France Tour 2006

We had planned it. We had planned it probably more than anything else in our lives recently. We had spent a little time online, finding the cheapest ferry crossing. No matter that we needed to get down to Dover the night before, and then get up at 3am to make sure we were on time for the 5am ferry – we HATE to be late for anything. At last, our holiday was here.

We left home mid-afternoon, and had an uneventful trip down to Dover.

Having parked up on the seafront (thanks for the tips, MHF members),we strolled into town, and found a pub which didn’t look like “The Slaughtered Lamb” from “American Werewolf in London”, nor looked like they would have to search high and low for anything that wasn’t an alcopop. A couple of pints and a large red wine, and we were peckish. Oh, how I wish we’d shared one packet of greasy fish and chip instead of having one each. Annie was sensible, and ditched a lot of hers in the bin. I was a pig, and ate all of mine. And it sat there on my stomach for the rest of the evening, a huge weight of congealed seagull dripping and reconstituted fast food potato.

I was a little bothered by a smell of gas in the wardrobe cupboard, and did lay awake some of the night wondering if I was still smelling gas, if it was getting worse, if it was my shoes I was smelling, and if we’d wake up in the morning, and if we didn’t, how many parking tickets we’d get before someone thought there might be something wrong.

My phone alarm duly woke us at 3, and Seafrance saw us safely across the water on the good ship “Belize” – looking like a recent member of the fleet. A French version of a full English breakfast for me, and something marginally less unappetising for Annie. I dunno, but I seem to like almost any food, especially when I don’t have to have any part in buying, cooking, or washing up after it.

TomTom welcomed us to France by trying to tell us the wrong way through Calais dockyards. She was quiet for a while afterwards – perhaps a sign of things to come. You would have thought by now that they’d have stopped Gladys (for this is the name I sometimes give to the lady trapped inside that little box), speaking until you were on the open road – then she wouldn’t get so upset.

When she did start again, she was merrily telling us to “keep left in 800 metres”, as she does. We changed our minds a few times about where we wanted to go. In hindsight, this was, perhaps, not a good thing to do.

The lack of sleep from the night before started to take its toll. We consulted maps, we consulted Gladys, and we headed for an Aire de Camping near Cayaux-sur-Mer. We fancied some fresh sea air, which we got, but not until we’d skirted a gyspy encampment, and bobbled down the bumpiest wobbliest tarmac track I’d ever seen. Gladys by now had given up talking to us, happy in the knowledge she’d done her job and taken us to the place we’d asked for.

The Aire, when we got there, was flat hard-standing, with a service point (€6 from the campsite next door), and the driver (me) managed to get his head down for a couple of hours.

We didn’t fancy staying there, so we had a cup of tea, and prodded Gladys into life. “Battery low” she flashed. Strange, since she’d been sitting happily on her perch all morning. We set a course for Rouen, and drank our tea.

Road to Rouen

The road to Rouen isn’t, well, paved with gold or summat, but Gladys wasn’t there to see us take it. Having happily plotted the course, she refused to power up. Dead. Nothing. Nada. I’d read somewhere that they needed resetting sometimes. I poked various thin, pokey things into the hole on the front (that being the only hole visible), but to no effect. We didn’t have the mains charger (why would we need it?), we didn’t have the manual (ditto), so we were stumped. I found it was difficult to get it to sit on its charger properly, which may have been a fault since we’d bought it. Who knows? Without any signs of life from the thing, and any obvious means of support, we were stuck. Back to Annie and the maps.

We navigated south, looking for warmer weather. Round Rouen, and heading towards Bordeaux. Time was getting on, and we didn’t fancy trying to find somewhere to stay if the impending storm clouds broke, so we hopped off the motorway at Bernay, and headed for Camping Municipale. Well-signposted, friendly welcome, and beautiful pitches. We booked an extravagant two nights, set up, hooked up (used the polarity changing cable to make Annie feel safer), and cracked open a beer and a bottle of wine.

I looked at the TomTom again. Gladys was silent, the display was blank, and I had no idea what was wrong. I had read somewhere (could it have been the MotorhomeFacts forum?) that when someone had updated their TomTom software, they needed to do a reset to make it work again. So obviously, there was a hidden reset button somewhere. Well, where else would it be but behind that tiny little hole in the front panel? I started the hunt for something small enough to prod inside it. Eventually, I used a key ring, which I unbent using a pair of pliers, and prodded away. I prodded it on its own. I prodded it and held down the “on” button. I held down the “on” button, and prodded the button. I tried everything. I was concerned that I couldn’t feel any button action – more a rubbery “squish”. I gave up. I may have sulked a bit. We had neither mains charger, “how it works” booklet, nor manual on CD. A deep depression settled over the van, both inside and out. Not a good start to our holidays. Not a disaster either, but a shame.

