When we pull into the driveway of the site at Saint Palais sur Mer. I do not recognise it at all as the site we visited about 15 or more years ago, a rough field with some rudimentary services. We were in our first van- a little, white VW with a pop-up roof- still mourned by Husband.

But it’s definitely the same place, because my details have been retained by reception, which amazes me.

The site is packed. But we are shoehorned in. The first pitch is already occupied so I return to Reception, where the ladies seem a bit flustered. We’re allocated another pitch down a narrow cul-de-sac but it’s all fine and we’re told to pay when we leave- which is unusual. It’s easier for us to navigate between the trees than it is for the ubiquitous, giant motorhomes peppering this site.

It’s much cooler but there are a few drizzly episodes. We’re only staying 2 nights here before we set off across the Gironde estuary.

Overnight there’s more rain although it’s light and intermittent. Later we opt to walk, crossing the road to take a walk down along the prom. The coast is wonderful here, rocky, with timber fishing huts on stilts- many collapsing in the wind and waves and erosion has carved fantastic shapes and caverns in the rocks, holes where the ocean rushes in and spouts up in foamy plumes.

After a few minutes we emerge by a sweeping curve of sandy beach, then we turn back as the rain closes in, the fine drizzle becoming more insistent. Neither of us has worn a raincoat so we take shelter under a tree until it subsides. On the way back to our site there are stalls selling bakery products, bizarre garden ornaments and seafood items as well as a few restaurants.

For our last evening here we stroll up to get a meal. Almost everywhere serves oysters here so it seems churlish not to have them. There is only a handful of people dining and we are the last to leave.

We wake to unbroken sunshine and we’re off to Royan, to get a ferry over the Gironde estuary and a site we haven’t visited for many years, long enough to have forgotten where the ferry terminal is. We get there after several detours and missed signs, joining a queue, buying a ticket and getting squeezed on, during which time, the campsite receptionist rings me and I realise we haven’t paid and have to do it all by phone while we wriggle the van into its space. Then we’re off across, passing France’s oldest lighthouse [allegedly]. There’s time for a coffee before we arrive and drive off as we’ve done so many times.

Again. we can’t quite recall which roads to take but when I type in ‘Le Gurp’ we’re on our way- along the narrow lanes between chunks of pine forest and through one or two tiny hamlets- places we remember now- ‘Grayan et l’hopital’ where we’ve shopped at a small supermarket when cycling from the site, then the roundabout at the top of the road and finally we’re there at Le Gurp, a municipal site in the forest by a beach, loved by surfers and especially by Germans.

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com