France Tour 2006

The hills are alive, with the sound of diesels.

The showers only got a 5.5 from Annie, mainly because the water stayed on for too short a time with the push-button things they usually have. No cockroaches today. Time for water on was ok for me, but the temperature was very variable, and sometimes cold. Not good. Oh, and there were no signs saying which was hommes and which was femmes. I presumed it didn’t matter, but when I asked the woman mopping up some overflow, she pointed me in a specific direction, me being a bloke an’ all.

On the road just before nine, and quickly rumpety-bumpety rattle and shake over the town’s roads. After about half an hour, we saw, grey and imposing in the distance, some hills. Very exciting. Our road, and Catherine, took us towards them, because she knew we were quite excited to get out of the central France plain. Top site en route was part of the town of Auxerres, which wrapped itself around a tall lump of a hill like salt around a cone of chips. Only on the outside, if you see what I mean. Best analogy I could come up with. But a lovely site – shame about the city streets.

Speaking of which, I’ve come to a conclusion – once you get inside the town or village sign, the state of the roads becomes the responsibility of the town / village. That’s why they’re all rubbish, and as soon as you pass the “not in town any more” marker sign, the road smoothes out, where the federal government or the Departement take over responsibility once again. This is probably not earth-shattering news for anyone else, but it’s just occurred to me.

We got to Vincelles safely, and Catherine took us to the door again. She’s getting good at this. One thing that’s been a bit confusing, though. She uses different words which sound very similar in a noisy Peugeot cab. “Tournez a gauche” is quite straightforward, and we turn left. “Tenirez la route a gauche” means keep to the left, but sounds awfully like “Tournez” sometimes, unless you listen carefully. If you’re watching the road signs, and you know where you’re going, then what she says makes sense. But then, doesn’t that defeat the point of employing her? And she also sometimes says “Prenir la sortie”, which doesn’t sound like either of them when I say it now, but it has done. Honest.

We shopped a little at the small supermarket next door to the campsite, and we went off in search of a France Passion site nearby. Our mistake? Getting Catherine to look for it. She took us down this rumpety-bumpety-shake-rattle-BANG road, for about a kilometre and a half, at about 10 mph. Poor Polly. We eventually reached a main road, which we crossed, and went down a road like before, only smaller. And for longer. It was one of those situations when it surely must be quicker to carry on and get to the end rather than turn round and go back. Mustn’t it?

We got to a tiny wee village, and Catherine said we’d arrived, when obviously we hadn’t. What a fibber she is. Annie consulted the Passion book (huh?), and the only thing clear was that we’d come in from the wrong direction, and we couldn’t find the right way to come back from. If you see what I mean. We gave up, and went back to the campsite, and got a pitch. €15, thank you very much, and do you want bread in the morning?

After a lunch (lovely bread from the supermarket, by the way) including smoked salmon, Annie did a bit of washing, and I got the bikes down, so that we could a) go for a bike ride, and b) have somewhere to hang the washing from – that being the bike rack.

The Canal de Nivernois went right past the campsite’s door, and with it, a wide flat track for us to cycle on. So we cycled a few miles one way, past a few locks with some bored lock-keepers, until the track stopped. We turned round, and cycled back, and beyond the campsite. Sniffed around at an auberge for sale, but there was little passing trade from the canal, and almost none from the road.

The clouds came over, and it started to sprinkle with rain, so he hi-tailed it back to the campsite to rescue the washing, by which time it hadn’t actually started to rain, so we left it out. Lo and behold, it dried during the day.

Why I have no passion for France Passions

Today, the showers scored their worst ever score – only 2 from Annie, mainly because the showerhead wasn’t on its socket, and she had to stand on tippy-toe to put it back, and then it turned inwards to the wall. So 2 is probably quite generous, really. Only a 5 from me, because although mine was on the wall, there was no divider twixt shower (i.e. water) and clothes (i.e. should stay dry). Come on, guys, it’s not rocket science.