I then thought about the green light, which would sometimes come on, and sometimes not. It would seem to me to be sensible to have the light on when it was charging. Logical. I checked the output of the TT cigarette lighter adapter, and it was happily putting out the 5volts DC that the label said it should. I fiddled around with it (scientifically appraising the mounting and connection status, obviously), and learned that there is more than a little bit of knackery in getting the TT to sit properly on its mount, and make proper contact with the charger, all at the same time. I managed to find a position where I could set it down, green light on, hopefully charging.

Outside, in the real world, the rain came down, it cleared up, then the rain came down again. It looked like the weather might be set for the night, so we settled down, and had our tea.

Lo and behold, another (British) Pollensa turned up, and pitched next to us. Norman came over and cheerfully introduced himself and his wife Sandra, and we shared a beer over discussions regarding weather, beer, wine and AutoSleepers. He kindly invited us over to his van for evening drinks.

After tea, when my mind was obviously functioning better, I turned my attention to the Tom Tom again. There must be a proper reset button somewhere. I lifted up rubber feet, I looked in, out, upside down, everywhere. I gazed at the power connector, and noticed that the plastic moulding was a slightly different shape to one side. More than that, enclosed by its ‘misshapenness’ was a circular dot, looking for all the world like a reset button. Which my opened-out keyring would not go anywhere near. I trotted to the reception area for the campsite, and spoke to the Madame. What to ask for? “Quand vous prenez deux pieces de papier?” She looked at me quizzically, smiled, and gave me a piece of paper from her printer. “Non, peut-etre deux pieces de papier,” and before she could reach for another sheet, I drew with my finger on her desk a curly shape. “Comme ca,” I said, as though it was now obvious. It wasn’t. She opened out her desk drawer, and I gazed at the usual desk drawer paraphernalia, without a single paper clip in sight. “Non,” I said, helpfully. She then opened the tiny drawer above it, in which she kept her pens, pencils and … paper clips. “Ah oui,” I said, grabbing one of the curled wires as though it would save my life. “Aahhhhh,” she said, as only the French can. “Trombone.” “Trombone?” I repeated, and then made a pathetic movement with my arm, realising that it was called a trombone simply because it looked like one. Quel surprise?

To cut an already long and tedious story down from a further extension, I straightened out the ‘trombone’, poked the circular thingee, and a little burst of tom toms announced that Gladys had been given the kiss of life by the pointy end of a trombone, and she was back with us. Our holiday (and marriage?) was saved!

Gassing up

Very strange goings on in the Pollensa wardrobe. During discussions with Norman, it transpired that we both have suffered leaks in the gas manifold. He’d fixed his, I’d worked out that it was the feed to the cooker that was leaking in ours. Norman very kindly offered to come over with his toolbox in the morning and have a look for us. I would have carried on, turning on the isolating valve to cook, and turning it off again afterwards (as long as I remembered). Norman said that we were the only AutoSleepers van he’d seen in his travels throughout France. Spooky, huh?

After a lovely evening, spent discussing motorhomes, education (both Norman and Sandra had been / were in education, as were Annie and I), and the stuff of life, we retired at about 11pm.

After a good sleep, without any dreams of propane gas poisoning, we woke at 7.30. Showers were taken, and the bread man arrived, bearing gifts of baguettes and croissants and “roules chocolate” – a pastry wheel with custardy stuff and chocolate bits. A yummy breakfast, although probably not that good for my waistline.

Norman came over, toolbox in hand, and set about the gas manifold. It turns out there was a major leak from the cooker outlet (which we knew about), and a more minor leak from the manifold inlet. Both of which he’d suffered on his Pollensa. This was strange indeed. Both were fixed of two spanners and some weak washing up liquid mixture.

Tour de Bernay

Many thanks, Norman, and we swapped addresses and phone numbers. They left to continue their journey home, and we cycled off towards town. Down the big steep hill, a quick wander around some shops, and a foray into Intermarche to get some vital bits, and then it was the steep climb back up again. One of our purchases was a mains kettle – something we’d thought about, but dismissed. But when you might be living off two bottles of British gas, with no chance of exchange, you learn that you should conserve this precious commodity if at all possible.

Then – how do we plug a French plug into a UK socket? All the adapters we had went ‘the other way’. I tried a shaver adapter, which worked mechanically, and electrically for probably about half a second, before the 1amp fuse blew. Merde!

Time for a spot of lunch, and a bit of a chill out, until it was ‘time to do something.’ I chose a walk into town, which enabled me to visit the newsagent, and purchase a copy of “Le Monde Du Cammping Car” – full of glossy pictures of the latest models. Which is a strange thing. All of the brief overviews of the motorhomes included an almost obligatory damsel, draped over a settee, lounging on a fixed double bed, or helpfully opening a cupboard in the kitchen. I looked in vain for a picture of her emptying the cassette toilet, or winding in the hookup cable in the rain, when it’s covered in mud. Perhaps it’s not important to these people – better to show a kitchen cupboard, or what a fixed bed looks like.

We wandered around the town, and walked up the hill overlooking the town centre, and then down again, pausing to take pictures of two cats on a windowsill, thus allowing some ne’er do well to fire pellets of some kind at us. Plus ca change, and all that.

