Reflections on our last night in Paris

Sadly, we're leaving Paris early tomorrow morning after six days here. It's also the end of our six week vacation. (Don't think I've ever needed a complete break so desperately before. See previous posts re me and my old mum.) This holiday, torrential rain notwithstanding, has been wonderful. And I'm writing that despite all the anxiety incurred renting and driving a whopping great 'camping car' - let's call it a truck/lorry/camion - from Munich across France to the Atlantic coast and back. Not to mention the €700 bill for the damage I caused to the van by navigating Al into a hedge. (This was our fifth camping car rental, by the way. We've only managed to return our van once without damage of some sort. Hehe.)

Al and I have been to Paris five times now. This time we had no real plans of what to do for six days. I had a vague idea that I wanted to return to a fabric store - Sacrés Tissus - because I'd bought some lovely unusual  fabric there a couple of years ago. (Went. Didn't find anything.)

I'm making myself gag now. Here I am in the 'city of light' and all I want to do is buy a couple of metres of fabric. But, I'm a dressmaker and that's what I like to do. Suppose one should have sympathy for Al, who follows me around; hangs around at shop entrances in his Aussie cowboy hat pretending he's a tall Crocodile Dundee. (He looks quite cool, I think.)

To summarise a bit of our week in Paris:

It's always an immense relief when one arrives at one's Airbnb rental and discovers it is as described and more. This is our third Airbnb rental in France and second in Paris. Seems there are a few more service charges than there were when we rented in Bordeaux in 2013, but back then the company wasn't advertising on television as it is these days. (Hope they haven't got too big for their britches.)

You don't need a description of our apartment. Let's just say it's near Porte d'Orléans and on 'our' corner we have a couple of decent restaurants and the beautiful Parc Montsouris to wander through. The closest métro, at the other side of the park, is also a direct line to Charles De Gaulle airport. Should prove useful in the morning. The apartment is close to boulangeries - croissants! Tartes aux champignons! Etcetera! - markets and supermarkets. Parfait - perfect - as I've just written in a note to our host, Françoise.

Over the last six days we have walked our feet off. I don't care if I look like a tourist. My expensive  running shoes, and my regular jogging back home, ensured that despite having walked countless ks I have remained blissfully blister free. Decided against chancing Velib - the bike rental system - this time. Have already fallen off my bike once (good sight gag, I imagine) - cycling around beautiful Bodensee - Lake Constance - and nearly cycled myself under a bus last time I was in Paris.

So much for a summary. Too much information, I know, but indulge me, dear reader. I'll be teaching surly adolescents six days from now.

Last Saturday, several bridges across the river Seine were closed due to the massive gay pride march that we just happened upon. Massive crowds. Uplifting experience. Enormous police presence - and not just in the march. Our bags were searched by police carrying rifles as we crossed the Pont Neuf to see what was going on. 

Very conspicuous armed police and military presence all week in Paris, especially yesterday when there had been a demonstration - if I understood my French source correctly. Yesterday was the day that the government implemented its changes giving more power to the bosses and less to the workers, according to my source. Walking along the Seine amongst hundreds of armed police in full on sci-fi riot gear was somewhat unnerving but if there was any shit going down, I'm glad they were there.

On Sunday, we spent a long time on the métro and SNCF - the railway - going to and from Claude Monet's house and garden at Giverny. Guess what? It rained the entire time. Still. So beautiful. I read somewhere that Claude Monet said his garden, developed over 40 years if my memory serves, was his greatest achievement. It was wonderful. It really was. But, and I know I'm one, tourists. Blerk. We queued, and shook our sodden umbrellas over each other and poked each other in the eyes with them. We shuffled around those tiny paths blocking each other's views of Japanese bridges and lily pads. We tried to absorb a sense of the place; to have impressions - pun intended. Wonder what Monet would have made of us all disturbing his place. Could he ever have imagined the travesty that we tourists would make of his creation?

The hour train ride back to Paris was interesting. It was so packed that I couldn't even place my feet in such a way that I could balance. I clutched Croc Dundee by the chest hairs and tried not to cry. Really. That bad.

