Vannes is a very pretty, medieval town in Brittany. We’re here for a few days’ second visit, enjoying beautiful warm sunshine for a walk along the footpath from our site, which begins in woods and emerges to boatyards, then a quayside thoroughfare into the centre of town. As we near the town it becomes landscaped with seating areas and planting. there’s a large concourse in front of the tourist information office, where the weather has brought out a lot of visitors, keeping the neighbouring cafes and ice cream vendors busy.

Vannes has a lovely network of ancient, half-timbered buildings lining its streets and a huge castle with attractive gardens. Near the top of the town lies the gothic cathedral. Everywhere is thronged with tourists, in and out of the gift shops or sitting outside cafes in the sun.

When we’ve had enough we spend some time searching for a bus stop with the correct number to take us back to site, but it’s easier said than done. We accost a driver, who tells us we’re in the wrong place for our bus and then, remarkably, offers to ferry us up to the bus station, saving our sore feet.

The site’s bar and cafe is open for cheap and cheerful meals. It’s not an extensive menu but the ‘faux-filet’ is very acceptable. We have a lazy last day in the sun with an evening stroll down to the shore for an ice cream.

We’re on the move again- southwards to make another stop at Bretignolles-sur-Mer, which is also known to us, although the site Husband has selected is also known to us and we know it’s a long way from Bretignolles’ tiny centre or seaside and opt to try another, which, as it turns out, is cheaper and more convenient,

We’ve pulled off the track and on to our pitch when some neighbours make us aware of a trail we’ve left along the lane. ‘It’s fine,’ I tell them, ‘it’s water.’

‘Non, non, non! they reply. ‘C’est gazole!’

Yikes! Diesel is leaking from our van! And it’s Saturday!

Husband crawls around on the grass underneath. His verdict: it looks to be the fuel pipe. The mood turns gloomy. I search online for garages, finding a local one with a 5* review from a British motorhome owner, which looks promising. But we can do nothing until Monday except find out exactly where the place is.

We set off on foot to follow the route on my phone, stopping to ask a man busily tidying his garden if he knows it- a man who retreats to find his wife [the English speaker], who immediately offers to take us in her car! ‘C’est normal!’ she cries when we say it’s too much. It’s just as well she did take us- it’s a fair way on foot.

In the meantime, while we wait for Monday, we set off to look at Bretignolles, which Husband claims we’ve never seen- and discover that of course- we have been here and it’s clear as soon as we get to the centre; the square with the uninspiring church, the market hall, the cafes, the little street with a few clothing shops. I even remember where the supermarket is. Not being an extensive metropolis, it’s soon looked at [and recalled]. I don’t feel like photographing it a second time.

On Monday we pack up early and make for the garage. I’ve prepared the French: ‘Une fuite dans le traduite de carburrant’ or thereabouts. We pull up outside. I slept badly and have that cold, stretched feeling of anxiety/exhaustion as we push open the door to reception. I launch into my speech- just as well I prepared as Monsieur speaks no English. He frowns irritably and sighs- not auspicious- and comes out to look.

Then he beckons the van up and towards the workshop and summons a mechanic from the depths. He delves under the bonnet, unscrews things, takes bits away, returns, screws things, bids Husband to start up, stop, start up, stop. He has a few words of English.

It gets done. ‘Phew!’ says Monsieur, laughing.

Then we’re off south.

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