Back to the campsite, and it was time for tea. Whilst Annie cooked, I messed around with the bikes. In their previous arrangement, the kitchen window couldn’t be opened, because the bikes, and bits of the Fiamma rack, got in the way. Well, actually, they allowed the window to be opened, but didn’t allow it to open further to release the stays so it could be closed again, thus necessitating the unscrewing of the stays from the window frame. Needless to say, I struggled and adjusted and fiddled and faffed with the various lumps of bike and rack, until the window could be opened, and more importantly, shut again afterwards.

Journey South (yes, The X-Factor is back on our screens)

Up bright and early, with showers and whatnot, ready for the baker when he arrived at 8am. Fresh croissants and baguettes consumed and stored for later, off to the grey water dump, and we were on our way at 8.30.

Checking the TomTom again (just to make sure it was still working), we decided it needed a French name, and a French voice. We eventually decided on Catherine, because she was French, she wasn’t as stern as the blokes, and she had a nice name. Annie thinks that I’m more likely to follow the strict instructions from a female voice, me being used to it an’ all. She might well be right.

A brief stop for a cup of tea, a splash of diesel, a stop for lunch and an hour’s kip, but we still arrived at a small village close to Les Sables D’Olonne, in the sunny Vendee region by lunchtime. Sunny, it wasn’t. Gusting cross and headwinds, and frequent showers, made driving less than pleasurable.

We were looking for a France Passion site in the village of Le Chapelle Achand. We (or should I say, Catherine) found the village, and proudly announced “Vous etes arrives a votre destination”, which was sort of true. She didn’t know anything about any France Passion site in the vicinity, despite having been loaded with them before leaving Blighty. So we followed the directions in the book, and the tiny signs on the roadside, which always seem to disappear at an important intersection.

Blindly (Catherine had now fallen silent, presumably resting because she’d achieved her arduous task of taking us down a few motorways, and getting lost in a non-existent industrial estate, following signs for an Intermarche supermarket), we drove slowly down winding lanes, turned right, and we were in a farmyard, with a hand-made sign indicting where the accueil (reception) was. I waved our France Passion card, managed to make a pig’s ear of asking her where we should actually park, and she pointed in the same direction as a tiny France Passion sign on the tarmac, which I hadn’t seen, and we were in a small field, with picnic benches, close-cut grass, and a goat.

The goat, whom we later called “Little Billy”, on account of “Big Billy” sharing the paddock next door with two ponies, was very interested in our arrival, bringing him his tea. Not quite as interested as the little tortoiseshell cat which marched across from the house behind the paddock with determination. The cat, who was called “Gatto” for a while until Annie realised we were in France, not Italy, became a friend for life when Annie produced some cheese from the fridge. The goats and ponies enjoyed the apples, produced from the same place.

We decided to check out the small farm shop, where the lady of the farm informed us we were allowed to take a tour to see the deer. We piled in to a makeshift trailer, and the farmer took us and a few other willing volunteers about half a mile down a farm track to an enclosure, where he kept approximately 80 deer, of various ages. One stag deer still had his antlers. There was a long discussion between the farmer and the other tourists, most of which we couldn’t catch. Odd words sprang out, and we gathered that deer less than 3kg in the autumn struggled to survive the winter. I thought he said the oldest deer was 98, but I think I may have (literally) misinterpreted.

We dutifully visited the farm shop again, but we managed to resist the temptation to buy some venison, or a lovely coat rack made from deer feet. The deer skins, also, stayed in the shop. We did, however, buy a jar of confit de onion, to have with our lunch in the next few days.

After dining al fresco on pasta with mushroom and cheese sauce sans venison, we read, after a while realising that “Little Billy” had somehow found his way back inside the paddock, and was happily reunited with “Big Billy”.

High Plains Drifter (or – sniffing out the Cognac)

A good evening’s sleep saw us up and away by 8.30 the next morning.

Norman’s suggestion of Cognac for a destination, with a campsite next to the river, sounded just the business. Once out on the autoroute, we cruised at a steady 65 mph, although the crosswinds were still a trial. We arrived at Cognac, and attempted to navigate our way through the city, following signs to Centre Ville and then following the little signs to the 3* campsite. We found it OK, and indeed it was next to the river, heavily wooded (i.e. lots of shade), with flat emplacements.

Annie decided we deserved a nice campsite break, so we booked 3 nights. Such decadence!

However, the first spot she found for us was too close to the main road, with screaming mopeds and nihilistic trucks flashing by every few seconds. I also discovered that the mains outlet used the standard domestic-type round plug. Now, I’d half prepared for this, having brought a spare blue plug and cable, but of course you can’t buy French mains plugs in England – well, not at our local B&Q you can’t.

So, summoning up my best French accent, I went and asked for another pitch. When she asked why, I told her “the road, the road” – which was probably close enough to an explanation for her to understand, and give us the pitch furthest away from “the road, the road”. I also explained the problem with the electricity. “I need to buy a connector,” I said. She showed me the way to a Mr. Bricolage – a sort of upmarket B&Q, like Homebase but with more stuff – on a map. It looked easy enough.

