Tag Archives: France

At the Loire, Staying in our Camping Car…

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Ancenis, on the majestic Loire, is a new one for us. We managed to exit the camping car park aire at Grandcamp Maisie, travelled a fair distance and arrived at this site on the outskirts after negotiating a plethora of roundabouts.

It’s quite a large site, laid out with mature shrubs and trees and could be magnificent with a little TLC but it’s a little ragged round the edges- the services clean but shabby and a little grounds work needed. It isn’t busy and we can choose where to park. During the day, the weather, despite the overcast sky, has become humid and warm and when the sun comes out it’s hot. We choose a shady pitch.

The night is uncomfortably hot and although we employ our fans, sleep. for me is evasive. We’re here for three nights so we opt to explore Ancenis’ sights in the afternoon. I’d had a short walk from our site along the river path- the Loire itself quite distant across a huge beach. Now we walk along a boulevard, past petanque courts and to the town bridge, where there are a smattering of bars and a handsome chateau. It’s clear that the chateau is the jewel in Ancenis’ crown since although the town has some attractive buildings there’s not a lot else.

I’ve brought a list of a few things we need but nowhere is open on this Saturday afternoon, only a few bars hosting a smattering of customers.

After a cooler night, the following day becomes hotter than ever but since activity is called for, Husband opts to go for a bike ride along the ‘Loire a velo’ cycle path and I set off in the other direction walking. Although the path along by the river is shady, it soon becomes hard work in the heat and the humidity. There’s also little of interest except the river on one side and fields on the other. While I do press on, the heat becomes oppressive and when I arrive at a car park, I decide to call it a day and turn back.

I’m a little relieved to see the site and when I get to the van I collapse on the bench seat inside, grabbing a flannel, wetting it under the tap and draping it over my face. Husband appears a few minutes later, having curtailed his ride for similar reasons. It is just too hot to exercise, the temperature having reached the mid 30s yet again, another mini heatwave.

After cooling ice creams, we take ourselves to the bar for beers then have a late evening meal in the cool outside. ‘It’ll be cooler tomorrow’ Husband, a bit of a weather expert, says. And it is.

We’re on the move again, a dash down the autoroute to Saint Palais sur Mer, overlooking the Gironde river estuary. We stayed there many years ago when we had our first little van, a gorgeous VW with a pop-up roof. I remember the site as a mere field with a few basic services. I recall it being situated across the road from the water but can remember little else. But all is to be revealed… .

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

Happy, Sad, Challenged and Relieved…

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So here, at the beginning of September, we are in France. The Barfleur [about which, more later] was busy on this Thursday morning, heaving with both young couples and their pre-schoolers and decrepit, or less ancient retirees, all of us revelling in this just-post-summer start of the school year. This is an altogether delightful time for us, for Husband and myself because for all of our working lives we were stuck with school holidays and now we are free to travel at this balmy, end of season time- what travel writers like to call the ‘elbow’ season.

If anyone had asked me a couple of months ago if we’d be away this September I’d have scoffed. Major surgery was looming. I didn’t expect to be mobile to this extent. OK, I’m not to cycle and there are other restrictions for a while yet, but I can certainly walk, explore, observe and photograph. It doesn’t seem long since I was handing my camera over to Husband as he strode off and left me seated somewhere.

I felt a twinge of sadness as our ferry chugged out of Poole harbour this morning, as it was our last voyage over on the Barfleur, which is to be sold off, the route axed as the French ferry company, Brittany Ferries seeks to rein in expenditure, debts having mounted. We’ve used this route for years as Poole is local for us- a mere half hour’s drive away. Poole’s huge, iconic harbour is scenic and beautiful. I shall miss sailing this route.

Our last French jaunt, made last year, was disastrous [https://gracelessageing.wordpress.com/wp-admin/post.php?post=8132&action=edit] so it takes a leap of faith to strike out again. We’ve struck south to a different, new overnight stop from our usual aire, at ‘Grandcamp Maisie’ a small, Normandy seaside town. Why have we changed? Perhaps it was time, or perhaps we felt the Saint Brice en Cogles aire we’ve used so much to be a little jinxed now, since that is where the van refused to start on our first morning.

