relief and we don’t know it yet but people are dying in Toulouse just down the road where its forty degrees plus. It really is way too hot now. It’s so hot that being on the bike actually makes it worse. The roads are so hot that it’s like driving through an oven. It must easily be fifty degrees on some of the roads that are backed by baking hot cliffs and rocks. Still we couldn’t be in a better place to ride out the heat wave which is due to cool down to a sensible twenty nine by Monday.

Both lilos get a good airing and the little blue one I bought in Switzerland lets me down (again). After a few beers I decide to swim with the Lilo up the river Tarn as far as the cafe bar and beach a few hundred yards up the river. On the way back the flipping repair I made a few weeks ago decides to burst and the lilo slowly sinks when I’m still two hundred yards from the van and a good way from the shore.No matter, I’ll ask Michelle to chuck the other one down the river for me or to swim out. My cries for help are either ignored or not heard (probably the former) and I make my own way back with the sad little limp lilo under my arm where I feel the need to down a few more beers as I feel I deserve them.

The temperature around the van by the river peaks at 36 degrees which is frankly still too hot but we couldn’t be in a better place just inches from the water. We manage a couple of short rides out on the bike and eventually the Dinghy gets an airing late one afternoon where we row up to the nearby cascade which isn’t much of a cascade at the moment. We manage three nights here but could have stayed longer as Michelle has taken to filling every available receptacle with water when the opportunity arrives. Old lemonade bottles, water bottles, teapots, kettles. I know I don’t drink much these days but I start to wonder if the next time I open a bottle of beer it will have been replaced with water (if it’s one of the Leffe’s she’s evicted without notice!).

We find a public water tap up near the village and every time we pass on the bike she produces some empty bottles to fill. It seems to make her happy. I reckon if I was on my own I could survive for a couple of weeks on our fresh water tank. Women obviously like to keep themselves clean and the stuff around them. I reckon jumping in the river is a good solution. I’ve even considered drinking some of it as it seems clean enough!

Lake Pareloup

Eventually we move on up to Lake Pareloup which was another favourite spot on our first trip. It’s a strange lake with lots of fingers and inlets pointing off it and there is a fabulous unofficial Aire where motorhomes gather on one of the fingers. On our arrival though we are saddened by the fact that the finger has all but dried up! The water level must be a good five metres lower than it should be and the basin where the marina is where I used to swim is completely dried out. Its strange how a bit of water can transform a place.

We always find it amusing that motorhomes will flock to any water side parking place just to grab a view of something watery. We are exactly the same but it’s often a standing joke in the van when we see anything bigger than a puddle with a van parked next to it.

The weather is still good but it’s going to change. Its nowhere near as hot, just a pleasant twenty eight degrees but the nights are so much cooler here as the elevation is nearly three thousand feet.

The dinghy gets some use here but I go on my own this time.Remembering the near disaster on Lake Croix I try not to do too much and not venture too far out! Of course I am yet again nearly caught out. One day I decide to row to the far end of another finger where there is a road bridge across the lake and a beach which is my goal.It’s dead easy as I have the wind behind me and I reach the bridge in no time. Of course I should have remembered that due to the elevation and terrain Lake Pareloup is a great sailing lake as the winds can be very strong and build throughout the afternoon.

As I set off back across the bay that took me minutes to cross earlier I notice that I’m not really getting anywhere. As the wind gusts I realise looking at the bridge that I am actually stationary. Hmm this is not good. It’s not life threatening as there is a campsite just a hundred yards away should I just give in and abandon ship. Trouble is it’s about five miles by road back to the van or about three down the beach to where the bike is parked.

I feel fitter though and this time I don’t have a hangover so perseverance sees me cover the three miles in about an hour and a half. I’m lucky though because as I arrive on the beach where Michelle has come to meet me the wind gusts suddenly increase and the dinghy makes a break for it and cartwheels off along the shore on his own.

For you Tommy zee summer is over!

As we wind our way through the Aveyron countryside its clear to see most people’s summer holidays are over. The roads are empty and the Aire de Camping cars see just a handful of motorhomes arriving each day. After the busy throng of late July and August it feels like we have got the place to ourselves. It’s wonderful.

We find a superb little Aire at Broquies up in the hills. The little village has provided a lovely spot with superb views across the valley which boasts one of the best wet room showers I have ever seen as well as one electric hookup point. All for free. Sadly an old couple who look to be about a hundred arrive before us and claim the electric point. They look like they come here every year for their holidays so we don’t begrudge them it although every battery in the van is flat. The vans leisure battery that works the lights, telly and water is about dead. Mobiles, laptops, shavers etc are all down to the last prong and I daren’t charge anything else on the engine battery in fear of flattening that.

I finally manage to persuade Michelle to have a game of boules with the set we bought in Florac. I stupidly assume it will be a white wash but after a few games she is beating me and I have to concentrate hard to clinch back a very narrow victory. Her heart isn’t in it though and just when I think we are getting good she loses interest and announces she’s off to watch Eastenders!

The silence as we watch the sun go down over the valley is amazing, as are the stars up here as the aire is so clear. I start to wonder if there is a lull at the end of August where those that are forced to take their time off in peak season clear off about a week before the September retired brigade turn up. For now though we are just enjoying the peace and tranquillity of the Aveyron region which is quickly becoming one of our favourites.

Blue badge abuse.

The next day we have to find a hookup and charge everything. On a French website we find another free aire at a village called Segur with electricity, services and showers but it only takes three vans. When we arrive at the Aire if it hadn’t been for one of the locals running out to point at the entrance I would have mistaken it for someone’s driveway and house and moved on.

We are the only ones here so we plug in and charge everything up.After ages without hookup we are like kids in a sweetie shop. No more conserving power for us. On goes the laptop, up goes the antenna and we have unlimited internet! Out comes the big telly we save for hookup and it seems massive.

Sadly the weather has changed. Its suddenly cold and raining. Its weird that just days ago the mercury was rising to thirty six degrees yet now its struggling to get above seventeen.

A while later a French van pulls in. I’m smug as this time we have the only hookup point. Of course I am willing to share it but I don’t have a splitter. They park and a short time later there is a knock on the van.The chap that appears is from the French van. He doesn’t speak any English but is pointing at his knee and holding a hookup cable in his hand. I’m not sure what he means but come out to discuss the matter with him. He then takes me over to his van and points at his blue badge, the hookup cable and his knee again. He shows me a scar which looks to be from an operation but as its very faint it must be from ages ago and he only has a slight limp.

The penny drops. Because he is disabled he needs the electricity point. Fair enough I tell him. I’m happy to share it. Non! He wants us to unplug and he wants it for himself. Moral Dilemma time then. We have only been plugged in an hour and require about twelve to charge everything fully. I too am a blue badge holder as I have Arthritis and I fail to understand why this would mean I should have priority to the one free hookup point. Surely if he needed it for some medical equipment he would not risk turning up at a free aire in France on the off chance he might be the only one there and get free hookup. I decide he is trying it on and uncomfortably stand my ground. After much debate and me trying to work out how to explain that we can share it if he has a splitter in French he eventually shuffles off, shouts at his wife and then returns all smiles with a splitter! How bizarre.

Normality is resumed but we spend the day in the van as the weather is awful. Good timing though.

The night is cold and the next morning it’s a stark reminder of what awaits us should we ever return to the UK for another freezing miserable winter!

We had planned to start heading north and have a couple of weeks in Brittany but I quickly start browsing the weather sites as well as maps of the south of France where hopefully we can enjoy the late summer weather as long as possible.

At last we pay for something!

The weather starts to improve as we head up to the charming village of Saint Eulalie D’Olt. The only Aire here is next to a small campsite and costs the princely sum of eight Euros. Its deserted though. Just us and a Belgian family. The village is fabulous and really pretty without all the tat shops that sadly sometimes take over places like this. Its Saturday and still August but there is nobody here. If this were England it would be heaving.

The Aire has full hookup to every pitch and showers and is just a stone’s throw from the village and the lovely river.