We moved the van to pitch 30C (which looked like “JOE” upside down), which was much quieter, and had a view of the river.

A bits and pieces lunch, and then it was time. “Fancy a stroll to the hardware shop?” I asked in all innocence. To be honest, the response was more “if we must” than a “fantastic idea, darling – let’s go.”

So we walked, and we walked. Up the main road with the mopeds and lorries and assorted lunatics, to the top of the hill, and then down towards the town. It was about this time that I thought about getting the map out and checking for shortcuts through the back streets. It was very shortly after that I realised I’d left all three maps of Cognac in the van. And it was shortly after that when it started to rain. Not good.

With hindsight, we should have turned back and got the van. With hindsight. Because at the time, it seemed to me that Mr.B was “just down this road a bit and to the left.” That’s what my memory of the map told me. So down this road, and the next one, a bit to the left, then a bit to the right because it was a dead-end, and we hit the main road. No sign of Mr.B. There were hundreds of signs to everything else, but not that.

We sheltered under a shop awning for a few moments, and I popped into an antique shop to ask for directions. I’d obviously disturbed his lunch, which wasn’t a problem if I was going to buy one of his pieces of old tat. It was a problem if I was a dripping English person asking directions to a shop which was miles away. However, he was, like nearly all French people, pleasant enough.

Long story short, and we walked, and it rained, and it threw it down, and we got soaked. We got to the industrial estate where Mr.B was. “Right at the roundabout” said the sign. We turned right at the roundabout. Hurrah! We could see it. On the other side of a huge main road. And the only way to get there was to walk further down, round a few more roundabouts, and then back on ourselves.

The good news was that they had the offending plug (€2.30). The bad news was that we now had to walk all the way back. Yes, I did look at the bus timetable, and we could have caught a bus to somewhere (God knows where we would have ended up) if we were prepared to wait an hour and a half. You see, that’s the thing about out-of-town shops. They’re designed to be driven to, not walked to. So tortuous road layouts and lack of pavements and paths through the seedier side of town are not normally a problem.

Anyway, after about 3 hours walking in total, we got back to the campsite, and while Annie went to the shower block to have a wash, I set to making up the lead with my new connector. Just before I did that, I thought that I should check the hookup post – just in case I’d bought the wrong connector. Wouldn’t that be a hoot?

Five minutes later, we had hookup, and the fridge was switched over, and the hot water immersion was on, as was the electric kettle. Annie was pleased. And I have the connector ready for next time, because the mains post on our new plot had a standard blue connector, and I could plug right in. The trip to Mr. Bricolage wasn’t necessary after all. Don’t tell Annie, will you?

Anyhow, we were a bit unimpressed with the campsite, and resolved to move on the next day.

Looking for Passion

Despite having not pre-ordered our bread, Annie managed to prise a loaf and a couple of croissants out of the little campsite shop, se we enjoyed breakfast. Showers were so-so, and we dumped our grey water at the back of the pitch, next to the wood (there was no grey water dump that we could find), emptied the Thetford cassette in the proper place, and filled a thirsty Polly up with water. We were off again.

Less than an hour later, we were at Chateauneuf-sur-Charente, following signs for the Super-U supermarket. We were able to stock up on food and a battery-powered camping light. And another Camping Car magazine – this one called Evasion Camping-Car. “A new look at the Camping Car, it trumpets, and at issue no.2, could I have a collector’s edition? Something tells me I need to get the back issue no.1 before I can truly start my collection. Obsessive? Not me.

Now, to find the France Passion site – a certain Ferme de Bagatelle. The directions didn’t match the roads we were seeing in front of us, Catherine knew nothing about it again, so we followed our nose into the centre of town. Bad move. Because Saturday, as everyone knows around here, is market day. We trundled slowly around the town square, funny looks abounding, and the width of the already narrow road being made narrower by the haphazard parking of cars. At one point, we felt the need to drag in the mirrors, and open windows so we could check clearances between us and other vehicles. No mishaps, fortunately, and once again I was glad we have one of the smaller coachbuilts on the market. Remind me never to consider buying an RV.

Out of town, and we stopped at a Citroen garage to ask for directions. I thought I was doing very well at following the “droits” and “gauches” until the man I was speaking to asked if I was English. He then proceeded to tell me the directions again, to my ears, totally differently, and to tell me he was a professeur of English. Well, I’m glad he was because despite missing the obvious signs twice, we found the site. Lovely flat field, chickens and goats to the side, and we were more than happy to buy some of their goats cheese, honey and wine. What more could we wish for?

Quelle Domage?

The morning dawned bright and clear. A few wispy clouds wandered around in the sky, as if with nothing more important to do. A slow breakfast meant we were on our way at around 9am. Late, for us.

We didn’t get far. Out of the farm, 100 metres down the road, and I heard and felt something which can only be described as a flat tyre. Unwilling to stop on a sharp bend, I continued to drive until I could stop safely (or should we say, marginally less dangerously?) some 50 metres further on. “Something not right,” I said. I hopped out of the van, to find the offside rear tyre flat. Very flat. Bugger.