Still, glad we spent the money - about €100 for two of us counting a 'light lunch' - and visited Giverny.

(If you want to see extremely glorious medieval French villages and towns though, try the Alsace region - Colmar, Kaysersberg - birth place of Albert Schweitzer - Strasbourg. Actually, lots of France if our experience is any indication.)

Revisited Sacré Coeur on another day - it's close to my fabric shop!  I'd hate to be a physically impaired tourist in Paris. The climb to the cathedral is quite a challenge. Suppose you could catch a bus, or tootle around in the ubiquitous little white tourist train. Another word on sodding tourists. Yes, sod them. There are clear signs in about four languages forbidding the taking of photos inside the cathedral. Completely ignored. What is wrong with these people? 

Sacré Coeur highlights: lovely music in the lane outside. Three musicians, all harmonising, one guitarist, one beating out a rhythm, one mc-ing. So good.

Second thing? A delicious hotdog with onions and hot mustard. (A few trips to Germany and I've become quite the sausage aficionado.)

A word on Parisian hospitality, and I've probably written this before: people have been so helpful. Note well: I can speak French. In fact I speak it really well. My problem is my aural comprehension. I fool people and then I haven't got the heart to interrupt their responses to ask them to slow down. Croc Dundee, Al, understands French but can't really speak it yet he meets with neither aggression nor arrogance should he ask a stranger for assistance. I don't understand these scathing commentaries I've read here and there about people having trouble communicating with the French. In fact, all the young people seem keen to practise their English

Look, you know what, there's much more, but it's getting late and I have to get up at five. Thanks so much for reading.

Hey, let's drive on treacherous B roads for 5 hours.

Why is there fucking foliage in the middle of town anyway?

So said Al, driving down an almost non-negotiable alleged 'camper route' in France. A semi-trailer - articulated lorry - was coming at us head on. Al clipped - haha - the hedge with the passenger side mirror. Very squeezy.

We set off at 9.30 this morning from our sublime chateau camping with its manicured lawns and shady trees and wonderful restaurant, La Ferme, just outside the gate. Al had, through the campground manager, he thought, made a reservation for us at Vermenton, a five hour drive away. He wanted to 'break the back' of our return trip to Munich. (Break the back of our marriage?) Van and bikes need returning in about four days.

Well we did our drive. Yet, no matter how splendid the countryside with forests, fields, vineyards and 12th century villages, it can be overdone. As it was today.

We'd stocked up with bread, cheese, pate and wine at Super U, this morning. We had filled the gazeole - diesel. But when it got to lunchtime we could not find a place to pull over to eat.

By this stage - about 2pm- I was ready to chow down on my own elbow. Sugar-free Fisherman's Friends weren't doing it, other than giving me wind. 

Eventually we pulled over in an asphalted lay by. I put the kettle on, grabbed the small goods and bread. But by jeeze I wish I hadn't opened the door to see that dump of human excreta and soiled loo paper just outside the van door. Put me right off my mousse aux canards.

At 4.30 we arrived at our camping to discover that we didn't in fact have a reservation and that the camp was suffering from 'l'inundation' - flooding- so we had to find another place.

Here we are now, a few k up the road in a 2 star joint. Squat toilets, bring your own 'papier' and 'les moustiques' - mozzies - up the wazoo. Which is why, despite the warmth, I'm wearing a hijab, long pants and socks.

Meh (love that expression) I've got everything, and wifi if I sit by the l'accueil - reception.

Not looking forward to being back at work.

It's raining again.

Okay, won't use that cliché, first world problems. Oh, it seems I have.

Bearing all that in mind this is what's largely been happening for three weeks: rain. Various kinds. The pelting, frightening, soaking deluge that catches one on one's bike, amidst traffic, suddenly, in Auxerre as one is heading back to the flooded 'camping'. One is without shoes because they're drenched. (Yeah, boo hoo.) Then there's the type of rain that shrouds the hills and vineyards as one is cycling back to the camping in Beaune, Bourgogne, after a surprising - cos it wasn't raining - blissful morning's ride with occasional sunshine peeping through the grey-wash. But mostly the rain's been that all-night pittering or smashing on the roof of the rental van. We heard it first when we picked up the van in Munich, three weeks ago and it's been a regular feature of our days and nights here in Germany and France since.