Meeting Mr Marie

Every little village in France has a Marie (Town Hall I suppose). No matter how small the place they all have them. Often grand buildings in tiny hamlets. In fact I’m sure we once went to one place that was so small it actually just had a Marie and nothing else. Usually Michelle and I often wonder what Mr or Mrs Marie would be like. We imagine some rotund jolly man or women dressed in chains, medals and Marie type regalia and when we finally meet a real Marie in the flesh I’m a little disappointed but overwhelmed.

The chap turns up in Jeans and a T Shirt for goodness sake! Maybe he has heard of the famous British Motorhomers from www.hankthetank.co.uk (doubtful) but he has made a special trip to come and welcome us to the Aire and the village. The Belgian appears and acts as an interpreter for the state visit. The Marie shows us round the Aire, pointing at the electric points and the fact that they put in twenty points for thirteen pitches just in case. He shows us the wonderful showers and a sticker on a lamppost in English advertising the “All the Aires” book which we have.

After many pleasantries he leaves promising that if there is anything we need to just come to him. Presumably at the Marie Hall?

He ignores the couple in the French van who have just arrived and we ponder if he has mistaken us for someone else. I dutifully promise to tell everyone in England on the Motorhome forums of his wonderful Aire which very much pleases him. When he leaves shaking our hands for some reason I do a kind of bow, Michelle quickly runs inside and nearly wets herself laughing.

The next day sees cloudless blue skies and warm weather in the mid twenties. Normal service resumed then. For how long though we wonder. The thought of leaving and going home is not one we want to dwell on.

Mr Marie or someone in the village must have heard I was trying to lose weight as a pair of scales appears in the middle of the Aire in the morning. Strange but handy. I’m not sure just how fat I got over the winter but I was well over twenty stone. We don’t know how accurate they are but after doing the conversions from 108KG it works out at 17st 1Lbs. So at least three stones gone then but a long way to go.I’m not quiet Daniel Craig yet but perhaps half way there!

Perfect ACDC moment. The Bells!!!

I wasn’t sure if I should include this in the blog but my best mate Pat back home might appreciate it (former fellow Vibe Merchants Member). Now I’m sure I mentioned I take a frankly knackered guitar with me. In fact the little Argos guitar has been all over the world but for some reason where other guitars are signed by Jimi Hendrix and Dave Gilmore or adorned with stickers from festivals or gigs around the world mine has beer bottle labels on it from various countries, one of the tuning heads missing so I have to use pliers to tune it and a wrong D string blagged from a German in the Med. Still, I love it and it’s a treasured possession. I hate playing it around Michelle though as just when I’m in the middle of a master piece she will come and ask me to do something or complain that I’ve dirtied her sink or something.Why doesn’t she know you must never disturb an artist in full flow!

One day she goes out on her bike and as there is nobody around I have a good twang. There are a couple of sayings that state that in America you are never more than a mile from a McDonalds and in London your never more than ten feet from a rat (or something like that). In France there must be something similar about never being out of earshot of church bells. Well this particular bell as it strikes twelve plays a perfect B Flat at exactly the same tone and time as ACDC’s Hells Bells which I happen to know! For a perfect moment I’m Angus Young on stage at Wembley as I play along and try and dance about the Aire Angus style (hoping Mr Marie will not appear). The fantasy is shattered at the Eleventh gong as Michelle arrives back and demands to know if I have topped the water up! Unbelievable.

After a couple of days at Saint Eulalie D’Olt we work our way up the Lot Valley and take in the villages of Estaing, Espalion and Entraygues Sur Truyere passing through the short ten mile stretch of the Gorges Du Lot. Now I think we are in danger of becoming blasé about these places. Another Gorge, another beautiful village or river or another perfect place to park the van for the night and we make a vow not to take it for granted.

The Secret Private Aire!

We eventually head for the stunning little village of Belcastel. It’s down a twisty narrow road deep into a hidden valley and consists of a picture postcard little village next to a river with a lovely Chateau on the top. Again if it were in England it would be heaving with visitors but there is nobody there. I’m in a bit of a panic getting there as our Fridge has gone on the blink at Rodez where we stopped for a few hours to look around. It’s ok on hookup but has stopped working on Gas. No big shakes but there are four hookup points at the Aire at Belcastel for ten places!

I needn’t have worried. When we arrive there is nobody else there. It’s lovely, in a sort of Dingily Dell wooded valley next to the river just a few hundred yards out of the village. It’s so lovely we decide to stay a few days but don’t understand why there is nobody else here. There is a small campsite in the village but there are not many on there either.The Aire does have a bit of a neglected look about it though. There are toilets and showers that don’t look they have been used or cleaned for weeks and the grass at the bottom is quite long.

That evening we notice a couple of vans driving past but not coming in the Aire. Are they mad? It’s perfect. They coast up and down and we laugh at their stupidity. The next morning it becomes apparent why nobody came down. The Aire has closed. With us in it! At some point after we arrived somebody barricaded the entrance which is above us near the road so perhaps they didn’t see the solitary van parked down by the river.

No matter. We can still get the scooter out. The electric and water is on so we will just live here until it opens in the spring perhaps. I wish I had been that cool about it but the reality is I start to worry that perhaps we shouldn’t be there. Maybe it’s going to be knocked down or perhaps there has been a flood warning. Michelle just tuts and tells me not to be such a drama queen and goes back to her sunbathing and seems to relish the fact that she now has an entire private Aire de Camping Car to herself. I watch her smug grin as she sits there in her lounger willing other camper vans to come past looking confused as to how the Brit van got down there! I on the other hand worry that the owner with come and somehow think we have broke in and moved the barrier! I have to remind myself not to be such a wuss.

We get used to our private Aire. Nobody turns up for money and we never find out who or why it was put there. On the morning we are leaving some chap in a van turns up, removes the barrier, creeps past our van so as not to wake us and spends half an hour messing with some drain cover before leaving. He leaves the barrier open so we seize our chance and leg it.

It’s another place we are sad to leave. There has been so many now. Even sadder though is that it’s suddenly September. I try hard not to think about the prospect of returning to the UK even though it still may be a while but we are both only too conscious that we are on the inward leg of the trip.

Noisy Belgians

It’s been a perfect couple of weeks since the holiday crush started to die down and Aveyron has just been so relaxing as well as stunning.The southern part of the region reminds us very much of Teesdale where we live back in the UK just with much better weather. There is not a lot here. Just rolling hills and peace and quiet.

We hear of a stunning Aire which is described as unmissable at a very small village at Castenet. We make an early dash to get there as there are only four places. When we arrive it is empty and we get the best spot of four on its own whereas the other three are close together.Each spot has its own table and chairs, little garden, water tap and electric hookup which is great as I haven’t managed to fix the fridge.They ask for a five Euro donation in an honesty box. Why? Please don’t get me wrong the Aires network is superb but there is nothing here. There is nothing we can spend our money on yet still this picturesque little hamlet has seen fit to provide such a wonderful place for campervans to park for a cost so low that if they are lucky will break even.

For once after a few hours it does fill up with the allotted four vans.Two Belgians, a French van and us. The ambiance is superb. People quietly mill around reading or chatting. A place to totally relax and unwind. We spend a few hours out on the bike exploring down lanes you would be hard pushed to fit a mini down before coming back for a chilled out evening in our little garden.

Later a car pulls up and a couple come down who are clearly friends with one of the Belgian vans. At first its fine but the volume of their chatter increases and increases to the point of being irritating in such a quiet place. Now this may sound petty to anyone reading this from afar but unless you have been here and appreciated just how quiet this place is it would be hard to comprehend. We are a good distance away but the poor French couple are right on top of them. I assume as always of course that being of a certain age they will clear off to bed by ten thirty or eleven at the latest. Nope. It just gets louder and louder. I already feel a bit sorry for the French bloke as he spent three hours trying to get his TV and Satellite dish to work before giving up and turning in early. We turn in about twelve and shortly afterwards the Frenchman who must have finally cracked bangs on the side of his van and shouts I presume “be quiet!”

