Tag Archives: campervan

Wine and Oysters

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The islands off the west coast, the Atlantic coast of France are all beautiful and all worth visiting for their individual attributes, but Ile de Re has a special place in the hearts of many, for a plethora of reasons. We haven’t visited for years, so this is the destination for this jaunt to France.

To get to this small island you only need to cross a bridge from La Rochelle- first paying a toll, of course, which pays for your trip there and back.

Once across, we only have a couple of miles to our first, chosen site, at Bois de la Plage. And it’s much as its name describes, a wood at the beach, the site nestling in the dunes, which makes it undulating but with a good choice of pitches. We select from the options- an elevated pitch, although the beach and sea are not visible over the next line of dunes.

There are more tourers here, even a few British, the first we’ve seen on this trip. however there’s a brisk, cool wind, so lolling around in the sunshine is less likely than at Vannes.

The island is a cyclists heaven and you could be forgiven for thinking it was The Netherlands, since the off-road cycle tracks are everywhere and busy with whole families or individuals in the saddle, enjoying the easy, flat terrain. Besides beaches and oyster beds there are acres of vineyards between the communities.

Nowhere here is large or sprawling, the biggest town being the island’s capital, Saint-Martin-de-Re. We’ve visited before [and photographed] so we’ll by-pass it this time. But we’ll take a look at Bois de la Plage while we’re here. It’s just a 15 minute walk from our site, along residential lanes, the homes white-painted, single storey with shutters and neat gardens- some clearly holiday homes.

Bois de la Plage is not a throbbing metropolis and has a few small shops- a salt seller, shoe shop, florist, tobacconist. There’s an indoor market, closed today, a picturesque church and a few cafes. We’re on the lookout for somewhere to eat, and while a restaurant near the beach looks lovely, the menu is offering too much ‘tartare’ for our liking. One on a corner in the little town centre, though, Le Moulin a Cafe, offers a good looking menu and, crucially, oysters.

At the entrance to our site there is a bar/cafe, which is fine for a drink- and even has a selection of cocktails, although the food offerings are of the burger and pizza variety. It’s noticeable that French diners appear to be going for more fast food options these days. We wander down in the early evening but there’s a chilly wind and it’s not cosy inside the canvas dining and drinking area, as the breeze blows in.

The beach here is typical of this French Atlantic coast, vast, sandy and with lively rolling waves, the kind of beach that surfers love, and one afternoon we return to our site along the sand, turning into the site beach access.

We go to eat at the Moulin. It’s a little quiet, which is unnerving, and we’re led into the back, but as usual we’re out to eat much earlier than the French so as the evening progresses more diners arrive. We have oysters. I didn’t try an oyster until I was in my fifties and immediately became a fan, which was a surprise!

It’s time to move on- but we’re not done with Ile de Re yet…

La Fuite

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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

Van to Vannes

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We’ve not been back long from Malta- but feel it’s time to get off somewhere in the van. There have been unfortunate circumstances punctuating our van travel in the last few years but we’re hopeful, now, that things have been resolved.

We won’t be doing anything exceptional, rather visiting familiar territory in easy, comfortable France, where vans and motorhomes are catered for better than anywhere.

Packing the van is never my favourite part of van travel but it gets done and we manage the early morning scramble [when I have to wrestle with the fridge contents] and short drive to our local port of Poole, arriving to a quiet check-in with only a few vehicles and even fewer campervans.

Then we’re on board and the sun is streaming through the windows as we exit Poole Harbour- a very beautiful area, for those who don’t know it- and enjoy Brittany Ferries’ coffee and pastries, which are very welcome. Then I do my usual descent down to the couchettes for a snooze and a read, which is really the only way to pass the four hour crossing. We’ve long since given up looking round the shop or wandering the decks. Other than one or two families with very young children or babies, the boat is quiet.

Once arrived, we go first to the ‘Orange’ shop at Cherbourg [known to us now] to get a SIM for our little mobile internet device- then we’re set. And we belt down our well known route, past Avranches, Mont Saint Michel etc until we arrive at Saint Brice en Cogles, a small town with a wonderful aire that we know very well having used it for years. There is always a new addition, an extension or an improvement to this free parking area with all services, in front of a cemetery and next to the police station! And we’ve a handful of French motorhomes for company.