Away early, at around 8.30, heading for a France Passion at a vineyard close to Epernay. All went according to plan, except Catherine had a bit of a flip out at one point, taking us off a main road onto a roundabout, telling us to take the first turning, then telling us we’d gone wrong, then telling us to take the second turning, which brought us back to the main road again. Poor girl, she’s obviously suffering. Then, later on, she passed out completely, and fell off the windscreen. After that, Annie sat with her on her lap, which was a bit spooky, since Annie was speaking with Catherine’s voice. A nasty psychological thriller here, I think. And I couldn’t see the maps on the screen, which was a bit unnerving. Annie relented after a while, and stuck her back on the windscreen. Status quo was restored.

We got to the village where the Passion was. The directions in the book said something like – go to the village, and there you are. We went to the village, we passed through on one side, we passed through on a different side, no signs of the vineyard we were looking for. We stopped at the Mairie. It was shut. And it was only 11.30, too. Fortunately, a man stopped (why do people not like the French – they are a lovely people), and asked if he could help. We told him the vineyard we were looking for, he told us where it was, and we started off again. On to the main road, and there was our new mate, waiting for us, waving his arm in the air for us to follow him. We did, we turned right, and there the place was. I waved our thanks.

It didn’t look good. There were no vineyards, there was little sign of any camping place, and it all looked a bit quiet. We rang the bell of the door to the vineyard. Cruella De Ville came to the door. “France Passion?” asked I. “Oui,” said Cruella. And just stood there. Now this is a thing with the France Passion places – all three of them we’ve called into. You say the secret code word (France Passion), and they say: “Oui”, and then they just stand there. So you have to ask, in clumsy non-schoolboy French: “Where the hell do I stick three and a half ton of camping-car then?” Because they don’t tell you, unless you ask.

Anyway, Cruella indicated that we could put it on the postage-stamp sized piece of grass opposite, but we might have difficulty getting off again if it rains, so we should put it on the concrete. The concrete, which is outside their big barn, where their farming equipment was, with no sign of the water, toilet, rubbish facility, tree, nor any hint of the English-French-German-Dutch speaking that it said in the book. Now I have a theory. You’re a farmer / winemaker, and France Passion come and ask if you would like to be a member. “Do you have somewhere a camping-car can park?” they ask. If so, you get a questionnaire – a sort of tick box questionnaire, so you can list all the facilities you have available. So I reckon Cruella ticked all the boxes without even reading them, thinking she might get more money if she had more boxes ticked. She wasn’t welcoming, there were no signs, at all, anywhere, that it was a France Passion location. So we buggered off.

We thought we’d try again. A lot of narrow, bouncing, bumpety-bump-wobble roads later (and I mean a lot – I do worry about the bike rack hanging off the back with all this rocking and rolling going on), and we arrived at the village. That was it – “it’s in the village”, the book says. We asked at what equates to a burger van over in France, and they told us where the vineyard was. And we found it. 1) It was shut (it now being 12.30 and all) 2) there was nowhere to park, unless they meant the patch of ground behind the chemist’s shop and 3) it wasn’t really what we were looking for. By now, we were a bit tired, we were hot, thirsty, hungry, etc etc. We headed for a campsite.

We got to the Camp Municipale in Epernay at around 1.30. The reception was open, and we booked in without a hitch. By quarter to two, we had the kettle on, and the van settled.

After lunch, we asked at the reception about cycle routes. The receptionist was very kind, and gave us a map, and showed us a route through the town and towards some distant pretty village. We cycled to town, along the river for a bit, but it didn’t match the quality of path we used yesterday. This was a bit muddy, a bit close to the water, and a bit “you can’t go down here because … well, it’s closed”-ish. We looked at the map, and Annie saw the ‘Avenue de Champagne’, with boxes showing Moet et Chandon, Perrier Jouet, and Pol Roger, so we headed that way. First one we came to was Moet et Chandon, so we padlocked our bikes to their railings, and followed the signs to “Visite de Caves”.