They are quiet for about five minutes then like naughty teenagers they carry on again. I’m just falling asleep around one AM when the visiting couple decide to leave. Now you would think after all this performance they would leave quietly. Non! Outside there is much shouting, slamming of doors and wandering about. I crack, open the window and at the top of my voice give them both barrels and some choice words I’m not so proud of. The visitors scurry off and drive away as quickly as possible and the Belgians disappear.

I just don’t get it. Fair enough at St Tropez or a busy seaside Aire you expect noise and a quiet night is a bonus. They must have ruined the evening completely for the van next door. The next morning they get their own back as the French spend an hour at seven AM packing up as loudly as possible before leaving. The Belgians then leave an hour or two later, give me a filthy look (once they are at the exit and about to drive off) and normal service is resumed.

Tonight as I write this there is just us and one other van. Now it’s Friday night, I have a case of Leffe with my name on it and its time to get the guitar out! Whoopee!

Im Cured!

A couple of days later we move on and visit Villefranche de Rouergue and the stunning hillside village of Najac parking at a lovely little free Aire at Montiels which we have to ourselves. I must be getting fitter as the walk up and around Najac to the Castle at the top of the hill would simply not have been possible three or four months ago. I’m not exactly ready for a Marathon but being fitter makes a big difference as I can see stuff rather than just sitting around at the bottom of a hill waiting for Michelle to come back.

I’ve even dumped my walking stick. Coming down hills is still painful as the Arthritis in my knees is still there but I have shifted the weight of a small child off my legs so I hop up steep hills like a mountain goat.Well I pant up them while Michelle is already at the top breathing normally. The stunning hill top village of Cordes Sur Ciel however nearly gets the better of me as it really is built on a massive steep hill.The locals if there are any left must be really Olympians.

As its September we are now following the weather online with more precision. A decision is made to head further south into the Parc Naturel Regional Du Haut Languedoc and then perhaps we will give the seaside another go. After our experiences is St Tropez we are reluctant but again as we are so close perhaps it’s worth another try,

Heading south through empty lands!

After a brief stop for Michelle to look round the town of Albi we head into the countryside and the Park. There is nothing and nobody for miles. Well I say nothing, the scenery is very similar to the North Yorkshire Dales where we live again just a lot warmer and sunnier. We drive for twenty miles or so to the tiny village of Rayssac and don’t pass a single vehicle. The Aire we arrive at is empty, free and has free electricity!. It’s so quiet you can hear a pin drop. There is just nobody here. There are no shops or supermarkets for twenty miles in any direction. Bliss.

Later, the quiet is strangely interrupted by a humongous explosion some way off, followed by a massive sheep stampede and then later in the still of night by the howling of what eerily reminds me of the werewolf in the film American Werewolf in London! I imagine walking into the local bar (if there was one) which will be called the slaughtered lamb and being told to by some mad eyed local to “stick to the roads!”

The next morning we are pleased to find our throats still intact and we make tracks across even more unpopulated roads and landscape towards Lac Du Lauzas in the Monts de Lacaune. It’s like being in one of those survivor type films. Has there been a war or some savage virus sweeping the world where we are the sole survivors? Err, no.There they all are parked in the Aire by the lake. Bugger.

It’s a smashing find based purely on seeing a blue splodge on the map and heading for it. The aire is splendid and once again we get the best spot. A large pull in right next to the water and a slipway for boat launching. Once again there is electricity which is a bonus as I have been unable to fix the fridge on Gas. All for the princely sum of six Euros a night.

A New Kingdom is Born (and quickly overthrown)

We spend four days here. The weather is superb, the lake lovely and once the boat is blown up it stays up and I spend hours every day rowing. We even find our own private Island which we land on and declare sovereignty for the Kingdom of Kontiki. I immediately declare myself King and announce a list of laws that mainly involve demands on Michelle which sadly she refuses to comply with declaring most of them to be unreasonable and some, probably illegal. The new kingdom has its first rebellion as she decides to leave for the mainland.

Eventually it looks like the weather is breaking. The lake is at two thousand five hundred feet above sea level and the hot sunny days quickly change to cool nights and it’s not long of an evening before you are drawn inside. That settles it then. It’s going to be hot and sunny on the coast and because it’s at sea level, warm evenings as well.

Campsites us? Surely not!

Aires on the coast are notoriously crap. Well the ones on the med coast are. They tend to be scrappy car parks or wastelands with rubbish facilities and often quiet high charges. As it’s now out of season and we have the discount ACSI camping card we can get on a “proper” campsite which just a couple of weeks ago will have been over fifty pounds a night for between ten and fourteen including all facilities and services. Now we normally avoid sites like the plague but as there is little choice we decide to give them a go.

As we drive off the Massif Central towards the coast we laugh at the fact that we will probably end up with a site to ourselves as there is still virtually nobody around. None of it! When we arrive we are told there are just two pitches left! So this is where everybody is. The site is full of Germans, Dutch and British and we get the impression that they have simply driven hell for leather through “proper” France just to get to the coast. We have wondered for a few weeks now where they all are and now we know. Not quite sure what the attraction is but perhaps we will find out.

I never thought I would say this but we are pleasantly surprised. The campsite we arrive on at Frontignan Plage has some good size private pitches, a massive swimming pool and direct access to a lovely beach and the Mediterranean. All for fifteen Euros a night.

When we arrive it must have been stormy as there is good size surf.Brilliant! Up goes the blue Lillo from Switzerland and like a demented surf dude I plunge fearlessly into the boiling waves which frankly turn out to be much MUCH bigger than they look from the edge. I have to keep at it though as there are now a few people milling around wondering why the mad Englishman is trying to kill himself and bets are made as to whether l will end up smashed to pieces on the rocks or found days later half starved to death in Algeria.

Fortunately or unfortunately depending how you look at it, it’s the former. I finally manage to catch a big breaker and for a few seconds ride the top of the wave in until it breaks and then buries me creating a man shaped spread-eagled image in the shaley sand near the beach.I’m ok but my back now resembles a road map and its quiet hard to dig out the bits of rock from my skin later. Sadly it’s all too much for the Swiss Lillo that was clearly designed for calm Swiss swimming pools and not for carving it up in ten foot breakers in the med. I have already repaired it twice but fear this time it’s beyond economical repair. I pick up its sad deflated body from the surf and proudly march off through the line of gatherers like I do it every day and then head for the swimming pool to lick my wounds and shout Ow a lot!

We settle into campsite life. Sadly the surf was only for one day and the sea is now like a mill pond every day. This doesn’t stop most of the residents sitting there from dawn until dusk getting progressively blacker. Oh yes, those seeking the Mediterranean tan are not simply satisfied with a bit of a healthy colour, they are clearly not happy until they have gone a kind of leathery shade of soot. The good news is that this means that only a few have discovered the stunning swimming pool and quite often we get it to ourselves.

It’s weird though. We feel like we have forgotten our motorhome adventure and took a break and gone on a week’s package holiday.It’s just your typical Mediterranean holiday resort. A strip of bars and tat shops, sea sand and swimming pools and people wandering around with their beach stuff. It makes a not too unpleasant change to be honest and as the forecast is superb we decide to stay until the weather changes which sadly even here it has to. Neither of us wants to accept that even in the Med the summer will soon eventually be over and all too soon we will be heading north towards the UK.

We remember why we don’t “do” campsites!

Naively we decide to give another one a go. The resorts of Agde and Cap D’Agde are just twenty two miles down the coast and littered with campsites.

Michelle for once is put in charge of finding somewhere to stay. Sadly the first one she chooses turns out to have far too many trees for our liking. I know it can get hot in the south of France but it’s not often that hot so we don’t understand why so many of these campsites are completely ensconced in trees. The sites on Italy were like that and to us its oppressive. Like staying in a swamp. It also plays havoc with the satellite and the wifi antenna so no internet and no telly!

