Tag Archives: campsite

Same but Different-

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So we’ve had a few days at Le Gurp, on the Gironde peninsula, where we’ve spent a lot of time over the years. But nowadays, perhaps we’re a little old for the undoubted delights its rustic fabrication offers. We’re ready for a little more in the way of sophistication and comfort- well-lit showers with hooks and ledges, modern laundry facilities, a bar, a cafe, maybe a shop. And Le Gurp is a lot less fun when you aren’t cycling! I’ve missed my bike every day.

Husband brought his new bike and set off along the wonderful forest tracks, full of enthusiasm and anticipation. When lunchtime came and he hadn’t reappeared, I’d just begun to consider ringing him when my phone went- he’d rung me. The wowser new bike, reader, had given up the ghost, leaving Husband with the only option of wheeling it [it could be wheeled] back from where it stopped- near to Montalivet, our nearest, tiny seaside town. That made two of us into non-cyclists.

We’ve chosen to spend the rest of our Gironde sojourn at Montalivet, where there is a resort-type site from which we can walk into the little town. The site has acres of chalets, of course but also areas for tourers, such as ourselves. It’s amazing, with several pools, a complicated spaghettti of water slides, crazy golf, several play areas, a performance arena with stage, a bar, a shop, a beauty salon, hair salon, massage place, gym, gift store etc etc It also has banks of washing machines with integral detergent and operated and paid for by card from a machine on the wall.

It does not, however have toilet seats or toilet paper in the ‘shower block.’sanitaires’.

The site will close in a few days, The tourer part is sparsely occupied and we can choose but some of the pitches are treacherously sandy. The one we choose looks ok- under the pines and with a carpet of needles and bark, but when the van pulls in, it becomes stuck. There is soft sand under the pine needles. The wheels have dug far in. Yikes! But we get the van’s doormats out and under the front wheels and Husband manages to get it out. We choose a different pitch.

The cycle shop Husband found online appears to be never open, in spite of online claims to the contrary, but we can walk to town along any number of leafy lanes. Montalivet is a small, modest seaside place and yet again caters mainly for the surfing community. Near the beach there’s an aire which is so busy there is hardly a knife-width between the motorhomes. It’s another ‘camping car park’ aire [such as we’d used in Grandcamp Maisie] and we’re not tempted to move.

We get a pleasant few days at Montalivet, plus the benefits of freshly laundered clothes and bedding. Some of the restaurants and cafes in the town are closed, indicating the end of season is near. Many are restricting their menus to surfer fare [ie burgers and pizzas] but we manage to find one with a table available along the main street even though most tables are reserved. Their speciality is beef or duck ‘poucent’, which is a type of suspended kebab. We opt for beef and when it arrives it is a gargantuan mass of seared beef pieces. The waitress pours liquid over it and ignites it, then the sauce drips down to mingle with beef juices in a dish of potatoes.

It takes a great deal of chomping to make our way through the poucent, but with a heroic effort we accomplish it- then we have to stagger back, getting hopelessly lost in the labyrinth of roads and eventually arriving to our site.

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

Le Gurp Now and Then

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Enough time has elapsed since we’ve been here in the Gironde for us to have forgotten the way to Le Gurp, so Mrs Garmin has to guide us but the nearer we get the more we recall- villages we’ve cycled to, shops we’ve patronised, bars we’ve had a drink in. Of course, most of this area is sparsely populated and is pine forest- one part that escaped the devastating wildfires of this summer.

Once we’re at the roundabout at the top of the road to the site it’s all very familiar. Not a lot has changed at this site, although it looks as if the shower blocks have had a minor revamp. They are still basic- narrow shower cubicles with little light and nowhere to place anything except the floor.

It isn’t busy. We trundle round to our allocated pitch [they aren’t marked out but we’ll be wanting electricity] and are immediately stopped by a young, breathless German who wants us to go the other side of the road ‘so that he can be with his friends’. I point out that there’s no electric points on the other side and he pipes down. His ‘friends’ appear to be a group of young girls in tents who subsequently hardly seem to register his existence.