A very posh-looking lady took our €8 (each) for the tour and one glass tasting. We did the tour, although the posh booklet told us more about champagne making than the tour guide did. But it was a good tour, and a nice glass of wine to finish (although I prefer Tesco own-label Cava), and we declined the offer of buying lots of Moet at the ‘boutique’, and we went to a nearby Carrefour to buy some Mercier champagne and some cheap local muck that was about a quarter of the price (with a free quarter-bottle thrown in), just so we could compare.

On the camp site sat Thierry, who provided the campsite with high-quality, local produce, beautifully prepared and cooked from his rusty van in the corner of the campsite. He did also provide champagne, so we had a bottle of some local stuff (at his price of €19), and a lovely three-cheese pizza. The champers was lovely and chilled, and so was the pizza until Annie discovered the three cheese and olive pizza also included, at no extra cost, some ham. In fact, lots of diced chunks of ham. Annie had to pick out the ham, and eat the rest, which was difficult, and somewhat spoilt the meal out.

If it’s Saturday, then this must be somewhere else

A bit of a chilly night, and we woke to tip tip tap little August showers. I was first to the showers today, and although they were reasonably effective, they were a bit scummy, and the shower head was too close to the wall, thus resulting in a 3 from me – mainly because I banged my elbow as I was washing my hair. Annie gave them 2, because they were lukewarm, and her button thing once again gave her about half the time I got.

We didn’t bother waiting for the bread man who cometh at 9.30, but instead drove to a nearby LeClerc, got some cash, and some croissants and some bread and some other stuff and spent 50-odd Euros. Would have been much cheaper to wait for the bread man. That’s what the big stores do, isn’t it? As you wander around, trying to find the 3 items you came for, they entice you to buy 23 items you didn’t come for, but you suddenly decide you can’t live without.

It started to rain more seriously, as we drove further North, in search of somewhere pretty by a river or something. On and on we drove, and down and down came the rain. There was always brighter skies to ahead and to the right, just as the road took a gentle turn to the left.

Another funny thing about the French – French men in particular. They have very little shame when it comes to the calls of nature. If we, on our journeys, happen to be caught a little short, then we jolly well cross our legs until we can find a suitable public convenience. If suffering from some internal complaint, and you really can’t wait until the appropriate time and location, then we stop, and hoppity-skip down banks, over fences, through woodlands, and behind trees, until any tiniest sight of us from either the road or any buildings is blotted out. Then, it’s out with the old fella, do what you need to do, and quickly away again, before the farmer comes with his gun, gun, gun. Hmmm – how our childhood forms us, eh?

Now your average French chappie, at the first sign of bladder pressure, it’s pull over to the side of the road, and let nature take its course, willy nilly, if you’ll excuse the phrase. The reason for mentioning this is 1) I’d noticed it occasionally on our travels, 2) a man was weeing by his car in the LeClerc car park, before he went into the store (where there were toilets), and 3) I saw a man doing the same up the wall of an Intermarche this afternoon. Are they weird, or are we just too inhibited? Should we just feel free enough to say: “Look, I need a wee, and I’m damned-well going to do it right now.”

The road into Revin was very steep – a 7% down gradient. “Use engine braking” it said, in four languages. I did. I was thankful to see that there were escape roads on this hill. I had in mind the lovely escape roads coming down into Dover – well-signposted, wide, and with lots of nice gravel to slow you down if you’re in trouble. The French version is somewhat different. There were two on this hill. The first one demanded that you negotiate several quite sharp and tricky hairpin bends on your way down, careering out of control. Okay, you’ve managed to do that, your speed is gathering all the time, and here comes the escape road – which is a narrow (i.e. narrower than the width of a standard car) piece of tarmac, around 10 metres long, with a stone wall which narrows the road down even further. So you’re crushed to death in your speeding vehicle. Either that, or the stone wall gives way, and you plunge to your death over the 500 foot cliff on the other side.