Instead of letting her choose another one I sack her and take over like I’m suddenly the expert on campsites. Now to be fair both of us can now smell a good Aire de Camping Car or wild camping spot from a hundred miles and know immediately if it’s suitable but we haven’t got a clue about campsites. I’m sold by the glossy images in the book of a wonderful Spa and the huge practically empty swimming pool. Oh and it’s a four star site! (I have no idea what the star rating means of course) so it must be good.

The other downside to campsites is the rigmarole of parking up, getting a map and walking round to find a suitable pitch then walking back to reception, checking in, filling out forms and then when you leave waiting ages to flipping well check out again. All this is made worse by the fact that reception on most campsites in Europe and particularly France closes for about three hours for lunch. On an Aire you just drive in, park where you like and open a beer. If its crap you just move on to the next one.

When we walk round it’s not too bad but I already know we are convincing ourselves it’s ok as its nearly mid day and we haven’t time to find anywhere else before they all shut for their lunch three hour. There are little workers and campsite staff walking around in Corporate yellow T shirts with the campsite logo on and it all has a bit of a holiday camp feel. Oh dear, the next sign that all is not right is when we are told we have to wear a Day-Glo arm bracelet also with the campsite chain logo on for the duration of our stay.

We assume this is so they know we are fully paid up campsite members when using the facilities. The bracelet reminds me of my Glastonbury days but sadly the comparison ends there. They also make us pay up front which is unusual and stupidly despite Michelle’s glare I pay for two nights. Getting through the security barrier with the van proves impossible. As our van is right hand drive Michelle has to get out and key in the number, the barrier rises, she climbs back in but its shut again before I have chance to drive off. It then refuses to work as it thinks we are already inside the campsite and whoever is trying our number is an undesirable trying to gain access to the Promised Land!

Eventually when a yellow coat turns up and we thrust our arm bands at him he reluctantly agrees to let us in where we are told to park outside reception where someone will show us our pitch. Eh! We know where our pitch is as we walked round several hours ago and chose it. No. You have to be led to your pitch by a security vehicle it seems. At first I think that it’s nice that they go to the effort to show you to your pitch like they would show you to your room in a good hotel.

I’m kidding myself of course as it becomes apparent that they only do this so you don’t start driving about the campsite on your own all over the place. Once led to the pitch we are left finally on our own. What would have been useful is if the yellow coat in the golf buggy had actually shown us where the water and electricity points were. After several hours of hacking through the foliage and with the help of our French neighbour I finally find the electric point.

Can you imagine me in Speedos? Not a nice thought.

We are not impressed. The pitch we are on is ok and private enough but the whole place just reminds me what motorhoming is not about.It’s about freedom. About finding somewhere you like and staying if you feel like it. This is far too regimented for us. I decide to try the superb swimming pool we saw in the pictures in the book. It has three slides and two pools! When I eventually get through yet more security gates its half the size it looked in the book and packed. It is totally awful and I try to imagine what it must be like in the school holidays.

I have a quick swim and then go for the big slides. I’ve never been on one and actually manage two before I hear the life guards whistle and he beckons me over. He then starts to lecture me about my shorts.“Did you not see the signs banning shorts?” Err, no. Did you not notice all the men are wearing Speedos? “Well! Thats definitely no mate”. I don’t know about you but the first thing I do when entering a swimming pool is have a swim not eye up the guys swimming attire.“Baggy shorts are forbidden you must wear swimming trunks!”

Now to be fair I had kind of heard of this ridiculous rule but the last site didn’t care so I stupidly thought perhaps they wouldn’t here either,“You must go and buy some Speedos!” “Do you really think it’s fair on the women and children for me to turn up in Speedos”? I don’t really say that but that’s what I’m thinking. I’m sorry if you wear them but unless you look like Daniel Craig in the bond film (and I’m still not there yet) most blokes look a complete tit in Speedos so I quietly swim off and leave. I think it’s a hygiene thing but I don’t get it. Neither do I care as this will be the last time it happens. The biggest annoyance is we have paid for two nights now. Still nothing else can go wrong surely.

The Boy Racers!

Cap D’Agde is basically a huge marina surrounded by the usual Mediterranean tourist bars and tat shops. It’s an interesting diversion from what we are used to but one night would have done it really. The area is supposedly renowned for crime as is most of the med. At least this is what you are led to believe. My trust in Johnny Foreigner however is re-confirmed when I stupidly leave the sat nav on a harbour wall. We only discover its missing much later right over on the other side of Cap D’Agde. We have been out on the bike all afternoon and there are various places I could have left it while plotting our next stop off. I often take the sat nav with us on the bike despite having nowhere to mount it or any long term power supply as I have this inner fear of us getting so hopelessly lost and separated from Hank that we will never be re-united again.

My thoughts on where we have left it are different from Michelle’s but as usual on occasions like this where my brain has further deteriorated in the Mediterranean sun she turns out to be right. We drive back to the harbour where she thinks I last had the sat nav out and I swear adamantly I didn’t. Both of us however hold little hope in finding it but as we race round Cap D’Agde, carving up the holiday traffic which suddenly seems so irritatingly slow and arrive back at the spot we were earlier, there it is sat on its own in the sunshine where I apparently left it. There are people all around, fishing, walking and sunbathing but nobody has picked it up. I ask myself if we would have been so lucky in England. Would a lone Sat Nav left on a wall have stayed there for long. Definitely not says Michelle. You would have nicked if you’d seen it!

As we arrive back at Stalag Luft Le Butlins I start to notice a few of those customised boy racer cars arriving. I think nothing of it until it becomes apparent that they are everywhere. Its Friday night and I guess there must be some kind of rally on. Now I was young once and when I was a teenager our cars and bikes were our main obsession (well in my case after beer and girls) and its quite nice to be reminded of that era. The difference is that in those days we drilled a few holes in the exhaust to make them louder and clagged a few stickers on the side. Flames, go faster strips, that sort of thing. We were lucky if we could afford Petrol to move them let alone customise them. Our stereo systems were not quite as sophisticated or as loud as the ones the kids have now although I have to say that I was quite ingeneous in that department as I somehow managed to install an amplifier and a pair of Disco PA speakers in a my van that ACDC would have been proud of.

These chaps however have clearly spent a fortune on their motors.Each one is immaculate and gleaming and they sound like formula one cars. Their owners spend the whole time tinkering with them and polishing them. Starting them up, revving them a bit and then polishing and tinkering again. There appears to be no drinking going on and the quite attractive girls that seem to be with them are largely ignored. This is where our comparison ends then.

I’m not too concerned about them as I know the campsite has a no noise rule and that the barriers are locked at midnight. They won’t be able to roar around or make a nuisance of themselves then I think.Wrong. They solve this issue by spending the entire night driving around the campsite. Presumably they are scattered in the little bungalows and hired tent sheds all over the site and they spend all their time burbling and revving their way between venues. To be fair they are not racing around like lunatics or shouting and carrying on and I don’t hear or see anyone drunk but it’s enough to keep us and everyone awake. This coupled with the now unbearable mosquitoes makes for another miserable night.

The next morning when we check out I make a formal complaint. I’m not really annoyed with the kids. As they were better behaved than we would have been at that age had we been allowed on such a site in the first place. The fact is the staff and security made no apparent effort to do anything about. It does seem a bit daft that its seems ok to keep an entire site awake all night by driving racing cars around at four in the morning but you can be thrown out for wearing the wrong kind of shorts in the swimming pool. The final nail in the coffin is when I ask where the motorhome service point is for getting fresh water and emptying the waste. The answer leaves me stunned. “Oh. We used to have one but it got built on. There is a service point at the Super U supermarket three miles away, you can use that”.

As our armbands are cut free it feels like freedom is just a breath away and luckily the possessed barrier has no problems letting us out.We escape as fast as we can and head inland with a solemn vow to each other, never ever ever again. Its back to Aires and wilding for us.