But we're troopers. The waterproofs have had a good workout and we've headed out on our velos - bikes - anyway. We've put in lots of ks and admittedly have generally laughed at our 'misfortune'. Is it misfortune when one is lucky enough to have left all responsibility behind on the other side of the planet for six weeks? Don't think so. 

Nonetheless, it casts a pall that dulls the verdant landscapes and makes me happy to have the activity of doing a load of washing and drying.

Currently, we're on the Atlantic Coast. Read cheek by jowl camping grounds - holiday villages I suppose. All neat and well appointed with swimming pools and water slides. The Atlantic Ocean is a .7 k sand dune walk away from our camping and it looked bloody bleak. One young man was swimming amidst the choppy grey. I'm sure he warmed up, as you do after a while in the ocean, but I was a bit frightened for him. I didn't notice any warning signs. Perhaps it's safe.

I pulled my hood over my hat and secured the ties.

Weather notwithstanding, we were both a bit flat this morning with the rain pittering on the van skylight. You see we'd 'dared to dream' that we could make it to Saumur for our third time for the fête du velo - vintage cycling festival - held over the past weekend and we made it. I try not to to put too much store into these things in case I'm disappointed. But far from it. I'd say it was the best experience so far these hols and for a long time. Sad that it's over.

I come over here hoping to engage with the French. (I've written elsewhere about being the French pretender but I can't link to it on this device. Merde.) Well, apart from the magnificent cycling through the vineyards and along the troglodyte route - where markets and houses were carved out of the clay in the eleventh century - we had a real treat. A group of people were celebrating the fête with a picnic in one of the caves. This cave has a wood-fired oven and toilet facilities. (Pretty good cave.) The cave, all chalky white, is built into the cliffs on one side of the Loire. It's a room-like space that is open to the elements above. On that Saturday it wasn't raining.

We could hear lots of echoing voices as we approached. Didn't want to bust up their party, whoever they were, but I really needed a toilet stop. I barged through. Pardon, messieurs dames - basically, excuse me, I'm coming through. Pas de problème.

And after I'd washed up we were invited to have a drink. Next thing, we'd both got a glass of wine and a hunk of bread with chèvres - goats cheese. I chatted to Dianne, who had a bit of English. Between my French and Dianne's English we were away. It was marvellous. They were a group of neighbours and friends enjoying the special weekend. We shared their marinated duck and saucisson and stayed there with them in that cave for over an hour. Magic. Definitely flies in the face of all that guff about the French being unwelcoming. Very special.

So was Claude, well met at a wine and food pitstop along the vintage vélo ride around the Loire the next day. Claude had worked for the French government around the world including in Australia. Of course he spoke excellent English. Somehow, during the course of our conversation we had been invited to park our van at his place next time we're in that area. And I'm sure he was sincere.

Despite mostly bad weather, it's been worth the trip. I love the French culture and being able to improve my French conversation, love being with Al in our cosy van. Love not working. However, don't think I'm ready for retirement. (That's a whole nother story.)

PS: next day. Great forest cycle track along the coast around St Jean de Monts. Beach at low tide on the still but overcast day was amazing. Loads of activities for the masses of tourists who'll no doubt fill all the apartments, gites, hotels and campsites along this part of the coast in ten days time.

PPS: two days later - our first experience of a hot blue afternoon in France this holiday. Camped now in the picturesque well-appointed grounds of a chateau - Castel Campsite Le Petit Trianon in Ingrande-sur-Vienne. Quite enjoying sweltering heat and the peace of this place after the four hour drive to get here from the Atlantic coast.

Rocamadour. Who knew?

Today we/walked climbed down into this medieval village in the Dordogne region called Rocamadour. 