The weather is too lovely to start cooking so we wander into the little town to find a bar- not easy this evening when most places seem closed. But the trusty PMU is open- although it’s not obvious- and busy with locals, so we can find a table and enjoy a beer- or two. Then it’s back to the van for dinner.

In the morning there are the usual chores- emptying, filling with water, ditching trash [taking great care over the recycling- the French are very particular in providing a range of bins] and we’re off again, heading south. And on to Vannes, Brittany, on the Gulf of Morbihan, to a site we’ve stayed at before- one of a chain of sites. Site chains are becoming increasingly common now. They can be more expensive than smaller, independent sites, but this one- part of the daftly named ‘Flower Campings’ conglomerate, is not too pricey, is convenient and offers all we need.

The skies over Vannes are blue, the temperature heating up and we’re here for a few days. We’ll take another look at the city of Vannes, which we can walk to along a very pleasant footpath and we can also relax in some much needed sun.

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

Beer, Burgers and Beats

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It turns out we’re not finished with festivals yet. I’ve spotted an ad for a local beer festival in a neighbouring village which looks to be hosting a lot of music as well as food. While it’s not far from us [just a few miles up the road], there’s no chance of getting home after an evening of beer without a loooong wait for a taxi [which we’ve done before[, And it so happens that there’s a site we can stay in very close to the host pub- The Three Tuns. It feels good to be using the van again, even if we’re sliding into autumn.

But by the time we’ve sprung into action, booking tickets and looking into staying, the site is very much booked up- due to the beer festival of course! We’re only staying three nights, however, and can manage without hook-up, so when we’re offered a pitch on the tent field we agree.

Bransgore is a large village on the fringe of the New Forest National Park and has seen an explosion of housing in recent years. It is popular, with a useful selection of shops, a couple of pubs, a primary school, cafes, a church and a garden centre.

We’re in luck, discovering when we arrive that a hook-up pitch has become available. W park up next to a caravan where a lone man is setting up. He’s from Manchester, waiting for his brother to join him. There’s also a group of young men pitching tents, a rugby club, Reading, as the text on their gazebo declares, so perhaps we’re the most local festival goers on the site. While it’s quite sunny, the temperature isn’t warm as it might be for early autumn and I’m glad of the van’s cosy heating system as well as impressed by the tent campers’ hardiness [though they are from a rugby club].

As twilight desends we make our way down to the pub. where the festival is well underway. There is a burger stall, which we intemd to patronise later, a large beer tent, its walls lined with beer barrels on one side and cider kegs on the other, a tent with a few tables and chairs and an enormous marquee from which music is already emanating. Having collected our tokens, we head to the beer tent to seek a menu for the beers and undertake the difficult job of choosing one. Husband is the beer connossieur of the two of us and I am the uncultured one, as I dislike anything too sharp and hoppy and prefer the richer, browner beers- or even a porter in the colder months. Neither of us, however goes for the mad, high-alcohol-content ones.

We’ve brought fold-up camp chairs with us and once we’re sorted with a drink we settle down to have a look at whatever band is playing. This is a local festival with local musicians. Mostly they’re playing covers, which is ok by me- except that I have an aversion to one or two songs that are variously overdone/not much good to start with. I object to ‘Brown-eyed Girl’ by Van Morrrison on the grounds that it has been done to death. I’m tired to death of Oasis’ ‘Don’t Look Back in Anger’ and I have always loathed ‘Your Sex is on Fire’ due to the idiocy of its lyrics. See what I mean?

We’re coping with burgers tonight- not generally a choice I make but a pragmatic decision springing from no desire to cook anything combined with not wishing to go backwards and forwards from site to festival. and there’s always tomorrow night…

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

An Otter but no Beavers

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Having setttled in at the oddly named ‘Pooh Cottage’ site, we opt for a wander into Budleigh Salterton, along the lanes into the back of this tiny Devon town, then down to the front. Whlle Budleigh Salterton is a typical, British, seaside town it is pleasingly undeveloped, boasting no high rise hotels, lurid arcades or Bingo parlours. The beach is pebbly and fringed with a few beach huts, plenty of fishermen’s paraphernalia and a promenade. A cursory stroll on the prom reveals a little gem- a small, rustic seafood restaurant with all kinds of delicious-looking items. Rockfish Cafe. Over a coffee we peruse the menu and resolve to return in a day or two.