Back to the campsite and the not so medieval village

Last year on our trip across the Pyrenees we missed Carcassonne.Like Le Mont St Michel or the Eiffel Tower Carcassonne is a must see tourist attraction in France. It’s an ancient fortified medieval city and once an important point of defence for the border between France and Aragon . We missed it because after driving two hundred and fifty miles with my sights set on the Pyrenees the Aire we chose for Carcassonne was closed, I couldn’t find another one and went into a strop and drove on! So this time we are determined to get it right.

I have done my research in the brand new Aires book and online and have picked a free aire about a six mile bike ride away. We arrive and its closed down. Bugger. The Aire at Carcassonne is nothing to write home about and almost as expensive as the ACSI campsite just outside the town. Reluctantly despite everything I have said we trundle onto the site which thankfully turns out to be fine. No arm bands and no boy racers that I can see, Just lots and lots of British Vans. I make a public announcement on the Motorhome Facts Internet Forum inviting them all for a drink (much to Michelle’s annoyance) but not a single one turns up. Either they don’t go online, are too tight to pay for wifi or don’t want to share my case of Leffe.Their loss.

The city is indeed intriguing and we are lucky enough to see it on the weekend of the seventeenth of September where all the monuments and castles in France are free so we get into the castle and ramparts bit for nothing.

French Chateau’s and the like are often a disappointment I think because during the French revolution the revolting peasants trashed all the antique and posh stuff owned by the Aristocracy so often you are left with stunning buildings with very little of interest left in them.Quite a bit of it was snaffled away by the British Aristo’s and Royals and ironically a lot of it now sits in the Bowes Museum in Barnard Castle six miles from where we live!

After the military let most of the city go to rack and ruin a fifty year restoration project took place as recently as a hundred and fifty years ago and it shows. It all just looks a bit to perfect and new to me. As with Le Mont St Michel its overrun with tourist shops and food places which sadly seem the main attraction. We only find one original bit hidden behind somebody’s garden.

Like a lot of mountains, monuments and castles I think they are often best viewed from afar and to me it’s the same with Carcassonne.

The next day due to the previous evening being a “beer” day is a short hop to an Aire (Yippee) at Fanjeaux a small village in the middle of nowhere. The weather is rubbish, the temperature plummets and we sit in the van.

Luckily the one day of bad weather (ten degrees in Toulouse) doesn’t last and we are back to late summer sunshine, hot but not too hot. We decide to explore the region of Gers which is North West of Toulouse.The town of Auch which is the capital of Gers is ok but as its lunch time when we arrive the whole place is shut. Eventually we end up at an Aire in a place called Montreal which is a bit scrappy but will do for a night.

The council seem to be using the grass next to the Aire to dump truck after truck of dead foliage and the local farmer is filling up his muck spreader from the all to near sewerage plant. Lovely. During one of our spins on the bike by accident we come across the stunning Bastide village of Fources which just happens to have what appears to be a brand new Aire de Camping Car on lovely peaceful manicured lawns. There is only one van there and loads of green space. The bike fly’s the five miles back to Montreal in about the same number of minutes and we are packed up, moved and sat out in the sun on the Aire at Fources in the blink of an eye! Splendid.

The next morning we are visited by three ladies from the village. One says her friend who is standing next to her has told her that the English in the Camping Car have questions for her. Her friend for some reason looks scared. Hmm. At first I tell her no we have no questions but then I wonder with it being new have they come to see if we want to ask anything about the village. I make an effort to tell her it’s a beautiful Bastide but then remember the last time I tried to talk French to the dignitaries at the Exhibition at Lake St Croix where I asked if the scythe was far hacking up farmers so I give up, smile and tell them we like the Aire, thanks very much. They leave smiling thank goodness.

It’s so lovely we stay another day but Gers I think is a see if your passing region. We work our way north through the region and set sail for the Dordogne.

Its late September and I really should be back at school (well home, work, whatever)

Originally we were expected to be back home at the end of August.The W word comes up and I curl into a foetal ball at the thought of doing some W. Work is always quiet in the summer months anyway but there has been less to do on this trip than ever before and the work I was going back to for the winter looks like it’s gone up in smoke or been delayed. I should be worried but I don’t care. It’s been the summer of our lives and our longest adventure so far, perhaps too long. I’m not even sure what normal life is anymore. Is it this? Or is it getting back on the Hamster wheel I have been trying so hard to get off for so long?

If it was just me I truly would throw caution to the wind, sell up or rent out and keep going. Michelle however is still dubious for all sorts of far too sensible reasons. Flipping Capricorns! There are far too many places to see, countries to visit and so far we have only scratched the surface. Our motorhome chums Catherine and Chris or the Lobsters as I refer to them (www.theworldisourlobster.com) are currently full timing as they call it on a quest to see all forty seven countries in the EU and I’m envious. France, Italy, Germany and Switzerland (a bit of Spain) are about all we have seen and I think we both now have a thirst to set sail to pastures new and get right off the beaten track.

Still we are not prepared and we really will have to start thinking about returning back to the UK. It’s such a sad thought though and despite us probably having another three weeks or so we both start to get that end of holiday feeling. I quickly decide that we have to shake this feeling off and enjoy what’s left of the trip. Three weeks for goodness sake is more than most people get off in one go in a lifetime. We both know how lucky we are to do this at our age. Our cost of living doing this for months on end is probably less than you would think but I try not to think about the real cost. However you can’t take it with you etc etc etc blah blah blah.

Being in Jurassic Park

Just on the southern border of the Dordogne is a fantastic Chateau at Biron. It really is stunning. Nearby there are some superb Bastide villages such as Monpezier and Monflanquin. We decide to spend the night in the field behind the Chateau. It is I think an official Aire de Camping Car but really it is just a field with superb views of the Chateau on one side and the fields and forests on the other.

There is only us there and one other van on the other side of the field.At dusk we start to hear some disturbing sounds that echo around the valley making them sound louder and scary. We noticed some deer fur around the van and a quick Google tells us they are stags and it’s the rutting season. As night falls its pitch black around the van and although we can’t see the stags we can certainly hear them. When I go out for a cigarette its clear we are surrounded! They are everywhere. The sound is so loud and fearsome echoing around the valley it reminds me of the dinosaurs in the Jurassic Park movie.

Another Google tells me that Stags can be extremely dangerous in the rutting season especially if you get between a Stag and his Hind. Fair enough. The problem is though it’s so dark I can’t when I am outside what we are between.

At midnight I have a cigarette and stray a little from the van. I can still hear them all around, probably much further away than they sound until quite suddenly one roars very very close. I’m not sure if I imagine the thudding hooves running towards me but for sure I would have easily beaten Linford Christie off the blocks as I leg it back to the van!Michelle falls about and takes my photo to record my shocked and terrified face. Yep. Dead hard me. Frightened witless by Bambi’s Dad.

Little England

You can see why they call the Dordogne that. As we arrive in the heart of tourist Dordogne around the Sarlat area Brits are everywhere. It suddenly feels like being back home. British cars and British voices are more prominent than French ones in some places! I always like to have a laugh when a conversation does start when we are out on the bike. It usually starts with a confused look from a Brit as they clock the GB stickers and British Registration on the bike. “You haven’t come all the way down here on that have you?” Is usually the opening gambit.Depending on how I’m feeling depicts how much I wind them up. “Yep.Been all over the Pyrenees and over the alps several times on this little bike!” which is actually true. Sometimes I let on about the fact that most of those miles where done sideways strapped to the back of Hank but I often like to see the confused and doubting looks on their faces as they wonder off.

The weather is still superb and we visit a few of the touristy places we saw last spring down here and decide to spend a night on a little municipal campsite / aire at St Leon St Vezere that we clocked last year. It is lovely and right by the river. On our travels on the bike however deeper into the Vezere valley in the middle of nowhere we come across a campsite and decide to have a look around just for curiosity. We have no intention of going on another campsite, oh no! Had enough of them thanks. However Pierre the owner quickly appears. It’s clear the campsite is either closed now or near to closing but he invites us to have a look around so we go through the motions just to be polite. He is open for another five days apparently and actually it starts to appeal. The reason it appeals is that there is pretty much nobody on it! There are he tells us two other British motorhomes and a Dutch van.