So we, or rather Annie, flew into action, retrieving the emergency kit bought from Aldi, and I could then trot back up the road, reflective jacket half on, and unpacking the warning triangle. This, I would guess, would have fitted in nicely in Batman’s seemingly unending arsenal of gizmos hanging from his utility belt. It had legs and arms in abundance, but somehow it all fell into place, and it stood proudly on its four legs, warning everyone approaching that we were strangers in a foreign land, and in trouble.

Out with the vehicle toolkit, which looked distinctly unused whilst Annie repeatedly waved people past, to stop them from asking if we needed help. “Should we call the Green Flag people?” Annie asked. “No, not a problem”, I replied. Anyone can change a tyre, for God’s sake. Managed to get the spare tyre down off its little cradle under the back of the van, and only drew blood once. Things were looking good. I even found a place for the jack to go in the chassis, and I cut the cable tie holding the wheel trim on. Easy.

Wheel nut spanner, reassuringly large and hefty. Good fit to wheel nut. Press. Push. Heave. Stand. Jump. Bugger. The damned nut refused to move. We were stuffed. Had it not been for good old Green Flag. Note to self and others – before you call any emergency service, make sure you know a) what the problem is b) where you are and c) what the contact number is you’re calling from. I failed on two of these counts. I knew the problem, right enough, and was able to describe it clearly. Andrew asked for our location. Apart from typing Chateau Neuf as two words in his computer, rather than Chateauneuf, we were home and dry. Exact location was a problem at this time. Annie had the “France Passion” book out, and I recited the road number. On which side of town we were, I had no idea. Andrew said it wasn’t a problem, which it probably wasn’t to him. The number of Annie’s mobile phone is on my mobile phone, which couldn’t be located since it doesn’t work in France, and had been stored at the back of a locker. The number was, of course, on Annie’s phone, which I was using at the time. I phoned the number back to him after a few seconds.

And so we waited. We took it in turns to direct traffic, whilst the one not on traffic duty did a Sudoku puzzle. And then we swapped. See? What fun you can have. We politely declined offers of help from any number of people who stopped, including the Brummie couple who were driving a French registered Citroen. Thank you, whoever you are. It was all, more or less, in hand.

I got a chair out from the van, and we took it in turns to wave the passing motorists by, with a universal thumbs up signal to indicate that everything was in hand. Well, it was, wasn’t it? We’d phoned, and Andrew said they were on their way. He couldn’t guarantee their usual one-hour response, because, “well, it’s France.” Yes. Indeed.

As the two hour mark approached, I was nervously fidgeting with the phone. I’d give them two hours, and then offer my mate Andrew further clues as to our location, which had come to light since I’d remembered them. Funny how these things come back to you once you’re not under so much pressure.

A white Renault saloon stopped on the other side of the road. A swarthy man jumped out of the car with a large wheelnut spanner waving in his hand. He proffered his other hand. “Nous attendons Sarl Inter Depannage” I said, in my best French, indicating we were waiting for the breakdown truck. He shook my hand. Rather than a huge breakdown truck, amber lights flashing like there’s no tomorrow, and able to life our stricken van with a single tug of its hydraulic arm, we had a man with a wheelnut spanner, in an aging white Renault with the engine running. And the spanner didn’t fit.

He assessed the situation in an instant. The wheel nuts wouldn’t budge. He tried, with our spanner. Then he used the jack under the arm of the spanner to get extra purchase. That didn’t work. Finally, I opened the lounge and bathroom windows, and he hung off the side of the van, jumping up and down on the arm of the spanner. No pneumatic gun sockets for him. Eventually, it moved. Well, it had to. He was a big man.

Wheel nuts were slackened, the jack was inserted, and the van ratcheted up, slowly but surely. And we had an observer. A man, of at least eighty, with a stainless steel bowl, had come to watch the proceedings, and talk to the wheel changing man. What they said, I have no idea. It was all very fast, and in dialect. But they were both very jolly. I supposed it gave them something to do on a Sunday morning when everything else is shut.

Cutting another long story short, he changed our wheel for us, helped me get the knackered wheel onto the spare wheel carrier, and Annie gave him €10 for a drink. I dread to think how much they will charge Green Flag for their emergency callout, but we were extremely glad of it, and were soon on our way again. I twitched at every bump and hump in the road for 20km or more, until I felt I could trust the spare tyre to support its share of the 2 tonne load on the back axle. Frightening.

Annie thought we should steer clear of farms for a while, so we headed for a big town that might have a tyre we could buy (tomorrow, obviously, since most of France closes on a Sunday) – we chose Royan. Poor old Catherine was prodded many times, plotting and replotting routes as we changed our minds about where we should stay.

At one point, we passed a little stall in the middle of nowhere, selling moules and fruit. Annie said she was sure she’d seen some bread, and as France has slightly less liberal Sunday trading laws than us, and everywhere, but everywhere was closed, we turned round. We were able to buy a beautiful-looking brioche with raisins, which we duly demolished en route.