On our way back to site we stop in Knowle village and get a beer at the lone pub, The Dog and Donkey, which also offers a tolerable menu, meaning there won’t be a whole load of cooking going on before we get home!

The weather is still good and we’re up for a good walk next day, striking out and up a long hill by the golf course. Once we’ve gained the top there are great views down to Budleigh beach one side and Exmouth the other, then a narrow, downhill track leads to the town. The streets behind the beach offer a few interesting, independent shops as well as a Co-op and the usual crop of charity shops. One tiny shop has attracted a sizeable queue for ice cream so it seems churlish not to join it. The quirky store’s walls are lined with jars of interesting herbs, nuts, spices and pulses as well as old favourites such as peanut brittle, so there’s plenty to look at while we wait.

Later we’re back for the seafood at Rockfish Cafe and it’s a chance to have lobster- something which doesn’t present itself too often. It’s delicious- served with very little besides mayonnaise, crusty bread and some lettuce. Perfect!

On our last day we opt to start off at the estuary of the River Otter and follow the river upstream- a scenic route beside water meadows. Of course, seabirds are everywhere here, searching the mud for tasty treats. There are beavers here in the river, though we’re unlikely to spot any unless we’re up at dawn- which is never going to happen for us!

The footpath comes to a halt at a bridge and a water mill where there is a cafe, gift shop and farm shop selling all kinds of items. It’s pleasant, tables placed outside by the millstream. It’s also very busy, thronged with tourists. After restorative coffee and cake we retrace our steps back along the river to the estuary and back to Pooh Cottage.

Later, at the Dog and Donkey, we eat a mediocre meal and sit back as an ’80s Night’ begins to get underway in the huge room at the rear of the pub. A trickle of people files past us, attired in appropriate 80s garb, which is enough entertainment as we finish beers and creak our way up the hill to the site and our van. Farewell Devon for now…

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

Not Winnie…

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For our third day at Bagwell Farm we’re off on another walk- in the other direction this time but again, from the site, starting off up a hill and eventually coming across Fleet and old Fleet church, tiny and charming with its own miniature churchyard. You can go inside, too, which I do and there are just a few pews, an altar and everything a church needs. A left behind cardigan slung over the back of a pew signals that the church is used. We have a sit on a stone bench outside. There are glimpses of the water through the trees.

Then we’re following the lagoon behind Chesil Beach again, coming round the coast path to an enormous, white hotel, Moonfleet Manor, sitting in an imposing position overlooking the sea. It’s a warm day and we’ve been walking so when we spot an ice-cream sign it feels rude not to investigate. But we have to work for it! The obvious entry point to the hotel is embellished with ‘no entry to hotel’. We backtrack. We must enter through the garden, which is behind a wall. It’s very lovely, with raised beds full of all kinds of interesting plants, but there’s no sign of an ice-cream. [It occurs to me that recent posts must convey the impression that I am on a constant search for ice-cream, although on this occasion it’s Husband’s idea…].

Getting through the garden is not the last part of the quest- we need to circlumnavigate the entire hotel building until we find the cafe at the top of a great lawn and there, finally, is the ice cream machine. We get our reward, a brief interlude before the hike back to site. It’s the last day before we move so we give The Red Barn- the site’s own pub/cafe, a try. The food on offer is mostly pub grub, ie burgers, battered fish, lasagne- all with chips, but it’s good enough for a cook-free evening after a long walk.

Next we’re off into Devon, our next-door county and to a site called Pooh Cottage in the village of Knowle, near Budleigh Salterton. On arrival to the site, off Bear Lane, we trundle up a slope and are met by loops of caravans and motorhomes immaculately parked on hard standing pitches round manicured ovals of lawn. Reception is in a kind of log cabin. it’s quiet- eerily so.

We’re led off to our pitch by the owner- who I’m tempted to call Mr Pooh but I manage to suppress the urge, although we’re allotted a pitch in a field at the back where there’s just one other unit. It feels a little second class here in a featureless field with tall hedges but no matter. The village of Knowle is down the lane, across a busy road and down again. There isn’t much to Knowle but it does have a pub, at least! And it is walking distance to Budleigh Salterton, where we’ve been before but will revisit.

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

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