We find the three hangers on all huddled together in a field at the top of the site. Now as anyone who knows me will tell you I am quite a sociable fellow and will start up a conversation in a pub or on an Aire with anyone but why the only three visitors on this site have decided to park on top of each other in one spot is beyond me. After four months on the road where we have been on our own on just a handful of occasions Pierre’s campsite suddenly has an appeal. The site also boasts a lake big enough for us to use the dinghy on and a large swimming pool where I am sure the stupid shorts rule won’t be applied and all for a tenner a night so the next day we decide to give it a go for perhaps one night.

We find our own pitch miles from anyone and totally secluded and have the pool and the lake to ourselves. Mrs Campsite bakes her own bread which is superb and before we know it we have stayed four nights. It is now nearly October and we are so lucky as it tops out at thirty degrees every day with cloudless blues skies. After four months of travelling it seems a very civilised way to wind down the end of the summer.

The Death of Yellow Belly

The little yellow dinghy that has sailed in so many rivers and lakes around Europe all summer including a cross border voyage into Switzerland from Italy has sprung a leak! My efforts to patch it up are not great and I fear his days are numbered as we float around on the campsite lake in the late afternoon sun listening to the slow hiss of air escaping through the patch and watching the water level rising. Good job it never happened in the middle of Lake Croix!

It’s officially winter

Finally its October, most of the campsites and even some of the Aires start to close. The French have decided its winter despite it still being red hot. We find this funny as its still in the high twenties and sunny.Mornings and evenings are chilly but it’s still warm enough to sunbathe, jump in lakes and pools and bike around in shorts and flip flops. The French however see it differently. Michelle has noticed them looking at us like we are mad as they wander around in jeans and fleecy tops. It’s barmy as it really is warm.

We head west to find a couple more lakes and explore the area east of the Dordogne in Correze. We find a fantastic wild spot at Lac Du Causse which we have to ourselves. Well we think it’s to ourselves as we have a visitor in the early hours of the morning. After a quiet night just before dawn we are both awoken to a tapping noise in the front van door followed by a kind of snort. I wonder if it’s the Stellplatz killer again but I don’t remember him snorting. Whatever or whoever it is moves to the back of the van and starts twanging the scooter rack. As we are parked overhanging sloping ground the rack and Pig the bike are at least three feet off the ground so whatever it is must be big. We are later told that it was more than likely a wild boar looking for nuts!Came to the right van then.

We finally stop heading west at Servieres Le Chateau and Lac Feyt.The Dinghy however is on its last legs and is going down almost as fast as you can pump. Its good exercise though as I row about a bit, pump like mad then row a bit more. All the lakes now feel sort of empty of life. You can imagine them in the high season packed with campers and the sounds of summer but despite the serenity and solitude this brings for us as late summer visitors it kind of feels like we shouldn’t be here. Like its time to go home. No more fun of any kind!!

On our last night at the lake there are three of four other vans and we are settling down for the night. When the sun drops its suddenly freezing and by chance Michelle notices one of Yellow Belly’s inflatable cushions making a break for it across the lake. It must have dropped out of the dinghy when I was packing it up. To the bemusement of the French I run down to the lake throw off my clothes and dive in to swim the hundred yards to retrieve the cushion. It’s strange but somehow I know that this will be the last dip of the summer. The forecast says it’s going to change and as its October its unlikely to change back!

Meeting the Lobsters

Our friends Catherine and Chris (www.theworldisourlobster.com mentioned earlier) on their quest to see all 47 countries in Europe are going to be in Brantome in the Dordogne in a few days. It’s only a hundred miles away so we agree to meet up.

We last met them over two years ago on the Isle of Arran just before they set off. They have now travelled over thirty eight thousand miles and have just ten countries to go. As we slowly head north they are slowly heading south, it’s taken a while for our paths to cross so when we meet up much merry making takes place and a first class booze up is called for. Sitting there laughing, drinking and sharing stories in the late afternoon sun is a joy.

It’s almost ruined by the Lobsters wine turning out to be off but Pig (the scooter) and the local Alimentation soon rectify this. Chris who is renowned for his love of pork products barbecues some marinated steaks and we get stuck in. The lovely dinner set that the Lobsters have dragged around thirty seven countries without incident is now a plate short however as I somehow manage to saw both through my steak and the bottom of the plate where my dinner drops perfectly through the hole to the grass below. Despite me being aware of the French national pastime of peeing just about everywhere it’s so tasty I continue eating it. Many Kronenbourgs later I show my appreciation for Chris’s culinary expertise further by hoofing his expensive looking barbecue in the pitch black whilst staggering between vans.

We do like our own company but to meet up with some like minded people our own age, chasing (well in their case living) the same dreams is a joy. I wish them safe travels in concluding their superb adventure.

The next day when we part the weather finally changes. Brantome is lovely but I think we have done the touristy bits of France to death.Looking at the weather the summer is finally over. We are heading north but I still refuse to take my shorts off!

Oradour Sur Glane

I toyed with even mentioning this in the blog. The whole point of this story was to express and convey the fun and joy that this trip has been about. Every trip we do however usually involves a visit to at least one significant World War one or World War Two site such as the D Day landing beaches, Menin Gate in Ypres or one of the many World War cemeteries. Nothing however prepares me for the Story of Oradour Sur Glane.

If your interested it please Google it and read for yourself as the web is awash with accounts of what went on that terrible day on the tenth of June 1944. In a nutshell the SS Nazi’s on their way up from Toulouse to assist in fighting back the recently landed allied forces from Normandy stopped at this small sleepy town in the Limogen region and massacred 642 men, women and children for no real apparent reason other than they thought they were storing weapons for the resistance. It’s fresh in my mind as I write this as it was just this afternoon we were there. Personally I usually feel emotion mixed with a sense of pride and respect when you visit places like the Menin Gate or Landing beaches but all I left feeling today was angry, sad and outraged at the level of evil that man can stoop to.

The village has been left as it was when it was razed back on that fateful day as a memorial to those that died. Walking around the buildings and mainly the church where the Germans opened fire in Gods house on four hundred women and children is bad enough but then a walk up to the cemetery where there are many photographs on the graves of little innocents was enough to finally reduce me to tears.

What now????

We really have to be getting back to the UK so the options are. North West over the Loire and up to Normandy and Brittany. A trip to Paris. A trip around Paris to Champagne country or a flier up to Calais and a week on the East Yorkshire coast! We are setting off in the morning and right now we haven’t got a clue which one we are doing!

The Journey North

The decision is made and based purely on The Lobsters (Catherine and Chris’s) ravings about Barfleur on the Cherbourg Peninsula we head towards Angers for the night on the Loire valley before making for Normandy.

Around Oradour Sur Glane in the Limoges and Poitou regions we found some cracking Aires in the middle of nowhere that were free, empty and where they even provided free electricity! This might make us sound a bit tight. Well maybe we are but we discover in the Aires book what is deemed as “A really nice Aire”. They are highlighted in Orange and are supposedly something special. So far I beg to differ as the ones we have found that were apparently “really nice” were usually overcrowded and cost money! Still it appears that the Aire at Bouchemaine near Angers on the Loire is free after September.Normally it’s 8 Euros with electricity and services. We assume that out of season it will be free but no leccy.

When we arrive its heaving. Ok it has a view of a not very interesting river but it resembles a campsite really. Rows of neat vans separated by grass but at least the hookup is working. How can it be free? We decide that perhaps it’s free but we will be charged for the hookup.There is a noisy road behind, a train track and a flipping school with screaming kids. What I can’t get my head around is why the stupid book says it’s a “Really nice Aire”. It must just be us as it is popular.Angers turns out to be a bit of a disappointment apart from Maison D’Adam. It’s a Burgher house form the middle ages which on close inspection of the carved figures of Adam and Even on its exterior also boasts a wonderful carving of a bloke with his dangly bits on display.We are easily pleased.