Our immediate problem is that the ground is soft sand and we’re very likely to get stuck- not a scenario we relish, although I admit to a little schadenfreude when young Germans car gets stuck. We go to the pitch next door, which is fine and has the advantage of putting more distance between us and the young Germans [who turn out to be a very quiet and trouble-free bunch of girls].

Next we plug in and get no response from the electric point. Hmm…Eventually a man arrives. The site has ‘reverse polarity’ meaning we need a special lead. The man turns it all back on and we’re sorted.

We started coming here when we were still tent camping, more than 20 years ago. There is this, the campsite, then a road over a bridge takes you to a row of cafe/bars,a pizza takeaway, a couple of shops [surf, bakery, small supermarket], a laundry and some eccentric ancient amusement arcade machines. The supermarket is closed for end of season but the bakery is still opening daily and the cafe/bars are still trading. Hooray!

Then there is the beach- a vast, wide expanse of soft white sand where the Atlantic waves roll in, crashing in a riot of foam. To the right the beach goes on and on to the horizon. To the left there are remnants of concrete WW2 defences that are gradually sinking into the sand and have been graffitied, most quite competently, This place is adored by surfers.

The sky is a cloudless blue. Having reminded ourselves of the beach, we turn back and into a bar where we can relax at last with a beer. We’ve stocked up en route and will grab a meal at one of the cafe/bars while here.

Next day. Husband sets off for a bike ride. Tarmac cycle tracks criss-cross the forests everywhere around here and over the years we’ve cycled most of them. Now that we’re here, I begin to miss my bike very much. It’s still too soon after hip surgery for me to cycle. As Husband pedals off, I set off to walk around the site- and this is no mean feat, as it covers a massive area.

As I walk, I’m reminded of some of our experiences here: once with our tent when there was a relentless deluge of rain and we drove across to a village, found a random restaurant and had a wonderful meal, once when a circus arrived and I went to look at the tethered camels and the disconsolate lion slumped behind bars in his prison cage. We’ve done countless cycle rides- to Soulac, a bustling seaside town, to Montalivets, a tiny seaside place nearby and past ‘Euronat’, the largest naturist resort in Europe. Of course, you will encounter naturists on most French beaches and Le Gurp is no exception, but here you will pass by naked cyclists in the woods too- always a vaguely bizarre sight!

It’s fun to see the various rigs and set-ups around the site as I walk- and many hammocks strung between the trees- one serving as a tent, too!

Husband has not returned when I get back and time ticks on past lunch time so I begin to contemplate ringing him…then my phone rings…

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

A Welsh Seaside Walk

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The uplifting feeling of having been to a stadium concert and shared crowd song lasts. Fragments of song revisit and become earworms. Getting down off the top tier of the stand is less onerous than the ascent, although it takes a long time- waiting for row upon row to filter out to the steps so that we’re almost the last. Then walking back around and down the last flights.

I begin to realise I’m starving and it’s late. Outside the stadium there are, of course, food stands; ready and waiting for the stream of hungry gig-goers. There’s no option, at this time of night, other than to indulge in a fast-food binge- which we do, but there’s nowhere to sit and eat it so we’re obliged to eat walking along, which I hate. I’ve never been able to understand the desire to walk along with a coffee or food and I can only really enjoy anything comestible whilst sitting down- preferably at a table.

We reach a main street where a wobbly bench provides a perch and finish off the food. Then it’s back to the hotel for a last beer before bed.

Next day we retrace our steps- station- station and return to the van [hopefully]. En route I do experience some trepidation. What if it’s been robbed? Or vandalised? But no- there it is, squeezed into the little ‘Just Park’ space in the housing estate with no ill effects. And it’s cool, too, from having had the curtains drawn. Phew!

Since we’re here in Wales it seems rude not to spend a bit more time and we’re off towards Porth Cawl, where we’ve booked a site nearby on the outskirts of a village called Nottage. We need to negotiate some tiny, narrow lanes to get there but we find the site, yet another farm venue. It’s clearly a regulars’ holiday spot, with many of the units housing folks who know each other. They’re friendly to us, too- helping out when we have trouble with the hook-up. It’s a little cheeky of the site to charge electricity on top of their tariff, but there’s nothing to be done about it now.