If you manage to see this, and fancy your chances with the hairpin bends still further down the hill, there is a proper escape road, with gravel and stuff. It does look frighteningly short, though. I would think that if you were in charge of an out-of-control vehicle at around eighty or ninety mph, you would be able to vault the gravel trap easily, and land God-knows-where on the other side.

Fortunately, we didn’t need either of the escape roads, but I made sure I kept in 3^rd or 4^th gear all the way down. We went a bit wrong in the village – Catherine said turn left, but she meant turn left in 30 metres, not at the temporary roundabout. Never mind, she re-routed us, and we got to the campsite.

Very, very empty. About eighty emplacements, of which I think around ten were being used. We were able to choose a nice pitch right next to the River Meuse, and we quickly got set up and put the kettle on.

After lunch, the bikes came off the back, and we cycled through town, by the river, got confused, came back through town, stopped at the Tourist Information place to get a map (which we should have done first, of course), and then had a good old cup of tea, just like proper British tourists. Then we opened the pink fizz. And that was about it for the day.

The campsite that time forgot.

We had a lie in until 8.30 – well late, for us. Annie’s shower scored an unheard-of 9, mainly because she got more than half-a-second’s worth of water for every push on the button. I think mine scored only 8, since it was highly powerful, and wet half of the shower block floor, which I then spent ages squeegeeing back into the shower. Good, though.

No new arrivals since we came yesterday. I asked the lady in the reception why there were so few people. She said the weather had been “catastrophique”, and everyone had stayed away. I can see why – the pitches are very grassy, and there were some signs of people getting stuck. But it’s a beautifully-kept site, the facilities are modern and clean, and the area is outstandingly beautiful. We think that the cleaner lives onsite, in a tent in the far corner of the site. There is one couple with a caravan further up from us, and a couple in an unfeasibly small tent halfway to the main entrance from us. There are a couple of other caravans in the site, with no one in attendance. I would guess they’re ‘moored’ here permanently, and the people come and go as they please.

After breakfast, we decided to explore a bit by bike. We cycled over the bridge and on to the other side of the river from us. There was a road, which became a track, which became muddy, but stayed OK for us to cycle. I took a photo across the river of our van, and noticed behind me was a wooden gate, and behind that, a tiny shack, set in the woods. It looked a bit like a permanent residence to me, with bottles outside and a rubbish bin, but I didn’t stay around to find out who lived there. I’ve seen too many spooky films, where innocent foreign cyclists and walkers have been eaten alive by ‘things’ that live in the woods.

We cycled to the next bridge, and then back through the council estate (well, it certainly looked like one) to the campsite. And we had another cup of tea.

Since getting the map from the tourist office yesterday, I’d seen that there was this track on the map, which obviously wound its way up a hill on the other side of town. Two little squiggles indicated there were two viewing platforms over the valley. It called for me, and kept calling for me. It was saying “I’m the biggest hill around. Wanna try me, big boy?” No, it was. Really. There’s something about the challenge of nature, man against the environment, that calls us time and again to pit ourselves against the best, and worst, that mother nature can throw at us. It’s the ‘because it’s there’ syndrome, and as mere mortals, we can no more deny the challenge than we can deny our very existence.

This, by and large, passes the female of the species by, who are more than happy to look at it from afar, say “it’s very nice, but I’ll stay here thank you”, and “don’t have a heart attack, will you, like that Geoff Hamilton.” I set off, having planned my route carefully, and then just as carefully left the map in the van. And my water bottle. Sometimes, I wonder if I’m really cut out for this adventuring lark.

I stopped in the village, to pick up some bread from what must have been the only baker’s open this side of Paris. It had big queues before I arrived, and after I left. From memory, I cycled along the route I’d planned. Then I turned round, and went the other way, which was I where I actually needed to go. I cheated, and followed the signs to the “vue d’interest”. Interesting view. Sounds just the ticket.