Eventually, we landed up at Cozes, and a campsite called Le Bois Roland. Beautiful campsite, and the weather seemed to be looking a bit better for us. Note to self and others – don’t expect to turn up at a French campsite between midday and 3pm on a Sunday and find someone to speak to. They’re shut.

Our quest wasn’t helped by the road signs directing us to the back gate of the campsite. No sign saying “This is the back gate. Try driving round to the front gate – here’s a map.” We prodded the numbers on the electronic entry system, we pushed on gates. Without any luck. Eventually, I managed to sneak in when someone was driving out, and followed the directions to the Acceuil. Shut. Open again at 15h. 3pm, to us. Ah well.

I returned to the back gate, and discovered another problem. You needed an electronic pass to get out. Even as a pedestrian. And no one was exiting at the moment. So I had to walk through the campsite again, and then round from the main entrance, all the way round the campsite by road, and back to where the van was.

To be honest, once we’d driven in the main entrance, someone spotted us, let us in through the barrier, and told us to find our place, and then come back when reception was open. This was the best thing, since we could roam around the campsite on foot, and check out which parts were quiet and away from the young lads camping. We found a great spot, in amongst a load of chalets and static caravans.

I had to make up the special French adapter plug for real, this time, and eventually found a socket which was live, and then inserted the reverse polarity cable, and we were live. A bit of a convoluted connection, but it worked.

A lovely swimming pool beckoned, and we swam for a while, and then basked in the sun for a while. Annie made a lovely dinner of sardines and tomatoes / aubergine / farm goats cheese. And some bread she’d found at the campsite shop earlier. And we chilled. Later on, we strolled around the campsite on a very pleasant evening.

Important tasks await.

Another lovely morning, and by the time we’d munched out way through some fairly stale pains au chocolate, it was time to sally forth and find a replacement tyre for the one which went kaput yesterday.

Firstly, I asked at the campsite reception if there was anywhere to buy new tyres nearby. Fortunately, the lady behind the desk thought she knew somewhere, which was confirmed by a man loitering around the reception area. “Under the LeClerc supermarket” they said.

I managed to remember to unplug the electric from the side of the van, and put out Maurice’s “Motorvan” sign, to indicate that the pitch was taken. That, and the fact we’d left our table and chairs out in the middle of it should ensure that no one pinched it whilst the van was away.

We found the LeClerc easy enough, but the “underneath” bit was of restricted height. “2.9m” it said, and it’s at times like this that you wish you knew how high your van was. I was pretty sure it was something like 3m from tyre to overcab, or was it a bit less? I decided to not take the risk, and parked it outside the area, and searched for the tyre place. It was actually the other side of the store, a “Feu Vert”. Why it should be called “Green Fire” I don’t know. Thinking about it afterwards, I think it might be “Green Light”, as a traffic lights is called a “feu”. Another anomaly solved.

We looked around the store, and saw that they did indeed do tyres of the correct size, as far as I could remember, as I hadn’t written down the size of the tyre. Durr. The man asked if he could help, I said I needed a tyre for a “camping car, sur le Peugeot Boxer.” Which should have been enough, but he then wandered outside to look for the van to check. I said the van was over the way. He asked if I could bring it across. Seemed a logical request. I complied.

Annie went off to LeClerc, and I brought the van round, and spoke to a different man, who said he could certainly supply a suitable tyre. He brought out what looked like an order pad. “Is it possible to do it today?” I asked, in my best French, with some concern. He vigourously shook his head, as thought it was the most preposterous thing to ask. “It’s a Pirelli tyre,” he said, as though that explained everything. I looked confused. “We sell Michelin.”

And that was the end of it. Not good enough for me.

“Can you fit a Michelin?” I was now beginning to be impressed with my command of the language – most people seemed to understand what I was babbling on about.

“Ce n’est pas possible,” he said. Bad news. It seems that they’re sticklers for the “same tyres on each axle” rule over here. Now I was getting a bit desperate. I didn’t want to have to wait around for two days (maybe more, who knew?) for a tyre to come in. AND it was €116 – about £80 or so if my simple maths was right, which sounded quite expensive. But ahah – it was a spare, therefore not on any axle. Now, by my logic, that would seem to imply that it should even more match the other four tyres, since it may be needed on either the front or the rear axle. But the tyre man could see a desperate foreigner on his holidays, or maybe a chance to earn a quick buck. We strode out to the van, I indicated where it was – in its holder, under the back. He asked, quite reasonably, if I could take the tyre out. “Pour moi, c’est tres dificile” I said, trying my best to look helpless, and indicated my sunbathing gear of shorts, singlet and sandals. He nodded. “Les clefs,” he demanded, and I handed over my keys.

Now, at this point, I wasn’t aware of the procedure. Should I wander off? Should I follow his disappearing back into the shop? Annie had returned, and I recounted the conversations. I then thought I should make sure we would be getting the tyre after all, so I returned to the shop. The man was furiously pressing buttons and clicking a mouse.