Down the lane outside, under a railway bridge, turn right and up another hill and we are in Nottage, which has two pubs, both of which look lovely.

We get a beer in one of them and assess its possibility for a meal next day.

We can walk to Porth Cawl from our site, along a footpath, first to Nottage then across the road and past a quaint forge, though I’m disappointed not to see a horse in the process of getting shoes…

After a while, traipsing up and down and past houses then along some coast path, we get to the outskirts of Porth Cawl. First impressions are of a run down seaside town, down on its luck, but it’s not true of all of the town. Once there was a swanky pavilion, but it’s fenced off, hopefully to be renovated. Further along there’s a a marina. Most of the front is smart and landscaped, however there’s no sign of a public lavatory anywhere!

We choose a seafront cafe for tea and cake, timing it well as while we’re inside the heavens open and we emerge to wet pavements.

We walk along the High Street which boasts some sea-themed sculptures and a small market cross, but little else of interest. But we can get a bus back to Nottage- which is a result!

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

On to Salamanca

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So we leave Burgos and continue down towards our next stop, Salamanca. The Spanish motorways are excellent; toll-free, quiet and well served with service areas, although they do vary quite a bit, some being right by the roadside, others a detour into a village. Some of the roadside ones boast modest hotels, together with a host of facilities including cafes and shops. Others may just be a petrol station with a coffee machine.

We take a break, veering off to a village gas station where a man emerges and dolls out the diesel rather than it being self-service. This is endearing, a step back in time for us. There is a small parking area and three picnic tables beside the petrol station and as it’s fine enough to sit outside we have coffee at one of the tables, entertained by a stream of hikers, pilgrims making their way along the path towards Santiago de Compostela. At this stage, close to Easter, it seems unlikely that they’ll achieve Santiago, but perhaps they use a cheeky bit of public transport? Or is part of the way enough? At one point an entire family turns up in a 4×4, get out, smoke cigarettes, change their shoes and set off walking…

It’s not too far to Salamanca. For those who haven’t been to this most gorgeous of cities, it is well worth a visit- a historic centre of beautiful buildings of golden stone- best seen in sunshine, when the yellow stone zings. But again, we’ve been before and it’s not our destination this time so we check in for one night. I remember the site, tidy and tree strewn, by a river, with a cycle/footpath leading into the city. The sun has enough warmth for us to get chairs out for a bask, which we do. There’s also a tempting looking restaurant at which we just about manage to squeeze a booking by saying we’ll go at 9.30pm. It’s a wonderful meal, though and worth the wait, and while we feel it’s late for us to be eating there are many coming in later still on this Saturday night- some at 10.30pm! This is Spain, after all, with a culture of late evening dining that includes small children, too.

We’re off again in the morning, the weather having turned more gloomy, but we strike out on the road to Caceres- another city we’ve visited in the past, memorable for its nesting storks on every lofty perch, its wacky Easter parades of floats and pointy-hat adorned bearers and its huge plates of beef. En route we stop at a wonderful service area with a fruit and veg stall, shop and cafe, where coaches are pulling in, presumably carrying Easter travellers. Easter is a big holiday for the Spanish and everyone, it seems, is on the move.

By the time we get to Caceres there’s a strong breeze blowing. We locate the camp site but it’s not one we recognise and I’m at a loss to recall where we staryed last time. This site is opposite and industrial estate and is terraced, with pitches housing individual bathrooms, according to our ACSI book. We check in and find our pitch, which is under a large tree. When I take a look at the bathroom I’m less than impressed. It’s grubby, with leaves blown inside and furniture piled up in the shower cubicle.

I go in to put the kettle on while Husband grabs the cable to plug the van in. But there’s no power. He tries the socket in the neighbouring [empty] pitch. No power. He goes to reception, where he’s told it’s ok to use next-door’s socket, although it’s becoming clear that something is badly amiss. Next door’s bathroom, however, is altogether cleaner, so I get a shower in there before anyone else turns up- which they do- a massive motorhome and a woman gabbling a tirade of French at us with no thought that we might not be compatriots on this Spanish site…

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

Caught without a Web

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We arrive to the camp site at Burgos. We’ve been here before, years ago [and a similar time of year] when the weather was bitter cold and miserable and everyone was wrapped up in thick coats and woolly hats. Today, though, it’s warm and sunny, and since we didn’t get to look at Burgos last time it seems like we can now.