This aire, like all of them, is plucked from our trusty book of aires- although in the event, not so trusty, as rather than being the cosy, council run, 9 euro aire described, it is now a vast, company run area accessed via an app and a code. When we reach the barrier, Husband reverses the van out in disgust and resorts to scouring the book for somewhere else, while I turn on roaming on my phone, scan the QR code, download the app and get my access code. We are in, although when there seems no way of paying I assume we must do so in order to get out again…

We walk down to the seafront. Grandcamp Maisie is a quiet town with a strange hotchpotch of housing of all descriptions and no conformity whatsoever, which makes it interesting. Along the prom, one or two bar/restaurants are open so we select one. It’s tiny but already people are piling in. Once we’re seated, I open my phone to see a message from ‘Camping-Car Park’, the firm that owns the aire. I must pay within 15 minutes or else… [or words to this effect]. Or else what? Eeek! Getting towed away? Getting clamped? Impounded?

The tiny restaurant is not conducive to phone signals so I shoot out on to the prom and work my way as hastily as I can through the payment process, finally managing it. I’m not thrilled though, at having to choose an amount to pay from a selection of prices that are all more than the cost of the aire! Now I have a ‘balance’, of euros which I do not want.

I decide to forget it and enjoy my meal, which I do, and the pork pieces are too huge for us to eat them all so we get them parcelled up for lunch tomorrow.

In the morning we are up, emptied and filled with fresh water and off to pastures new- and yes- we are able to escape the aire- phew!!!

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

The Beginning of the Road…

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During our latest bit of travel, I’d begun reading American author, Miranda July’s raunchy, outrageous novel, ‘All Fours’. The story begins with the protagonist, a middle-aged woman, setting off on a solo road trip to New York from LA for a work assignment. Its her first long distance drive and entails several stopovers but having set out, she stops thirty minutes out from her home, husband and child, checks into a motel room and stays there for the two and a half weeks she’d planned to be away. While there she sets out to transform the room with a refurbishment and leads a life of abject debauchery involving a lot of outrageous sex.

So in a curious parallel to the start of the book I’d been reading, our current trip lands us in a beige, no-frills hotel room, though without the refurbishment and without the debauchery…

We’d begun in our usual style: scramble up- drive to the port- on to the ferry- up to the cafe for pastries and coffee- down to the couchettes for a snooze- off the ferry at Cherbourg- stop at Orange telecoms for a SIM card- onwards and southwards to our regular stop, an aire at St Brice en Cogles, just into Brittany, where we can stay safely, free of charge. We went to our usual bar and had our usual beer, returned to the van and cooked dinner, had showers, had a peaceful night, woke and prepared to leave.

Husband got into the drivers seat intending to take the van across to the emptying space to rid ourselves of the grey water. He turned the key in the ignition. Nothing happened. Not one smidgeon of life.

I sat at the back and wailed: No, no, nooooo! Not again!

I rang the insurance roadside assistance, who ascertained our location and set about finding a local rescue truck. I went out to the town. I figured it was better to do something while we waited. A gaggle of interested fellow-motorhomers was gathering- no doubt a measure of schadenfreude was kicking in.

When I returned from my wander, a flat-bed truck had arrived. The interested onlookers were still there, making suggestions and comments- none of which were helpful. Before I reached it, I could see that the van had started, which flooded me with a sense of relief, initially, until Husband said it had been started by the rescue man from his vehicle and was still unable to start by itself.

Rescue man showed us a garage where the battery could be checked, all he was willing to do. I began to feel nauseous, but we had no other option except to go there and see if the garage would fix it. On arrival, we parked in the garage car park, turning off the engine and acknowledging that we’d be going nowhere else for now. Since the garage, ‘Roady’ was closed for lunch, we had lunch too, although I didn’t feel in the slightest bit hungry.

At 2.00pm we went in and explained our predicament, upon which an employee- kindly but reluctant- came out to look and determined that there was nothing at all wrong with the van’s battery. Could they fix whatever the problem was? Indeed not. All French garages had had summer holidays and were now engaged in working through a backlog of jobs. We were truly stuck.

What next?

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

The Last and St Vaast

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Continuing back up towards Caen, we’ve still a couple of nights to go before our crossing back to the UK and we’re taking things easy, visiting a few places we’ve tended to drive through or past instead of stopping to look. We’d driven through Dinan before and thought it very photogenic- an interesting place to explore. So we opt to stop here first. There is a municipal camp site near the castle and I book us in there. It’s a devil of a place to find though, down a steep hill and left into a narrow opening.

This site is basic- little better than an aire, really, and it’s sloping. The pitches are all grass and are decidedly soggy. Monsieur, at reception, once he’s turned up and had a chat with a friend, a cigarette drizzling ash on to his desk, allocates us a pitch and tells us to leave our front wheels on the tarmac aisle. We go to inspect the pitch, which is down at the lower end of the site and bathed in shade. This is all a bit mystifying, given that there are, at best, four other units occupying this modest site.