I don’t know if you’ve ever watched the procedure in a British tyre place for buying a tyre. It’s the same over there. They key in the necessary parameters – in our case, 195/70R15. That pretty much specifies the tyre. They then get screens-full of tyres, line by line, which they scroll through, seemingly searching for some secret key, some token, which says this is the tyre for you. I’ve watched this many times, and I think I know what they’re searching for. It’s the special column, hidden from my view, which says in big, bright letters, stuck to the monitor – PROFIT. I watched as line by line, seemingly endless 195/70R15’s went scrolling by, not deemed good enough for our CampingCar. In truth, he was searching through many identical lines, the only difference between them being customer gullibility factor. For God’s sake – they only sell Michelin tyres, I’ve specified what size and type and speed rating. How difficult can it be?

Eventually, he found a gullibility factor greater than 100%, and said “Oui – retournez a onze hours.” And that was it. We had an hour or so to kill.

We had a coffee in the pleasant café in LeClerc, and we read a copy of the Sunday Mirror, eager to read the headlines about two Big Brother contestants – full story on pages 2,3,4,5,6,8,12. Must be a big story. In the end, it wasn’t a big story, and I skipped to the back pages, and was surprised to see that the Premiership season had started. Round and round we go, plus ca change and all that.

We returned at 10.45, and there was a shiny new tyre under the rear of the van. Who knows what pressure it was pumped up to, or even what sort of tyre it was? It was black, it was round, and it seemed to have an awful lot of tread on it. Seems we’d been earmarked for the tractor tyre, then.

Back to the campsite, and no one had pinched our space, and I made a good job of parking her in between the trees again. I was watched by my elderly neighbour, who was raking leaves. He owned the static caravan to the side of us, and obviously took great pride in it. I started a conversation, asking if it was OK where I’d parked. I didn’t want to cause offence. He was more than happy with our position, and he shook my hand, and told me someone at some time in the past had parked a car and caravan across their plot, and had refused to move it. “Incroyable!” I remarked, and he seemed pleased that I was of a similar mind.

A cup of tea beckoned, and we sat and read for a while. Then it was time to cycle. So we did. Out through the small town, into the countryside, past and through fields of sunflowers, mainly, and corn and a few vineyards. The sun shone, and wind was light (until we turned round to come back), and it was altogether a pleasant experience. On our return journey, about the only place open in the town was the bar, so we stopped, and had a drink and a small carton of frites. We thought we’d earned it.

As the evening progressed, it got closer to “Lotto” time. There was an evening of Lotto planned at the campsite bar. Perhaps ‘bar’ should be in quotation marks. It was a small room, next to the swimming pool, which sold beer and soft drinks from two large fridges. Initially, my image of a campsite bar contained at least one beer pump, and a variety of other alcoholic drinks from chillers behind the counter. Oh, and crisps and possibly frites and pizza, if you’ve a mind. Still, it was a lovely quiet campsite, and you can’t expect someone to create and maintain a facility just for me. Shame, though.

We returned to the van, and had cups of tea, and then vin rose, and read and slept the afternoon away. Rain, light tippy-tapping on the roof, woke me, and I closed vents and rehung bikes.

We were going to enjoy a game of lotto at the bar, but we forgot, and drank more vin rose with our tea.

On the move, on the move, we’re on our way again.

Strange how songs stick in your mind, isn’t it?

Time to go. Once again, I’m a little vexed by the shortness of the grey water drain hose, which unclips and extends all of two inches away from the body of the van. I couldn’t be bothered to move the van even closer to the drain, so we did it like we did it before – drain into kitchen bowl, close tap, empty bowl, open tap – you get the idea. At least we were filling up with water at the same time.

Today’s destination was the beautifully-sounding Chauvigny, a little to the east of Poitiers. The Caravan Club book (personal recommendations only, not necessarily those of the august club itself) stated that the office was shut between 12 midday and 3.30pm. That’s what I call a lunchbreak. We pushed on a bit on good motorways and main roads, cruising at a heady 70mph sometimes. We arrived shortly after 11.30, to find that the office was actually open until 2pm, and opened again at 3pm. No peace for the wicked, obviously. Maybe the previous wardens got the sack for pushing the boundaries of the legendary French lunch hour. We got checked in, hooked up, and had lunch.

After a splendid lunch of bread and cheese and one of Annie’s special egg mayonnaises, we turned our eyes upward, and walked up the steep steps to the Medieval City of Chauvigny, dating back to the 11^th century, don’t you know. The usual crop of demolishments in the name of progress or religion, or both, meant that a lot of the medieval stuff had been replaced with bars and pizzerias, neither doing very good business. Maybe Tuesday is not a good day for the tourists in Chauvigny.

We wandered the narrow streets, trying to avoid being mown down by distinctly un-medieval Citroens or mopeds, probably carrying the pizzeria workers back to their lodgings in the town below. It was hot, and we felt the need to sit down and enjoy a beer at one of the medieval bars, where a slightly bored-looking medieval waitress served me a beer from a small bottle direct from the fridge (but tasty all the same), and Annie some cider in an earthenware goblet, the effect spoilt by the chips on the lip of the thing. It wasn’t worth complaining, since we just had the one, and went off again in search of something interesting.

