Tag Archives: campervan

Bus Trials [again!]

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So it transpires that our neighbour at Bagwell Farm camp site, Chickerell, Raymond, is something of an institution, as having sorted out the electricity problem, he’s off hobnobbing with all and sundry. Clearly, he spends a great deal of time here and is to be spotted most of the day, sitting outside his caravan awning chatting to other ‘regulars’. It’s that kind of site. In contrast, the single man in the caravan the other side of us is reclusive to the point of hermit-dom, appearing rarely and furtively [and clad only in scruffy shorts].

But we’re here to enjoy the walks and the coast path and having undertaken quite a hefty hike yesterday, we’ll take a day off and get a bus to Abbotsbury, which is famous for its swannery, of course, [https://abbotsburyswannery.co.uk/ ] but has other, lesser known bits of interest.

It should be easy. We’ve used the bus service on many, many occasions back and forth along this part of the coast. And the bus stop is down on the main road, near the unpatronised Victoria pub we’ve already investigated. Husband, who is the maestro of all things timetable, has looked at bus times and selected one for us. We stroll down the field and to the stop by the silent pub and the busy road. A man rides out behind us on a mower and begins to cut the grass around the pub. We wait…and wait. An inspection of the bus stop timetable affords no help- since not only do the times bear no relation to Husband’s online timetable, they bear no relation to reality-

I begin to tire of standing still. We begin to discuss how long we should wait. I sit down. It’s a warm afternoon. After about 40 minutes [far too long!] we opt for returning to site. We get as far as the gate to the field and…yes…there is a bus. It pulls up at the stop. We make our attempt to run towards it in full view of the driver…we get to within 50 yards of the bus…and…it pulls away.

Having returned to the van and regrouped, not to be beaten, we try again, even though the afternoon is slipping by and we’ll need to return at some stage.

Finally we get on to a [very busy] bus and get to Abbotsbury, where we alight and attempt to discern the timetable for the bus back to Chickerell. I need hardly say that it is all nonsensical. We wander the lovely, picture-perfect village. We don’t have long, but we stumble upon Abbotsbury Abbey, which is delightful, with a ‘cut-your-own’ flower shop, a beautiful mill pond, the semi-ruined abbey and a cafe which is just about to close but will sell us drinks and cake to take away [hooray!]. We settle at a bench in the sunshine by the pond.

It’s time to meander back to the dastardly bus stop, opposite the pub. The bus stop bench is occupied so I lower myself on to a log by a gate from which chickens are coming and going- a more interesting diversion than the mower. At least this time there are fellow hopeful passengers. Husband bemoans the fact that we don’t have time for the pub, which appears a great deal more inviting than the Victoria.

At last, however, a bus comes. Perhaps there is some mysterious deity after all…

Coast and Country

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Those who’ve followed Anecdotage for ever will have detected a change in our trips lately. We’ve not undertaken any lengthy, meandering van Odysee, rather dashed out for short stays, some local, others made by air. This is due to a deluge of NHS appointments [National Health Service for overseas visitors to this blog]. This means having to sandwich travel trips between doctor interventions and checks. Ho hum…

After Valleyfest we dash home, then there’s time to clean the van and do laundry before we’re off again- this time to west Dorset, to a massive site, Bagwell Farm near Chickerell [which is near to Weymouth]. And it has direct access on to the lovely coast path, right where Chesil Beach passes by on its way to Portland.

Like so many sites these days, there are dozens of permanent and semi-permanent vans and caravans. It’s a rolling, hilly kind of camp site, our own allocated pitch up high on a terrace with a view towards the sea and sandwiched between two caravans. The first thing that happens is that we blow the electric point with our plug-in lead- a mishap which has dogged us all of this year. The occupant of the caravan to our right, ‘Raymond’, emerges and strides down to reception, declaring that this is a regular occurrence here. Little does he know! The reception woman comes to reset everything and miraculously, we have electricity. So sure were we that we wouldn’t have we’ve brought our gas fridge, which is now redundant.

At Bagwell Farm they’ve thought of everything, with donkeys and goats, a well-stocked shop and their very own bar/restaurant. It’s not gourmet but will do for a lazy night. There’s also a pub nearby on the main road, accessed by a footpath across a field, although when we explore, in spite of the conventional bar we can see through the windows, it doesn’t seem to be doing much trade. We’re quite a way outside the village here and the walk is along a busy road without a pavement or a verge.