I cycled up, and up, and round the bend, and up. The road was quiet, and I could take to the outside of the bends, even on the wrong side of the road, which I did after tackling the first hairpin right. Tough. Four blokes on trails motorbikes passed me, and then cut through the woodland, going straight up the hill instead of round the bends like I was. I call that cheating, especially with an engine to take you up there.

I walked for a while – not because I was incapable of cycling any further, of course, merely so I could enjoy the views better. And so I could stop sounding like a leaky old set of bagpipes, and the sweat could stop dripping into my eyes. After a couple of bends, there was a memorial to the people of the city who died in the two world wars. A bit further up – half cycling, half walking – I came to the first viewing point. It was magnificent. I took photos, which will not be able to capture the amazing views if the city and down the valleys. I watched a heavily-laden barge fight its way upstream for a while, before continuing my quest. I figured that since I was so high up, the summit, and the pinnacle of my quest, of my challenge, must be close by. I continued, upward, ever upward.

I passed two signs, showing the footpath route to the viewing points. The one I wanted was 280 metres away, up a 45 degree muddy incline. I stuck to the road. Pedal, pedal, pedal. I rounded a bend, expecting to see the summit. Instead, I saw the road going straight up, steeper than before, and straight for around 100 metres, before the next bend. I said “soddit” and turned round. My ultimate quest could wait for another time, when … errr … I wasn’t in such a hurry. That’s it.

I stopped at the first viewing platform again, and saw the barge seemed to be making a turn. I followed its intended route, and saw that there was a lock underneath me, and a basin beyond, and the barge was headed that way. So was I.

My brakes didn’t fail me on my descent, and I would my way around through some back streets until I came to the track by the river, and I cycled up to the lock. The barge was halfway through rising from river level to basin level. I took some pictures. There was a sign, which said there was a yachting basin 150m ahead. But all I saw was a dead-end. I cycled over, and looked closer, and there was a brick-built tunnel under the city, dark, dripping, and no doubt smelly. Intrigued, I returned to the van, to look at the map. Annie was pleased I hadn’t had a heart attack halfway up the hill and died, and I consulted the town map. No sign of a lock, or a basin, or the tunnel, or a yachting basin. How peculiar! Was the tunnel really the entrance to Hades, and the basin the start of the River Styx? This needs further investigation.

Still no new campers on site, by the way.

After lunch, we returned to the lock, and cycled beyond, following the river. Nothing much happened, except we cycled a few miles, and still got nowhere. There’s always that thought, isn’t there, that there might be a beautiful auberge just around the corner, where we could sit in the sun, enjoy a few beers, and watch the limited river traffic. However, we called a stop to the ride (just around the corner from a beautiful auberge, ….) and we cycled back to the lock, where a river cruiser (about a 35 footer) was passing through. We watched it float up, pass through the gates, and then head for the Tunnel of Doom. I was determined to find out where it went, so we cycled up the hill and over the top.

I was anxious, that’s for sure. I couldn’t be certain that I would ever actually see the boat again. It might just disappear into the tunnel, green traffic light shining innocently, enticing the unwary into an uncertain future. There are times when we all face an uncertain future, and I wondered whether the nice man and woman on the boat really knew what they were heading into. Or whether they had decided that after a full and enjoyable life, they were ready to travel, with their boat, into another land – another world, if you like, a sort of ‘passing beyond’.

The tunnel actually went through to the next level of the river. No yachting basin to speak of, and certainly no yachts. I was pleased to see that the boat was happily chugging up the river, leaving small ripples in its wake. We cycled after it, and saw it enter yet another lock. Now the full truth was dawning on me. The lock and the tunnel just cut out the big loop of the river which went round the town. When we’d cycled over the rickety bridge earlier in the day, there had been a weir in the river, thus giving the two levels, and the necessity for a lock. Mystery solved. Back to the campsite for us.