But there’s trouble ahead. Having parked up, plugged in and put the kettle on it looks like the swanky, new Avtex internet device Husband got installed into the van isn’t working, although it certainly did work at home in the UK. We try various options, type in assorted numbers on devices, turn off and on [as one does]. On my laptop, a page prompts me to type in a phone number and all numbers are rejected. I begin to feel frustrated. I call ‘3’, the provider whose page comes up. I have an increasingly stressful conversation with a distant, heavily accented ‘3’ assistant. I feel hot and irritated and am told to stop by Husband, which I do. Worse still, the site has no wifi.

In reception, Husband is given directions to a shopping centre which we can visit tomorrow to seek out, perhaps, a solution.

Next morning is sunny again and after coffee we set off to ‘Al Campo’ in the town, which turns out to be a large shopping complex with plenty of parking opposite. Inside, the first sighting is a small booth of a phone shop. The assistant shrugs when we ask for help and shrugs again when we ask if there’s somewhere else. Upstairs it’s the same story. Defeated, we descend to the ground floor again and there!, there is a Vodaphone shop next door to an Orange shop, almost opposite the small phone shop. In France we get Orange sim cards for our mobile wifi device, so it’s clear we’ll have to ditch the wondrous Avtex and return to our tried and tested method. We enter the shop. An able and amiable assistant tells us ‘yes- sure we can do it’, speaking near-perfect English, too. I feel my shoulders relax. There’s the usual wait for paperwork then we’re set. Hooray! We go across the road and have a tapas lunch to celebrate.

Of course, we survived years of tent camping trips before the internet was conceived of…

Back on site, we allow ourselves a short bask in the sunshine before getting a late afternoon bus into Burgos centre. It’s still hot and walking round feels like hard work, but we find our way to the cathedral, which is the city’s main attraction, the Catedral de Santa Maria. It’s a UNESCO site and well deserved. While the outer parts of Burgos are modern and high-rise, the old centre is beautiful and characterful.

At last we give up sightseeing in the heat, get an early evening beer and people watch. We’ll be off again in the morning, heading ever southwards…

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

The Backwoods

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The camp site just outside Jasper is wooded, with cleared areas for pitches. It seems bizarre to me that so many people have opted for the rustic, non-electric-hook-up, no-hard-standing pitches and all they desire is a fire pit and a pile of wood. As long as fires are lit using the braziers provided anyone is at liberty to toast themselves outside by a roaring fire, which appears to be the favourite activity here. If more wood is required there is a pile of it waiting to be chopped and axes for kindling. You have to trust that there are no raving, lunatic axe-wielding serial killers among the camping community. Given that the summer wildfires were so devastating it’s a surprise to find that outside burning is not only allowed, but encouraged.

A fair number of our fellow campers are using tiny tents, too, so, given that the night-time temperatures are quite low they are a tough bunch!

Since our arrival I’ve slumped in the passenger seat of our van and had a snooze. When I wake something feels different. I’m less ‘floaty’. I feel a bit better. Yes- I’m still coughing, but it’s a definite improvement. I wander round to a shower facility and it’s surprisingly good for such a rustic site.

We’ve continued to use the table/bed [me] and a mattress on the floor [Husband], for sleeping. During the night I wake to the sight of Husband, struggling to get up and disorientated. I lever him upright. He’s burning hot. It’s clear he’s succumbed to the dreaded Covid, as I did. Horrors! straight away I administer Paracetamol and swap beds; now he has the table/bed and I have the floor, which is not conducive to cosy slumber. By the morning though, he has rallied and feels ok for now.

On a recce of the site, Husband has spotted a different area altogether, purpose built for motorhomes and campervans. It’s hard standing and has hook-up, as well as its own shower facilities. Better still- and bizarrely- the hard standing pitches are cheaper than the rest of the site. There is one, spare spot- which we move to, gratefully. From our new position we can see the Jasper Skytram, a glistening dot travelling up and down the mountain. But there are still no bears…not one, single distant, furry form…anywhere.