We’re here for the walks, so we strike out down through the site, down a field and to the coast path, Chesil Beach in our view, then follow the path by the water. The weather is on our side, for once, making the water in the lagoon that separates the shingle bank from the sea sparkle. There are some climbs but they’re worth the effort for the views over the farmland and the coast.

We turn in and up a track, [stopping to look at the dry stone wall which is being repaired] which takes us to a village- Langton Herring. It’s quaint and picturesque and typically Dorset, with stone cottages, narrow lanes, a tiny church and immaculate gardens. We’re flummoxed about which way to go but spot a sign and take a path through a working farmyard and up across the field again until we come to a copse and eventually out to the main road and the entrance to our site. Phew!

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

Over and Out

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The second day at Valleyfest dawns dry and much more promising. We’re not early risers- almost always the last to surface on a campsite- and today is no exception; neither do we eat breakfast, so we’ve plenty of time to loll around and observe the occupants of the two motorhomes in front of us cooking and eating a ‘full English’ on an outside grill. One of the women clearly enjoys holding forth on a variety of subjects but not in subdued tones… Our van has the advantage of dark, smoked windows, providing ample opportunities for snooping. Fellow motorhome and campervanners beware of parking up next to a van like ours…

So it’s not until after lunch that we prepare, then amble across the fields and trudge up to the festival site, behind most others who’ve already arrived. The rocket-inspired, gothic DJ platform has been emitting its insistent beat for hours by now but we head right towards the stages, where various acts are underway, We set up on the hillside above the main stage. An energetic band of numerous members is on, playing a vibrant mix of genres I’m at a loss to describe- drum n bass/jazz/rap? The band’s singer is charismatic and colourfully dressed.

Having lowered into our beach chairs I’m able to scrutinise the garb of our fellow-attendees and it’s clear that this year’s must-have is something sequinned. Sequins are not a thing I’m ever drawn to in any circumstances, but here in the bright sunshine of a hot afternoon they are not a great look. There’s a range of sequinned garments- shorts, jackets, tops, trousers and skirts, looking garish and tawdry in the sunlight. I wonder what will become of them post-festival? As far as I know they are not especially recycle friendly-

There’s a hiatus for a change of musicians but it’s warm and we’re settled. It’s mid-afternoon and I feel a strong desire for an ice cream. I don’t eat dairy but these days dairy-free ice cream is widely available and is delicious so I leave Husband and go on a hunt, figuring that if I’m going to get a vegan ice cream it will surely be easy at a festival, with such a plethora of food stalls. I begin at one end and walk…and walk. I find one stall that sells ice cream [dairy] but is awaiting supplies. I try the children’s area- even here there isn’t an ice cream to be found. Yes- there are sweets. Yes- there are pancakes. No- no ice cream. I’m astonished- and very disappointed, Husband gets me a crepe as consolation.

We move to the other stage, down by the lake, where folk musicians are warbling to a sparse audience consisting mainly of parents, babies and toddlers, a collection of prams occupying the central area. We try the [supposedly] Simon and Garfunkel-like duo and we’re underwhelmed.

Later we queue for meals based on brisket. They are nice but pieces of chilli lurk amongst the other ingredients and have to be rooted out before I can eat. Then we wander a bit but don’t stay late. As the sky darkens, the rocket-construction-DJ platform becomes hyper-exciting with light beams penetrating the dark to the throbbing beat.

Later we amble back through the twinkly tent lights and to the van, where I’ve just enough energy to get down to the mobile shower unit.

There’s more to come on Sunday but nothing we’re gagging to see so in the morning we do a leisurely pack-up and wend our way back down the lanes towards home.

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

Fest and Eye Fest

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So- we [the OLD couple] have settled in on the festival campervan field at Valleyfest. It’s Friday afternoon and we prepare to walk to the main fields and see what’s happening. Preparation includes hats, water and beach chairs [although foolishly, as it turns out, we omit rainwear].

The camping field covers a large area so we must walk a bit to get to the ticket entrance but once there our bags are checked [for bombs? or alcohol?], we’re braceleted and in. Then it’s past the tents, up quite a steep hill and in. The first thing that grabs attention is the striking, rocket-like structure on top of the hill, flanked by gothic structures at each corner. This is where the insistent, throbbing base beat is coming from. It’s manned by DJs and is to become spectacular in the dark.