And another happy camper had joined us! A happy-looking Dutch tugging couple, him with a very strange moustache which stretched beyond the boundaries of his face, and with a miniature pair of clogs hanging from an awning pole (just in case we hadn’t sussed where they were from). I said “hello”, since I had no idea what a friendly greeting is in Dutch. They said “hello” back. Once again, international boundaries had been broken, and entente cordiale was there for all to see.

You thought you had one day left.

The weather had turned decidedly cold overnight (yes, I know it was probably still well into the teens centigrade, but it felt cold), and we woke to the pitter-patter of raindrops on our roof and awning. We packed up, and waited patiently for the campsite lady to turn up at 9 o’clock. We waited pateiently a bit longer, then we waited some more – impatiently. We might have just left, except the barrier was down. Just our luck.

Eventually she turned up at 9.20, rushing in, muttering desolee under her breath. We were a bit desolee to have to have waited, but never mind. I paid, and we chugged out, in the rain and mist. The countryside around that area (The Ardennes) is wild and rugged, and would have been beautiful if we’d been able to see it properly. We looked for a boulanger, and failed. Tiny hamlets strung out along a main road, juggernauts and British motorhomes flying by a few centimetres away. Not my idea of France.

It rained, and then it rained some more. Then it threw it down, and off in the distance, lightning repeatedly pierced the angry black sky like a mad knife murderer, and we decided to go home. There was no point in staying overnight somewhere close to the channel port, the van getting wet and us getting cold. Annie prodded Catherine out of her slumbers (she was bored anyway), and we turned northwards, through squally showers and torrential bounce-off-the-road rain.

We arrived at Calais at around 3.30pm, and approached the check-in desk. We were told we could get on the 6.30pm sailing, as long as we spent some of our remaining Euros for the privilege. We were happy so to do.

We waited, just for a change, but at least we were accompanied by some English radio, although we had the traditional fight over Radio 4 and, well, practically anything else. We watched a pair of motorcyclists plead with a loading hand to get on the earlier boat that we watched being loaded. One guy said “oui”, and the motorcyclists eagerly donned their helmets. Then the gaffer said “non”, and that was it. They boarded with us.

Despite the foul weather we’d seen in France, the crossing was smoother than the winner in the “Millpond of the Year” competition – a keenly-fought event in the wilds of Wiltshire, I understand. Or was it Sussex? Even the fish and chips were tasty, and set us up for the evening drive home. We arrived chez nous at about 9pm.

FRANCE

Good things: campsites (generally); quality of driving (no, really – few motorway pileups); lots of countryside; goats cheese (in moderation); friendly people (always eager to help if you’re in difficulty); good roads; quality, variety and price of wine, beer and champagne; pretty villages; upkeep of public areas; quality of road signs (very consistent); bread and croissants; local produce / markets; litter free; space; tree-lined avenues;

Bad things: cars staying 1cm from your tail end whilst they’re waiting to overtake; those toilets – what the hell are they all about?; can’t get Radio 4 (wait a minute – shouldn’t that be under good things?); road camber – many a time I’ve gritted my teeth and clenched my buttock cheeks as we crept around a roundabout, three tons on two little outside tyres, and the road dropping away from us;

Best overnight stop: Bernay camp municipale and Medis and the first France Passion, wherever that was and Revin

Worst overnight stop: None

Good things: the van; Green Flag backup; Annie (of course!); the TomTom (Catherine) – marriage saver; meeting Norman and Sandra at Bernay;

Bad things: flat tyres, gas leaks; short grey water outlet hoses; rain; the TomTom mounting bracket;

Things we might improve, if we ever got round to doing them, which is quite unlikely: having a smaller water fill hose, so we don’t have to unwind 20m of the stuff if we’re 2 feet away from the tap; add a length of hose to the grey water outlet, so we can empty where the hell we liked; Radio 4 / World Service (anything English) for Annie; get France Passion to provide GPS coordinates; move the driver’s seat over to the left a bit; and all those other improvements I’ve written down on bits of paper and which have by now been thrown away.