Tuesday afternoon is not a good time for the sellers of traditional artisan fare, as an awful lot of the places selling this tat seemed to be closed. I would guess most of the artisans were off in the big city, working in banks or building societies or Offices de Tourism, moaning about the lack of money coming into the place.

One very good thing, however – les Geants de Ciel, which, from the brochure the lady at the campsite gave us, was something about birds. What it didn’t say was that les Geants were cormorants and eagles and Other Big Birds, taking off from within the remains of the ruined castle, wheeling and diving and soaring on the currents and thermals created by their lofty positions. It was quite awe-inspiring, and made us glad we hadn’t bothered to pay whatever Euros were required to watch them from benches within the castle, and listen to a commentary in French.

Back to the van, and reading continued. Annie had a hankering to look at the main town, through which we’d driven on our way in, so we walked the fifteen-minute walk and looked in shop windows, some of which were even open. A handily-placed Spar (so near, so far – one of those songs again) was able to supply us with a couple of bottles of cider, to which Annie had taken a fancy.

Back to the van, more reading, until teatime. Tea was wholemeal vegetable tart things (a bit like pizza, but nicer) with tomatoes topped with – goats cheese. We seem to be having a bit of a goats cheese fest on this holiday. It is jolly nice, though.

Cross country run.

The showers got a 6 from Annie, because the hot/cold mixture tap worked backwards, and she shared her shower stall with a cockroach. I, on the other hand, did not have the luxury of a cockroach to assist me with my ablutions, and my mixture tap seemed to work the right way round. So I gave it a 7.5. The only downside was that the dividing wall between the wet area and my clothes was a little short, so my sandals got wet. Never mind. The problems of foreign travel.

The bread woman came at 8.15, and we munched on pain au raisin, and then we visited the excellent camping car service area, where we took on what we needed to take on, and we dumped what we no longer wanted. When the office opened, we paid a grand total of €7 something for a pleasant, grassy, fairly-flat pitch, including electricity and toilets and showers, with free cockroach thrown in. It can’t get much better than that.

Catherine was on good form, although we ignored her very first instruction because I thought her head wasn’t screwed on right, since she could only see half a satellite due to the trees and tall stone buildings. Seems she was right anyway. Tsk.

We managed to drive 150km or so without having to pay any money, which must be a first. Lovely long straight roads, punctuated by village, hamlet, town, hamlet, village, and so on. Very nice.

Slight panic stations when we needed diesel, and we went off the main road to find an Intermarche which sold go-juice, only for it to reject both of our cards, and there was no attendant to remonstrate with. Fortunately, in the same town, there was a proper filling station, where we filled up. This rejection of cards has happened in previous years at automatic petrol pumps. I guess we’re not quite a fully integrated European community yet.

I’d noticed signs about a diversion somewhere, but since the diversion said “head towards Bourges,” where we were going, I took no notice. We joined a queue of about five vehicles at lights, where they were repairing a very old bridge, and they were restricting traffic. Nothing over 3.5 tonnes. No problem. Nothing wider than 2.2 metres. Hmm. Should be OK, because one side is a pavement (I hadn’t seen the concrete bollards guarding the entrance to the bridge). Nothing higher than 2.9 metres. That’s tricky. I have no idea how high the van is (still don’t), but I was concerned. I’m a bit less than 2 metres, and don’t come up to the top of the cab window. Then there’s the overcab, which must be a metre or so tall. I was concerned, and about to turn around and take the deviation when I watched a couple of vans come through without any problem, one a high top, so I thought the height would be OK. By now, I’d seen the bollards. Big, and very solid, they were. But they looked wider than 2.2 metres. I was going through anyway. Our brave lads didn’t release the French nation from under the kosh of the hun by not going between a couple of bollards. Mind you, I didn’t have John Wayne in the van with me. Just as well, ‘cos he would have smelt a bit.

We got through OK, and powered up the hill on the other side.

We arrived at Bourges at around 12.30, and Catherine delivered us to the door, since we’d been able to give her the address. In fact, I think she might have said we were at our destination about 20 metres from the entrance, but I think we can forgive that little inaccuracy.

Another camp municipal, beautiful surroundings to the site (lots of trees, that means), and each pitch had electric and water. We did have to choose, when we checked in, between 6 Amp and 10 Amp electric. Strange request. Presumably it costs more if you want more Amps. I shrugged, Gallically, and said “six” (except in French), and we were in.

After lunch, we walked up to the old town, which was all right. Lots of big old buildings, shops, stuff like that. Even a dog-washing shop (which was for sale – tempting!) We walked for around two hours, after which we reckoned we deserved a glass of rose and a beer. Or two.

Tea was goats cheese pasties and potatoes, which later on gave us wicked indigestion and heartburn. I guess we’re just not used to rich, fatty food like that.