Beyond this there’s the bar, which is impressive, having embraced shabby chic, Victoriana and a plethora of other styles. Half of the entire area is covered and there are booths along one side, the wall sporting old pictures and photos. Strings of lights with old-fashioned lampshades [the sort with fringes] festoon the edges of the roof, which is then open to the outside. True to type, we settle ourselves here first. It’s a great place to people-watch, enabling me to scrutinise the wide array of festival outfits- about which- more later!

This part of the site does not house any stages, so it’s time to go and find out what’s on and have a look. To do this we must walk through an archway and down a lane lined with myriad food stalls- mostly, as I predicted, cheese and/or chilli orientated. When dinner time approaches I’ll have a job to find something to eat.

The main stage is down at the bottom of the hill. At this time, late afternoon/early evening, although there are many people milling around the entire site, there aren’t huge numbers watching the stage, but there is a band on this evening, Tankus the Henge, who we’ve seen before and liked. They’re described as ‘gonzo’ rock and roll- which is ok by me!

I like a range of musical styles- rock and roll, pop, soul, blues and I’m partial to a smidgeon of heavy metal on occasions, too, mainly for the drama. Genres I haven’t taken to include , drum and base, some types of electronic music and rapping- which rules out ‘Tiny Tempah’ who is scheduled later in the weekend.

Annoyingly, the weather is deteriorating and while we’ve brought our chairs, there’s no fun in sitting in the drizzly rain that’s sweeping intermittently across the field so we decamp to the nearest bar, along with many others. There’s only so many beers I can imbibe [2 is the limit!] and there’s no seating in this stage-side beer and cider tent, meaning we stand under the dripping canvas.

A stallholder selling plastic ponchos must have gambled on the weather and won, as festival goers swathed in them are everywhere, concealing their carefully curated outfits [more in a later post].

We stay a little longer, out then in a couple more times, then call it a day.

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

You’re not Old til You’re Told

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I was just 17 years old when I went to see Pink Floyd play in London’s Hyde Park. At that time there weren’t ‘music festivals’ as we know them today, although they had begun in the sixties and developed in the seventies, with Woodstock [1969], Isle of Wight [1968] and several other iconic ones. Isle of Wight continues to thrive, although after the explosion of festivals we’ve seen in recent years, many won’t run again, including Valleyfest in Somerset.

I was lucky to see as much live music as I did, growing up. Nowadays it’s a rarity to get to see any musicians I’m interested in. But Husband has a yen to attend a festival this year, something we’ve done once or twice in our dotage. Can you be too old to attend a music festival? No- but you can certainly feel old when attending one. For a start- it’s likely you will not have heard of most of the musicians playing. For another thing, the music, while starting early, goes on later than I can cope with these days. Another issue is food. While the array and variety of food stalls seems impressive, most are, by nature, and of necessity, ‘fast food’, they are also heavily dependent on spice [in particular, chilli] and cheese. Chilli and cheese are two foods that I’m not able to eat [a great source of sorrow!] since getting ulcerative colitis 10 years ago.

Another thing- we’re great walkers. Regular readers will know that we are habitual hikers and can manage fair distances and steepish climbs. But standing for long periods is not as easy as it once was. Our method of dealing with this is to take tiny, portable beach chairs, which have backs but are very low on the ground, making getting up and down out them tricky, also comical for anyone watching, but not insurpassable.

And so- armed with chairs, comestibles, rainwear and the rest, we set off towards Somerset and Valleyfest. It’s on a farm about 9 miles from Bristol and next to a lake, the ‘Chew Valley Lake’. I have to be honest here and say that, of those performers I’ve actually heard of [Sophie Ellis-Bextor, Tiny Tempah, Sister Sledge] I find nobody irresistable, but then I’m always prepared that we will see someone new that we love and besides, there is lot’s more than music to enjoy.

The first difficulty is that we cannot find the place, or rather, our SATNAV cannot find it. The signage is lacking, except for one on a lane where we’re about to turn which declares ‘no access to Valleyfest’. Hmm…

After backtracking, we do find our way, although there are the inevitable narrow, country lanes to navigate. The campervan field we enter is already three quarters full. When we reach the first steward we stop and wait to be directed. He’s an elderly, grizzled hippiesque character with a bedraggled plait and tattoos. He speaks into his walkie-talkie.

‘Can you find a space for this old couple?’ he says…..

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

Erquy and the Elusive Oysters

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With just a couple of days left of our latest French trip, we head up to the coast to be in spitting distance of the return ferry. This time we’ve broken with tradition and opted to return from Cherbourg instaed of Caen.