The next morning we notice all the French naff off really early. I straight away realise what this means but too late as the lady appears and demands ten Euros and ninety cents!!!!! ARGGGH! We vow never to read the stupid book again or at least ignore its recommendations and head forty miles North West to Pouance which is by a lake, no other vans and with free services and electric.

Normandy and the right decision!

The Lobsters are not wrong! Everybody belts from Calais to Brittany, perhaps takes in Bayeux or Caen before hopping across to Le Mont St Michel and into Brittany. I don’t think many bother to drive up around the sticky out bit that is the Cherbourg / Octeville Peninsula.Ferries to Cherbourg or St Malo are expensive as appose to the cheap as chips crossing and a long drive from Calais. This is a shame as the Peninsula must miss out. Actually no it’s not a shame. It’s a good thing as it means it’s quiet, less touristy and ultimately more charming.

If you’re into tourist attractions, large towns, stunningly pretty Dordogne type villages, big mountains and guaranteed warm weather then this might not be the place for you. However if you like the wildness of the west coast and islands of Scotland, are seeking wild camping heaven and after four months on the road wish to leave tourism behind then this is the place. We couldn’t be more delighted with the choice for the final week or so of the trip. We have been lazy wild campers on this journey as the Aires network and access to the Internet has seen us on some lovely Aires but now we are surrounded by more wonderful wild camping spots than you could shake a stick at.

In Brittany there are “no motorhome” signs everywhere. You can understand this as if you have ever been in summer you will be aware that the whole place is overrun with them. So much so that they even sell little Dinky Camping Car models in the tat shops. If they opened up a stunning beach area to Motorhomes in Brittany within an hour there would be so many white bricks parked on it that it would surely collapse and fall into the sea. They are well catered for there though.There are more Aires in Brittany than any other region of France.

Not the case up here though on the Cherbourg Peninsula. Once again the fantastic French website www.campingcar-infos.com gives away some superb wild spots but not all of them. Even the French haven’t logged them all (or are they keeping them a secret).

The Germans spread out again

We work our way up from Avranches up the west side, have a free night with free electricity at the village of La Lucerne D’Outremer before finally ending up on some of the surf beaches near Cap D Flamanville where the waves are huge. There are two other German vans here with surf gear of every description piled around their vans and the car park. They have even spilled over into the next field where there are surf kites, windsurfers, a fire and a barbecue. To be fair there is plenty of space but it’s clear these fellas are intent on recapturing Normandy again. They don’t do any surfing though the whole time we are there just lots of barbecuing. The young French chaps however turn up all the time in clapped out Renaults with boards loosely attached with string (unlike the Germans whose boards all have their individual surf board sleeping bags and state of the art carriers on the vans) and throw themselves hell for leather into the boiling surf.

For a while I consider getting the one remaining lilo we have that works and showing them how it’s done but quickly remember getting slammed into the sand and grit on the Med where the waves were only half this big and decide Ill just watch.

The last swim!

At Cap Levi we find one of the best wild camping spots I have ever seen. The beach is stunning white sand in a sweeping small bay and you can literally walk out of the van onto the sands. The weather has turned up trumps again as well. It’s not hot like it was but the sunshine is lovely. We are both still refusing to put on jeans but sadly the shorts have to be replaced with jogging bottoms on the bike which we decide are still more holiday attire than jeans. A trip to Cherbourg on the bike treats us to a well earned Kebab and a look at the world’s biggest submarine that’s open to the public but we are too tight to pay the eighteen Euros admission price to view it properly and the attached museum.

Barfleur and St Vaast La Hougue are beautiful seaside harbour towns and just up the road from Barfleur is the second largest light house in France at Gatteville Le Phare. Michelle climbs all 365 steps to the top in record time while I sit at the bottom with aching arthritic knees. Now I’m going to have a moan about my condition. I listened to a program on radio two the other day that said there is no scientific evidence to prove that people with Arthritis suffer less in warmer climes. Well tell my knees that. Immediately after crossing the Loire when the temperature after four months finally drops below twenty degrees they go all stiff and painful again. All summer I have been able to walk miles. Clamber up hills and steep village paths and all of a sudden despite being three stone lighter I’m back to square one. I have decided that I have to spend the rest of my life below forty five degrees south. How I achieve this is yet to be decided!

We spend a night slightly inland from the coast at Reville where there is a lovely little Farm Aire de Camping Car which takes just seven vans. It’s very similar to the rural Caravan Club Certified Location (CL) sites we love back home. For seven Euros you get electricity and all services. We have only opted to stay a night there as we are not doing too many miles so the battery needs charging and as the fridge still doesn’t work on gas we need to cool stuff. Well the truth is I want a drink and I’m not drinking warm Leffe!

The night on the Aire doesn’t pass without incident as once again the Belgians get on our nerves. Now I’m the last person to generalise but we are seeing a pattern here. A Belgian van pulls in next to us. There is plenty of space on the Aire so he is a good distance away that even the Caravan Club with their 1999 rules regarding “outfit” parking would be proud of. He is about eighty and looks a bit like Father Christmas, has a warm friendly face and we immediately like him. Now I like a bit of loud music but it seems old St Nick is into Drum and Bass! On goes his ICE system full wack! We assume at first he’s been trying to tune into the Belgian equivalent of Radio 3 and pressed the wrong dial but no it stays on. It’s so loud our windows vibrate. What do you do? We turn the telly up and ignore it. An hour later he goes out for a walk. Ah! We think, it will go off now. Nope. He takes Drum and Bass dog with him but leaves the flipping music on! That’s it! On his return I am outside having a fag and he comes up all smiles to say hello. As politely as I can I suggest his music is a little loud but surprisingly current for such an old duffer. I don’t say the last bit but it is what I’m thinking. He looks surprised but I can’t believe it isn’t the first time. He isn’t deaf as he understands me perfectly, smiles, says OK and off he goes. The music goes off and his van goes dark. I feel bad now.

We manage a night right under the beams of the lighthouse at Gatteville le Phare which is awesome. Standing out in the dark at midnight watching the stars and the four beams rotating and stretching for miles is magical. It’s a Fishermans paradise and at all hours there are little head torches bobbing about on the rocks. Rather them than me as its freezing!

We have a day visiting the war memorials we haven’t seen before including Utah Beach, St Mere Eglise and several gun batteries. It still never ceases to amaze me the sacrifices made by so many in order for us to enjoy our Freedom. The scale of the D Day landings is just incredible. The logistics and how they kept it all a secret are just unbelievable.

A Close encounter

The other side of Cherbourg up to Cap de La Hague is even wilder.It’s totally exposed to the westerly weather of the Atlantic but that doesn’t stop us spending a night rather too close to another wonderful beach near St Germain des Vaux. Having the bike is a must for searching for wild camping spots as you can scout down all the little lanes that motorhomes probably don’t want to bother with out of fear of getting stuck and we find a blinder at the end of what appears to be a lane leading nowhere. It’s pretty much on the beach and completely hidden from the main road half a mile away. It turns out to be a tad too close to the beach!

As darkness falls I’m sat in the back of the van browsing the motorhome facts forum (www.motorhomefacts.com) on my phone when there is a post warning of force ten gales in the Irish Sea and Bay of Biscay. That’s not exactly where we are but not a million miles away. The wind picks up and the tide and waves start to rush in. After a while I start to worry about how close we are to the sea. The track we are on is just a couple of feet above the beach where the sea is now crashing so close the van shakes with every roller. I even consult the Cherbourg tide tables on Google. I find this a strange thing to do as the clever and easiest thing would have been to just drive off and park somewhere else. But no, for some reason we would rather stand our ground on our newly found wild camping spot and risk being washed away than just move up the road.