The shuttle bus stops a few yards from our van, with hardly anyone on board so we hop on and go to have a look at the town. The first thing I notice is the railway tracks, a station and a couple of huge, historic engines displayed along the roadside. We get off at what seems like the main street, although it’s soon clear that Jasper, though cute and in a stunning location, is a tiny town. What there is is also set up almost entirely for tourists, the stores selling mainly outdoor gear for walking, climbing, hiking, skiing and other pursuits, with a few gift shops thrown in, one being ‘Bearbury, which would be more amusing if there were bears…

But there is a visitor centre where we book a visit to ‘Spirit Lake’ for next day, Husband going in to reserve it while I wait outside as I’m still coughing. After a search we do find a small supermarket, tucked away between the tourist shops.

Then it’s back to site on the bus. The night is cold and we’re glad of the heater, although our neighbours are all sitting outside by their blazing log fires, knocking back wine.

In the morning when I step outside there’s a layer of frost over everything! Frost in September! This is not something we are used to in the UK. It does, however herald a blue sky and a bright, sunny day, so we anchor all loose items in the van and set out towards Jasper for our day trip to Spirit Lake.

To find novels by Jane Deans, Grace’s alter ego, search Amazon, Waterstones, Goodreads and other book sites. The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend are widely available. Visit my Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100063988575981

Cold…and Hot

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During the evening of our first night in the campervan on MaCleans camp site I begin to feel hot, then hotter…and I’m burning up. We’ve managed to concoct a meal with the help of our neighbours, who donated us a spare lighter for our non-self-igniting hob. The high temperature I’m experiencing is certainly not to due the outside air, which is cold, although one thing that does function in the van is the heater, for which we are to be very glad! The water heater and the shower seem to work, thank goodness.

Our neighbours stay outside long after dark, sitting by the log fire. The sight of camping Canadians toasting themselves by fires becomes familiar and it’s clearly a favourite activity for them as it happens wherever we go.

It’s clear I’m incubating something, so I take some Paracetamol, which eases it, and we consider how we’ll cope with the sleeping arrangement. There are two mattresses [thin, hard and cold] above the driver cab, which we do not plan to use. We knew when we booked that the van would be designed this way and had taken an optimistic view that we would cope, but we’re not going to be clambering up and down from the lofty bed.

The benches either side of the table convert to a bed, however it doesn’t accommodate two. Hmm… Since I’m not 100%, Husband volunteers to sleep on one of the top mattresses in the aisle, where there’s just about room, so we make the beds and settle down. The sleeping arrangement is far from perfect, the floor position, in particular making for an uncomfortable night.

The next morning is cold, with watery sunlight through the tall pines and I get out and stand in a patch of it.

The next challenge is to get to grips with emptying and filling the van. We’ve seen the video and we know where to stop so after stowing everything we trundle around to the van station and join a queue. Once it’s our turn we pull up by the drain and pull out the hose. The system is not like our own, where we’re used to emptying a cartridge which slots out of the side. Here there is a hose- first for the toilet waste then secondly the grey water. We learn our first lesson: ensure the valve is switched to the correct outlet before undoing the cap-

In a horrific gush, the effluent from our toilet floods out across the tarmac, to the accompanying shouts of disgust from fellow campers. Yikes! Husband manages to switch- but not before we’ve caused a substantial mess, which I must then use the water hose to clear up. We’re mortified, but were not to know and will not make the same mistake again. The water filling, more straightforward, goes ok.

We’re off back to Banff, because Husband has managed to secure us a pitch on a site in the national park called Tunnel Mountain. Besides the pitch price we must also pay national park entry and stay, but it’s a profound relief to have somewhere to park up. It’s easy enough to get back onto the main highway by retracing our steps and we’re even getting used to the van wobbles, but we narrowly avoid a serious incident as we approach Banff. The road in this direction splits and we find ourselves in a lane leading to some ticket booths- the park entrance. Somehow we’ve missed the [one] lane which is just the continuation of the road. Husband begins to reverse the van and then, at the highway, he signals right…but NO…no, no, no, no, no!! We’re on the wrong side- facing the traffic!!