A town called Erquy looks promising and a campsite overlooking the beach. We leave poor Machecoul and the hopeful ducks, who place themselves stolidly behind the van so that I have to make stern and noisy gestures before we can reverse out of the space.

On arrival to Erquy we become confused, as does the SATNAV, trying several lanes and being instructed be various trying-to-help passers-by. Erquy appears to be spread over a vast area. At last we locate the track down to the site- and it’s steep. We check in and are given a pitch number, 61, although when we find it on this huge site, it’s steeper than any chocks can deal with. As there seem to be plenty of empty spaces, we walk back to reception, where the two young women look mystified by the problem. It’s now I realise that the pitch number is not 61, but 19. Problem solved.

We park up and put chairs in the sun and there’s a view over the rocky shore and ‘Petit Saint Michel’- a tiny island that replicates Mont St Michel and has a miniature chapel perched on top.

But we are dismayed by the distance to Erquy port, where we’d assumed there’d be bars and restaurants, fertile hunting ground, perhaps, for the elusive oysters we’re after. A quick look online shows there’s ONE cafe/bar in striking distance, so we wander along the road outside the site to take a look and yes- past the end of the campsite and around the corner is a small bistro with an outside terrace and a conservatory. Phew! We sit in the sun with beers- there is a narrow view of the shore, then we book a table for later.

At last- there are oysters- and a big plate of crevettes for Husband.

Next day we set off on the coast path, which dips, climbs, crosses roads, goes through a strange housing estate where there’s nobody to be seen, through woods and to some stunning beaches with barely a soul on them.

Eventually we arrive on the outskirts of Erquy the town and port- although it’s still quite a hike- and a steep descent down to the port, although when we get there it’s pleasant but not stunning. We treat ourselves to an ice cream as a reward for trekking so far and to reinforce ourselves for the steep climb back out of town. But it feels like an achievement.

We leave Erquy and travel on to an aire overlooking the sea in striking distance of Cherbourg, where we’ve stayed before. It’s another achievement to have managed the entire trip without electric hook-up. Now- home to get it fixed!

For fiction by me, Jane Deans, search for novels: The Conways at Earthsend [an eco-thriller] and The Year of Familiar Strangers [mystery drama]. Visit my website: janedeans.com

A Place of no Interest

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Machecoul. This is the place we’ve selected to break our journey back northwards, towards home, We’re not in a rush, so can have two or three nights and see the town.

The weather is changing from heatwave into unsettled now, as it is at home, although to begin with it’s still sunny- just not so hot.

The first thing we notice as we approach Machecoul is the giant church. It’s often the case that French churches are huge buildings, dwarfing everthing around them. This one has two imposing twin spires. We turn off into the abrupt entrance to the site, which is municipal and lies on the edge of the town. It’s all perfectly laid out and tidy, next to the river and a canoe centre which is busy on this late Friday afternoon, rumbustious activities with groups of children.

We’ve barely checked in and parked up before a pair of mallards home in on us- quack! quick! New source of food arrived! They positively race towards us as we reverse into the space. Once I’ve unearthed the remai ns of a baguette and shredded it for them, they settle down on the grass next to us. The female- as usual- is much bolder than her partner and after some coaxing gobbles the bread from my hand. The male hangs back but gets cross and attacks her over stray crumbs.

Later, we walk across the bridge and into the small town, where it soon becomes clear that the church is the main/only item of interest. Otherwise there are a couple of streets of shops [and ex-shops], one or two bars and a covered marketplace. There’s also a tourist information office, although it’s mystifying what tourists should do here. There is supposed to be a chateau, but there’s no obvious sign of it- certainly no pointers to its whereabouts.

There’s a PMU bar- always to be relied on, although it doesn’t sell food. It’s busy. Next door is a restaurant, which seems to be the only one operating. It could also get very busy!

Later on we decide to give the restaurant a go. There’s a small table for two by the window. The food is very good- which is a relief!

In the morning, having got bread for lunch, I pop into the [now open] tourist information for a map of the local area, where a lone young woman has been tasked with holding the fort and discover that the chateau is actually opposite our camp site, behind some hefty, locked gates. Who knew? She plies me with a brochure. IT seems, however that the chateau is, in fact a ruin and also cannot be visited! This town seems determined not to attract tourists if it can help it!

The local map suggests walking and cycling routes, so in the afternoon we decide to try the walking route, making our way to the start point and following along a nondescript street by a small ‘canal’- one waterway that would not accomodate anything resembling a barge.