We return to reception and change to a better location.

It’s a steep walk up into the centre of town, past an excellent castle, across a huge market square, currently car parking, and on into streets of half-timbered buildings, gift shops, cafes, cobbled streets et al. It’s proper olde-worlde and busy with tourists. We cast around for somewhere to eat but are surprised to find it isn’t gourmet central and we may find ourselves making do with a takeaway- or chips to go with something we cook.

Back at the campsite we make use of the utilitarian showers- water not quite hot enough, only 2 cubicles, dark, light cuts out after a couple of minutes. This is the first unsatisfactory shower this trip.

We begin to feel we may have done Dinan, pretty and historic though it is. We’ll cut our losses and move on tomorrow to somewhere on up the coast where we just might be able to get our last oyster fix. Perhaps we’ll stay at an aire overlooking the sea where the oyster tractors chug along the sand in the evenings and visit a beachside cafe we’ve used? But we change our minds. We’re off to a site in another harbour village we’ve stayed in before. This pleases Husband as he can indulge his nostalgia remembering a past trip with students in the dim and distant past.

The sun is out for our last gasp of trip, although there’s a stiff breeze. This is Saint Vaast la Hougue, another oyster mega-town, trailer loads of them up and down along the quayside.

We spend some time checking out the seafront restaurants, settling on one for later, then attempting to book a table with no joy. We wander, later to our second choice. As long as we can get a shedload of oysters to share it matters little.

That’s it then- in the morning it’s back to port and back to the UK, for, as it happens, some rather wonderful spring weather…

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

Marvellous Mechanical Beasts

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The first sight to greet us on crossing the bridge over half of the Loire to Ile de Nantes is the Palace of Justice- a vast, modern, glass building in elegant black. We turn right at the end of the bridge and walk by the river for a few minutes.

We’ve walked quite a bit since we left the tram, so when we happen upon a small cafe, we dive in- and it’s a little gem; a tiny, cosy cafe dedicated to all things…Anglais- There’s Union Jack bunting, the walls are adorned with pictures of the royal family and there are traditional British treats like scones and Victoria sponge on the counter. I’m aware that it might appear odd for us to be charmed by coming across a British-themed cafe, being British ourselves, and we do, of course, love all things French, but it’s a novelty we can’t resist.

So we order scones and tea and settle at a table, discovering, on a shelf next to me, a range of masks, supposedly iconic British persons- an eccentric selection consisting, among others, of Prince Harry and Liam Gallagher.

In addition to all of this, the toilet is wallpapered with a huge photo of the entire royal family and boasts various Brit-themed knickknacks.

Having spent an enjoyable time in the cafe, we’re reinforced to continue, and once we’ve turned the corner of the block and emerged into a large square, we can see what we’ve come for: The massive, working, walking, flying machine beasts of Nantes.

We’re in luck, because the elephant, which is the biggest and most impressive beast, is about to walk out of the entrance of the hangar, carrying a load of enthusiastic passengers and piloted by a man driving a ground level motor. It is a wonderful and thrilling sight as it places its giant, mechanical feet at each lengthy step and makes its slow, majestic way around to the back of the hangar.

We’re excited enough by the elephant to want to see the remaining beasts demonstrated inside so we buy tickets and wait, alongside the many other visitors while the previous ‘tour’ is concluded. The machines are fascinating- a huge bird [a phoenix?], a chameleon whose tongue shoots out to catch a bug, an enormous spider with luminous eyes. Some have paid to ride the creatures alongside the operators, pulling handles to create movement. We are, of course, flummoxed by much of the narration but this doesn’t seem to matter.

Before leaving, we visit the gift shop to see if there’s a little something for our naff shelf, although there really isn’t anything cheap or nasty enough. We settle for a tiny tin of sweets bearing a picture of the elephant, which feels like copping out.

That, then, was a fitting finale for the day in this amazing city and we retrace our steps back to the centre to find a tram that will take us back to our site. We’ll be off again in the morning- but not home quite yet.

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

Les Portes and the Marais

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Seasonova campsite at Les Portes en Re is very quiet and relaxing, with only a few neighbouring tourers and scarce occupants of the chalets. We can see that in high season there might be a bar, a re-purposed container near to the tiny pool, but so far there’s no sign of activity or opening. We’re close to the little town though, which has one or two bars and cafes.