I even know from experience that a spring tide combined with a storm surge frequently puts two of ou favourite wild spots in Scotland under several feet of water but still we don’t move. High tide at Cherbourg ten miles away is 23:34 and I remember from many moons ago when taking my RYA Skippers Certificate that ten miles wont amount for a great deal of difference. So at 23:34 I have a last fag and despite the fact that when the waves crash I can feel the spray I convince myself that by my calculations it will be on its way out shortly so we forget about it and go to bed

In the morning there is seaweed around the van wheels that must have been flicked up the bank by the waves but apart from that the van appears to be intact and still in the same place. So there you go.All that time spent at sailing college wasn’t wasted!

They think it’s all over! It is now.

As I write this we are back on the beach at Fermanville. The ferry is all booked for tomorrow afternoon and it hasn’t really sunk in that it’s all over. We should feel devastated, sad and filled with dread about going home but we don’t really. How could we? Whatever we decide to do with the rest of our lives I think we both know something has changed forever and this won’t be the last of our adventures. Even if we were never lucky enough to do this again, what superb memories we have, stories to tell and reminiscing to do on cold dark winter nights.

Already, looking back it just feels like we had a whole summer filled with Sunshine and fun where it was shorts and flip flops every day and not a care in the world. Even now I can vividly hear the cacophony of sound on the beach on the lake at St Croix de Verdon or smile when I think of the whole of France on holiday trying to canoe down L’Ardeche River at the same time. I can laugh at my Vertigo looking down at the wonder that is the Verdon Gorges and I could never forget the beauty and huge alpine vistas around every corner in Switzerland.Days like the day we rowed around Lake Orta in Italy another undiscovered gem can never be forgotten and are priceless memories.

Drama as usual was never far away though but even the dramas can be looked back upon with a smile. The Stellplatz killer though scary at the time is now something we laugh about. The day I rowed eight miles in a kid’s rubber dinghy under a blazing hot sun to buy a present for Michelle and nearly copped it. The nightmare Aire at St Tropez, being buried in the surf in the med and saving a badly injured cyclist from certain death and then being questioned about it like it was my fault are all somehow interesting if not fond memories to look back on.Motorhoming adventures are anything but predictable. If predictable is what you’re after, book a package holiday.

I don’t even want to think about the real financial cost of this trip as it really will make me cry but for sure the travelling bug is in us both now and will never go away and for me writing about it also. I have enjoyed writing this blog immensely. I think however it’s time to spread our wings and fly further afield and hopefully for much longer. Countries we have heard little about beckon. The world is a big place and we want to see it all so I will close this chapter and end our little story with the very apt quote from Mark Twain on our home page. Thanks for reading and do get in touch!!

"Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn't do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbour. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover." -Mark Twain

Foot note and disclaimer. We would like to say that no Foreigners were harmed in the course of this adventure. We would like to say it but we can’t be sure. All the characters and events in this story including Mrs D are real and she is here of her own free will despite claims from her family that I kidnapped her. Despite the constant referrals to Leffe Beer throughout this blog we have no association with InBev Belgium who produce this wonderful product but are looking for sponsors for the next adventure which will be huge! Belgium is of course a wonderful country and our comments about its citizens are purely in jest for comic effect as we know how they like a joke.

Your statutory rights are not affected

Parked at Plaine Joux

View from front of the van

Looking back down the valley

Mont Blanc is in there somewhere

Annecy

Annecy

Annecy

Honker

Our place on the Aire at the Farm

Annecy

Annecy

Idiot rowing boat

Trigance near the Verdon Gorges

Trigance Aire

View from Trgance Aire

Start of the Verdon Gorges

Verdon Gorges

Verdon Gorges

Verdon Gorges

Nutters in the Verdon Gorges

Vulture

Verdon Gorges

St Croix

Lac St Croix

Me on the Voyage taken by Michelle from the van window

If you want a private beach and peace and Quiet in August get a boat dear boy!

St Croix and the lake from higher up.

Lac St Croix

Dancing outside the Marie

ci

And the experts showing how its done.

Stop eating chips or you will never look like Daniel Craig!

Lac St Croix

The Pent House spot on the Aire

The Aire

Still not quite Daniel Craig!

Le French Village

And Another

Cooling off

The only way to get air out of the bottom bit (the boat that is)

Le Chocolate Mousse!

The Aire with us at pole position on the left and the Mash Up towards the back

Water baby

Solitude

Verdon Gorges mountains in the background taken from the lake

The bridge that takes you away from St Croix

St Tropez Beach

Nice little boat

And a couple more posers

Port Grimaud near St Tropez, supposed to be like Venice but nothing like it!

My next boat?

Michelle at Port Grimaud

St Tropez

Yacht Mash Out. Silly sods.

The scooter is king in St Tropez

Port Grimaud

Port Grimaud

The good old French Market. Superb!

Hank on the Aire at Gordes. Space and peace and Quiet!

Gordes Market

Gordes

Ochre cliffs

Ochre houses

L'Isle Sur La Sorque

What did the Romans ever do for us? The Aquaduct?

Pont De Gard

Pont De Avignon

Popes Palace Avignon

Michelle at Avignon

Little Lake we swam in

The little Aire at Pont De Arc

Pont De Arc

August madness in the L'Ardeche Gorges at Pont de Arc

L'Ardeche Gorges

L'Ardeche Gorges

Early morning wash for me

Florac

Hmm. I always wanted a convertible. Gorges Du Tarn

Gorges Du Tarn

Cascade

Arty picture of the Cascade taken from underneath in the boat.

St Rome de Tarn

St Rome de Tarn and Hank in the middle

The Tarn from the boat

St Rome de Tarn

Filling up the Tarn French style

Millau Viaduct. Tallest bridge in the world

Pareloup

Pareloup

Me rowing up the finger at Pareloup. The water is very low.

Deflating the dinghy

Broquies

Brousse le Chateau near the aire at Broquies

Brousse le Chateau

The aire at someones house st Segur (Well it looks like it is)

The Aire at Saint Eulalie D'Olt

Saint Eulalie D'Olt

Me talking to the locals

Hmm

Saint Eulalie D'Olt

Saint Eulalie D'Olt

Saint Eulalie D'Olt

Saint Eulalie D'Olt

Estaing

ACDC Moment

Estaing

Entraygues Sur Truyere

Entraygues Sur Truyere

Entraygues Sur Truyere

Entraygues Sur Truyere

Bozouls

The Secret Aire

Belcastel

Belcastel

Belcastel

The author hard at work at Castenet (no Belgians)

Najac

Aire at Montiels

Cordes Sur Ciel

Aire at Rayssac

Lac Du Lauzas

More rowing

Tbe short lived Kingdom of Kontiki

View at sunset from the van

Carving it up in the pool

Lying about in the pool

Sete

The Med

Agde Beach

Sunset on the Med

Cap D'Agde

Cap D'Agde

Crap campsite

Herault river mouth, Le Grau D'Agde

Le Grau D'Agde

Cap D'Agde

Where we left the Sat Nav all afternoon

Canal Du Midi round lock. Boring

Canal De Midi

Carcassone

Carcassone

Carcassone

Carcassone

New Aire at Fources

Fources

Fources

Aire at Fources and bend lamp

Yes I thought there were only three musketeers as well

Spot the funny hotel name

Another free and empty Aire

Bastide

Biron

Biron

Biron

Another Bastide

Scared after Stag horror

Wonderful Sarlat Market. CHEESE!!!

Dordogne

Dordogne

Dordogne

Dordogne

Dordogne

Dordogne

Municipal at St Leon St Vezere

Our pitch on the empty campsite

My pool

Pool

Yellow Belly on the campsite lake before sinking

Wild spot Lac de Causson

Lac Feyt

Lac Feyt

Lac Feyt

Lac Feyt

One way to see the Dordogne

The Lobsters and Hank the Tank booze up meet

It is not WINTER!!

Aire at Bouchemaine

Deserted as everyone did a runner

Angers

What makes us laugh! Easy pleased

Free Aire by lake at Plouance

Lake Plouance

On the way up into Normandy, Le Mont St Michel