There’s a lot of flashing and hooting as we make a swift reverse back round the corner, crisis averted, then look for a way. We need to turn left and take the exit road then cross the highway via a bridge, a diversion we have to take twice before we spot the one lane that’s a continuation of the highway- the extreme right, beside the park booth lanes. But at last we make it…

To find novels by Jane Deans, Grace’s alter ego, search Amazon, Waterstones, Goodreads and other book sites. The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend are widely available. Visit my Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100063988575981

A Further Unravelling…

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From the Fairfield Inn, Calgary, we’ve managed to get our first night’s campsite sorted, had a respectable meal at a nearby pub and we prepare to sleep. As I begin to drift off, a small, irritating cough sets in, interrupting my slumbers and making for a less than restful night.

In the morning we’ve a few hours left before we can collect our rental campervan from Cruise Canada, so having done our best to make tea in the plastic beakers, Husband suggests we try and get some mobile wifi working on our gadget, by visiting a nearby telecoms shop which is located in a central shopping mall. In France, we’ve become used to collecting a SIM card from Orange and it seem’s logical that we could have a similar arrangement, although by no means guaranteed.

We find the shopping mall and the store, where we draw a blank but are redirected, then redirected again to more telecoms stores. In the end we opt for a local SIM card in my phone, as nobody is able to get our gadget working. We return to the hotel where we pack up and order a taxi to the rental depot.

By the time we arrive at Cruise Canada I’ve begun to feel a little lethargic and under par. The depot is closed, presumably for lunch and we settle to wait on a bench facing the various vans and motorhomes, along with a German couple with whom we share plans. They have very wisely reserved their pitches from home, a strategy I now wish we’d adopted!

At last the place opens and soon we’re wading through pages of paperwork and agreements before being taken to ‘our’ van. We get a peremptory look along with stern warnings regarding emptying and cleaning prior to return, then we’re directed to fetch our bedding packs from an adjoining store. Other than this, it’s left to us. Husband climbs into the driving seat to have a go- he can take the vehicle for a couple of circuits of the car park, but it’s easier said than done. ‘I thought you said you had your own camper’, the weary woman showing us observes. But this, this campervan is nothing like ours, as we are increasingly to discover…

I watch as Husband lurches the vehicle around the car park, then I get in and we exit the depot in search of a supermarket. It’s immediately clear that the van cannot/will not/does not drive in a straight line, rather swerves in unnerving lunges, making steering hard work. There are, allegedly, supermarkets around here…but where, exactly? We take a few turns and then backtrack a bit, my heart in my mouth as Husband juggles the idiosyncracies of the van, the unfamiliar roads and the traffic. Yikes!

On our way back down the road I do spot a grocery store, ‘Hello Fresh!’ and we pull in and park, much to my relief. Inside we pick up as much useful shopping as we can, stow it and make our way towards what is, hopefully, ‘Highway 1’. By some miracle we get on to it and begin to exit Calgary, back on the road we came by bus- and yes- I’m relieved to spot the Olympic Ski jump, now on the left as we go out of town.

Now to locate the camp site. It should be easy enough, shouldn’t it?

I have the location of the site on my phone, yes, but we’re unused to the distances of this vast country. Coupled with the wobbly nature of the van it leads to us overshooting our turn-off by quite a bit, as we discover when we stop at the First Nations’ casino and gas station to ask where on Earth the site is.

This results in a long trek back along the highway, then a meandering journey into the wilderness. This time I’m more trustful of my phone’s navigation and we follow the tiny dot, turning where indicated, then, EUREKA! We reach the site’s entrance and drive up a winding track, then we have, in fact, arrived. There’s a car park by a store, which also serves as reception where we check in. Phew! We’re also able to supplement the lamentable equipment in our household ‘kit’, which lacks, amongst other items, a kettle and a coffee pot.