The site does not have beach access but is close, meaning that we can walk and find a coast path, which we do. Les Portes has a wide, rocky bay and a sea wall. To begin with, the path leads down to the road and above us there’s a tiny chapel, apparently used as a weapons store during the war, destroyed by missiles and later rebuilt. I want to look inside, however it’s being swept and tidied by two women and there’s not really room for a third in the minute room, which has an altar and half a dozen chairs. I wonder if services are conducted here?

The road changes to a country lane, the verges bursting with wild flowers. We dive through a gap and get back towards the beach, where we’re almost entirely alone, walking along by the dunes, which are fiercely protected with fences and signs.

When the weather turns changeable, with some rain, we become tired of incarceration, put on rainwear and set off into the marshes. The marais has a character of its own, flat, windswept, dotted with reed beds and old salt production ponds- some still in use, as forlorn signs proclaim. It’s a paradise for bird life, of course. The rain becomes more serious, then we stumble upon a barn-like visitor centre with displays, videos and a wealth of information about the marshes, as well as a small gift shop. This occupies us until the rain subsides enough for us to return.

The main bar/restaurant in the town square has a good menu, ideal after an inclement day, so we take advantage. This time we go for crevettes instead of oysters and I’m not disappointed, but I’m hoping this isn’t the last chance for them before we go home! It’s too chilly and drizzly to sit outside and the small indoor area is busy with customers- one big group next to our table enjoying drinks.

Next day we’re off to the coast path again- this time in the opposite direction, which requires clambering up on to the wall and a careful step along it, then on to rocks before the path plunges into woodland. At last we emerge into a small car park sporting a cute, rustic composting toilet…On our way back past the supermarket we’re delighted to discover an oyster vending machine.

By now we’ve probably exhausted all Les Porte’s offerings and it’s time to leave the small town and leave Ile de Re. We’ll begin the gentle meander back north, but we’ve not finished with seeing places yet. We’re about to go and look at a city we’ve driven past and round many times but never stopped to explore-

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

The End of the Ile

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We’ve done Bois de la Plage but we’re keen to stay somewhere different on Ile de Re, this time to the very end of the island. But first we make a stop at tiny Sainte Marie de Re, a very beautiful and cute village we’d driven around on arrival. Now we know that negotiating the narrow, twisty lanes of Sainte Marie is a very tricky business, so we park just outside and walk in.

When we’d driven round a few days ago, we’d been looking for a particular site, one which the SATNAV had decided was here [in fact it most certainly was not]. We’d eventually found our way to this first, chosen site then, after a quick look round, determined that it would not suit us at all- being very shady and a long way from everywhere].

It doesn’t take long to see Sainte Marie, which has little besides a quaint village shop, a cafe in a large, open square and a lot of pretty lanes.

Before we head off to the next option for a site, we need to shop. The major supermarkets [Intermarche, Leclerc and Lidl] are based at Ile de Re’s capital, Saint Martin. It’s a beautiful town but we’ve seen [and photographed] it before. This visit is purely for supplies. Leclerc is in the SATNAV, which is certain that we have arrived- but can we see it? No. It takes some time, driving backwards and forwards, into mysterious car parks and out again, before the supermarket is revealed- cleverly disguised as a barn in black timber cladding- with nothing to advertise its existence.

Stocked up, we make our way along to ‘Seasonova’, a site at Les Portes en Re, a quiet part of the island, passing the picturesque lighthouse [which we’ve visited previously]. Seasonova’s reception is closed for lunch, which is commonplace for French sites. Nobody is going to deprive the French from their leisurely lunches! The site is on the outskirts of the little town, by a large car park where the buses stop and turn, which is useful for us as we can also have lunch while we wait.

But we can also wander into the site to look round. It’s very quiet, with only three of four tourers parked up; even the chalets at the end are sparsely occupied.

Reception opens and I go to check in, although the young woman behind the counter is pleasant but disorganised, answering the phone whilst attempting to get my details. But we’re in and on to a sunny, open pitch strewn with a carpet of yellow flowers- lovely.

Les Portes is clearly less visited than the towns and villages at the other end of Ile de Re. It’s bordered by the sea and the marshlands, a flat, wild landscape.

It’s an easy walk into the town, which has a few shops and a couple of bar/restaurants as well as a pretty church. The centre is bustling, with bikes, dog trailers and child trailers parked up by a tiny roundabout. We get a beer- and establish that yes- of course we can get oysters here!

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

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