The route is mystifying- sending us, basically, around a housing estate. After an hour or so of trekking along suburban streets past house after house we’ve seen nothing of interest and give up. On the way back we do pass the ‘chateau’, catching a glimpse of the ruins through the thick hedge of trees.

We’ve one final day here and need to run the van out to charge the batteries, so we revisit a coastal fishing hamlet we cycled to years ago. It’s wild and unspoilt, with long rows of fishing huts and just one canalside bar and restaurant. Further on we stop in a deserted car park and make tea. We’ll be off north again tomorrow…

For fiction by me, Jane Deans, search for novels: The Conways at Earthsend [an eco-thriller] and The Year of Familiar Strangers [mystery drama]. Visit my website: janedeans.com

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Weekends Only

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In Port des Barques, the sun continues to shed blistering rays. In our pitch, staying in the shade, Husband returns to the task of repairing the punctures on my bike by inflating the brand new inner tubes we bought while staying at Saint Michel Chef Chef. A fellow French camper offers help [yet again!]. But the repair is not to be, due to the tubes being of the wrong sort [of course!]. In other words, they don’t fit.

In spite of the heat, we walk together up to the little village to research somewhere for an evening meal and to buy bread and [hopefully] pastries. We draw a blank on both counts, All likely-looking cafes inform us that they don’t do evening meals, except on Fridays and Saturdays. It seems that Port des Barques is simply a weekenders type of place. That’s that then. In addition to this, all the bakery signs lead to closures and the grocery shop has no bread and no pastries.

We venture further into the village and away from the sea, where we do find a co-op! We can get a baguette- but no croissants. Further still, we do actually stumble on a boulangerie! Eureka!

Returning back down the road, we make one last attempt to find an evening meal by looking in on a roadside hotel, where we are firmly told ‘Non!’

Later we pack up the van and set off to Rochefort, which is nearby, to visit the Orange telecoms store because the mobile wifi SIM has run out of data, also to visit Decathlon for yet more inner tubes and to bump up the van’s leisure batteries.

Rochefort is beautiful but we’ve done the sightseeing on a previous visit- when I’d erroneously thought it would be a magnet for cheese lovers until I realised that the iconic, blue cheese hails from Roquefort… Today is too hot to trek around the city so we locate the Orange shop, where the assistant takes some persuading to ‘recharge’ the SIM for us, reluctant to accept my poor French as a reason for my failings as a customer- but eventually he complies.

Decathlon is straightforward. This time we’ve brought the wheel and the inner tube is inserted for us [for a price].

Back on site, we wait until the relative cool of early evening to get a stroll up and along the seafront. Beyond the rocky section there’s a slipway and further round, a beach, busy at 7pm, and a cafe under the trees is doing a swift trade. Continuing on, there’s a couple of ancient canon on the clifftop overlooking the fishing huts but not much else. From here we can see the Isle d’Oleron, where we’ve stayed before. All of the islands off the west coast of France are lovely and all quite different in character.

It’s our last night at Port des Barques. In the morning I wake and notice that the laundry door is closed so I dash over and open it to allow the parent swallows to get in and feed the chicks. I glance up and see their tiny heads bobbing up and down- phew! They are still alive…

For fiction by me, Jane Deans, search for novels: The Conways at Earthsend [an eco-thriller] and The Year of Familiar Strangers [mystery drama]. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Parched in des Barques

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Husband has looked through our ACSI book and found us a site thatis new to us, although we know the area well. The weather has continued to warm up as we travel and is edging into hot, rather than warm.

We cross the Charente at La Roche sur Yon, turn on to smaller roads then head for a small peninsula, driving through some villages until we reach the seaside village of Port des Barques. There’s not a lot to the village, although clearly there’s a big focus on shellfish, judging by the stalls lining the seafront car park. Opposite there’s a row of buildings with maybe two or three bars- that’s about it!

We’ll investigate the bars and places to eat later or tomorrow, but we must go on down through the village and to the other side to get to the site.

The site, ‘La Garenne’, [the warren], is vast. Besides being in the ACSI book it’s also a municipal camp site. These are often good value, ‘no frills’ type sites with good services. La Garenne has been kept tidy but not manicured or planted up. The pitches are huge, most with a combination of sun and shade, which suits us nicely as we need sun for solar power and shade for ourselves. We check in and choose a place on a corner near reception, with a big, dense tree on one side and open on the other. Perfect!