The pitch we’ve been allocated is accessed by another long, winding lane; the site being arranged in ‘loops’ off the lane. It is massive, but we get there and park up in a kind of wooded cul-de-sac, where we are almost, but not quite, alone…

Like any typical British adult, I’m gagging for a cup of tea, so I fill a saucepan [as I said, no kettle] and attemp to ignite the gas ring…which solidly refuses to comply…Hmmm…

To find novels by Jane Deans, Grace’s alter ego, search Amazon, Waterstones, Goodreads and other book sites. The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend are widely available. Visit my Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100063988575981

On to Calgary

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We’ve had two nights in Banff and we must now go and fetch our vehicle for the next ten days, which means a trip to Calgary, a couple of hours away. In order to do this we need to pack up and get to Banff bus station, where we’ll be getting ‘Brewsters Shuttle’. The bus station is smallish but it’s clear which bay we’ll need to wait at. When the bus pulls in we meet our driver, ‘Pat’ who is both jocular and informative. We’re armed with lunch from the town deli, which we’re intending to eat en route, since the journey will be over lunchtime.

The bus exits Banff and sets off along Highway 1. This is a major route, the ‘trans-Canada highway’ across all of Canada from West to East, 651 miles. Pat, the driver knows a lot about many subjects, especially geology and seems to be an expert on the local mountains. Something that astonishes me is that once we’re away from the mountains- which doesn’t take all that long, the terrain is all prairie right up to the lakes on the other side of the country. But we’re not going that far, and before long we’re entering the outskirts of Calgary, with the winter Olympic ski jump tower visible on the right. This is to prove helpful in our efforts to navigate to and from Calgary!

As we get towards the centre, Pat begins dropping passengers off at various points, mostly hotels, but he is not able to drop us at ours, the ‘Fairfield Inn’, owing to the fact that there is no access for the bus under the railway line. We get off at the Fairmont, [another Fairmont!] and must find out way to the Fairfield- which feels confusing, but after asking and using my phone we set off in the direction of the Fairfield Inn. Central Calgary looks unremarkable at this point- high rise architecture but without the pizzazz and style of Vancouver.

Trundling our cases, we trudge to the hotel, which is supposed to be part of the Marriott chain, although I’d have expected something a little more upmarket, since it’s on a side street and decidedly lacklustre. Our room is clean but not large. The fixtures and fittings are cheap and nasty and the coffee cups are plastic single-use. It is adequate, though not as good as a Premier Inn in the UK, which is bog standard for hotels. Ho Hum.

But there is internet, which is vital for us this evening, because we must reserve a camping pitch for tomorrow night and we don’t have any resources except Google to find one, whcih must not be too far to reach in an afternoon. We won’t be able to collect the van until then.

We settle to the task, then it begins to become clear that we’d overestimated the simplicity of it. We can find sites, but they are seriously busy! Not at all the ‘low season’ empty state we’d been led to believe. Most are full. It’s a blow. What on Earth are we going to do?

I search and search, then find a site- ‘Macleans’ somewhere between Calgary and Banff, which we’d been planning to return to. There are pitches, albeit without electricity, and it’s vast, but I’m not able to reserve until I’ve set up an account, which proves impossible. In desperation I phone up- and beg the woman on the end of the line to stay with me until i’ve set up an account…and…phew! I get a pitch! Now for the next hurdle… and things become trickier than ever…

Grace is the alter ego of novelist and short story writer, Jane Deans. To date I have two published novels to my name: The Conways at Earthsend [https://www.amazon.co.uk/Conways-at-Earthsend-Jane-Deans-ebook/dp/B08VNQT5YC/ref=sr_1_1?crid=2ZHXO7687MYXE&keywords=the+conways+at+earthsend&qid=1673350649&sprefix=the+conways+at+earthsend%2Caps%2C79&sr=8-1 and The Year of Familiar Strangers [https://www.amazon.co.uk/Year-Familiar-Strangers-Jane-Deans-ebook/dp/B00EWNXIFA/ref=sr_1_1?crid=2EQHJGCF8DSSL&keywords=The+year+of+familiar+strangers&qid=1673350789&sprefix=the+year+of+familiar+strangers%2Caps%2C82&sr=8-1 Visit my writer Facebook page [https://www.facebook.com/search/top?q=jane%20deans%2C%20novellist%2C%20short%20fiction%20and%20blog or my website: https://www.janedeans.com/