The sea is just across the road, although the beach is rocky rather than sandy. Once we’ve set up [which takes all of 5 minutes including pulling out the awning] we take to the shade. Opposite our pitch there is a mobile kiosk and a fenced off area furnished with tables and chairs- all in the shade of the trees. There is also a menu board. It all looks very promising. We chug down some cold beers. Husband asks, “Do we want to cook anything tonight?” It’s hot and we’ve travelled all day and I don’t need asking twice.

At this pop-up restaurant the menu is simple but perfect for a hot evening. There are also more cold beers! I’m in awe of the two women running it, since there’s a steady flow of diners requiring all sorts of things including ice creams and they are on the go constantly in the draining heat, one taking orders and serving and the other cooking. Cooking!

After eating we sit outside long after dark as it’s far too hot to go in. Up among the branches of the dense conifer on our pitch, huge buzzing insects lurch in and out. After much deliberation I decide they must be cicadas, their wings providing the loud buzz as they blunder around. There are also swallows nesting in the laundry, tiny chicks peering out waiting to be fed.

At around midnight we retire to the interior of the van, where in spite of opening all skylights and windows, blacking out the windscreen with our reflective sheet and using nothing but a sheet, the night passes in a restless, sticky drag of wakefulness. The morning dawns just as hot. We’ve just read that Dr Michael Mosely, media health guru, has died while hiking in the heat of a Greek afternoon. Nevertheless, someone has to trek up to the village for bread. Hmmm…

For fiction by me, Jane Deans, search for novels: The Conways at Earthsend [an eco-thriller] and The Year of Familiar Strangers [mystery drama]. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Friendly French!

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Once we’re en route again and heading south, the weather gets better and better. We’d been in a quandary over what we should do, since the electrics have failed again, as they did on our ill-fated Spanish jaunt earlier in the year. They’re supposed to have been repaired…this can only be resolved once we’ve returned home. But should we go north or south? The forecast decides for us- we’ll get more sun and hence more solar power from heading south, so we opt to press on.

It’s a longish haul down the coast and towards La Rochelle. We’ve been down this way countless times now, but we’re headed to an unfamiliar town and site. It’s at Tharron Plage, a satellite of the oddly named ‘St Michel Chef Chef’. The site is ‘Le Vieux Chateau’, although when we arrive it’s hard to see why. Across the road there’s a cylindrical, ochre coloured tower and a long wall; not overly chateau-like, but still…

The site is small and almost entirely occupied by French holiday makers. It becomes clear very soon after we arrive that this is one of the most friendly and welcoming places we’ve stayed- the usually reserved French greeting us and chatting each time they pass.

By now it has become very warm. We have a wander down the road to the seafront and along to the tiny seaside at Tharron Plage and it’s very basic and undeveloped- which is lovely. Along the shoreline, fishing huts on stilts are dotted. There’s a stretch of sand and a few streets with bars, ice cream parlours and cafes but little else, except that the ‘Velodysee’ cycle track runs right along the front. This means that we can get the bikes down off the van and have a go.

It’s a long time since I cycled and some unpleasant physical interventions have taken place since I was in the saddle- but I’m keen to have a go, especially as there’s a ready-made, tarmac, off-road cycle path to use! But sadly, when the bikes are lifted down, my lovely, trusty, Specialized has a major puncture, which Husband sets about mending the following morning, removing the inner tube and submerging it to find the hole. Somehow, though, it proves impossible, since when we think we’ve patched it, it still deflates. Husband spends a lot of time on it- to no avail. A friendly French neighbour tries to help out, too, but all to no avail.

We research and find a bike shop in St Michel Chef Chef. Although it’s Sunday and will be closed we decide to walk and find it- which we do- and yes- it’s closed along with everything else.

In a further twist- Husband’s bike, the Charge Cooker seizes up in an act of rebellion against the heat- which it has done before- so neither bike is rideable. Ho hum.

On Monday it’s still hot, but Husband nobly sets off on foot to get some bread for lunch as there’s none available on site today, meanwhile the friendly Frenchman tells me that everywhere, including the boulangeries, is shut. Husband returns empty handed but with news of a tiny Pizzeria that is open and serving lunches. In the evening we go to a cheerful corner cafe where I get moules and frites and watch as a tiny girl outside at a table tucks into the same thing with gusto!

Then we’re off once more- a little further south as the weather turns ever hotter…

For fiction by me, Jane Deans, search for novels: The Conways at Earthsend [an eco-thriller] and The Year of Familiar Strangers [mystery drama]. Visit my website: janedeans.com