Yesterday we were so busy looking for a camping ground called Le Roc, that we didn't find, that we missed the signs saying that the road down into Rocamadour wasn't suitable for campervans. We made it through anyway. Twice. Not without palpitations,pulling side mirrors in and praying. We had to do the road a second time because we needed to return to a camping ground we'd passed earlier on our fruitless search.

It was alarming, but on reflection, one of those things one is glad to have done.

Have to say this place is wonderful. My legs, however, are killing me. So glad squats are part of my exercise regime. Good for climbing hills and steps. 219 steps up to the virgin's chapel at not quite the top of Rocamadour. The pilgrims used to do it on their knees saying a prayer for each step. Then there's a climbing zigzag path through monuments representing the stations of the cross. I stopped looking at them cos I started getting irrationally emotional based on my Judeo-Christian inculcation.

The walk was so arduous that I imagined Christ carrying some hardwood cross. With splinters.

Happily I've walked back up the 60 percent inclined hill and I'm installed in a bar, with Al, overlooking Rocamadour.

It's named after St Amadour, an abbott whose well preserved remains were apparently discovered there. Later they were destroyed by looters at some other time in history.

I'd never heard of Rocamadour; didn't know that it's the second cite in France , after Mont St Michel, despite all my French studies and visits. According to a shopkeeper, who patiently chatted despite my laboured French and helped me with a couple of words and conjugations, Rocamadour isn't that well known, in contrast with those places one immediately associates with France: Mont St Michel, the Eiffel Tower, the Loire Valley and the Riviera. She believes the south-east is a little overlooked.

If you are coming to France put Rocamadour on your list of brilliant places to see and do. There's lots of climbing and walking involved but it's so worth it.

The weather today is perfect: low to mid 20s; the sky with scudding white clouds; light refreshing breeze. Haven' t heard many English voices today but there seem to be quite a few tourists and Sunday day-trippers about. Nothing like the hordes trampling Mont St Michel though. I've been able to enjoy a leisurely stroll - on the occasional flat bits

There's a massive cave here too - grotte des merveilles - but I didn't fancy a visit. I overdid that one last year in a troglodyte cave in Loches. Had a bit of claustrophobia along the labyrinthine self-guided tour. I'll look at a photo.

Now, our late lunch was par excellence. Didn't expect that in a tourist spot. We ate at a restaurant with an outdoor terrasse overlooking the valley. The restaurant is called Le Terminus des Pelerins - the last stop of the pilgrims. We both had salads which were delectable: lettuce, tomatoes, walnuts, vinaigrette dressing; some sort of thin salami cut into bite-sized disks, a generous slice of tasty duck terrine, cured ham and a pat of goats' cheese to die for, as they say. We bought another 6 pats of the goats' cheese at a local store in Rocamadour, so good was it.

I know I'm given to hyperbole but credit where it's due. I'd put that salad up there with the best, most timely feeds of my life. Perfect food; perfect setting; perfect day. I'm becoming as repetitious as a politician.

Central France. Day 9.

So we participated in the fête du vélo d'Anjou'; loved the congeniality and Frenchness of it, despite the inclement weather. The first 22k along the Loire we were cycling into some serious wind and the occasional rainy squall. Didn't even take my waterproof cycling jacket off except when we stopped for lunch along the way. Suppose we're a bit of a novelty ourselves on this local ride. A few people found it interesting that we had come all the way from Australia for a second year of cycling on this special day when they close the roads to motorised vehicles along both sides of the Loire.
'See yourself doing this again next year?' I asked Al.
'Yep,' he said.
Me too. It's a great big day.

We decided to light out for the territory today. That is, try to find somewhere new and wonderful; easy to do in France.

Set up Jane, our navigatrix and allons-y. Off we go.

Now after about 2 hours on the road I get crabby. It's a bit tense finding your way with Al driving this behemoth. And he's doing a good job but he nearly cleaned us and a French woman up when he failed to give way to his left at one stage. He squeezed my knee in apology.  i know it was just a momentary lapse in concentration but I'm a panic merchant and I don't cope well with adrenaline.

Time for a lunch stop. Found a good relais on a roundabout. They all seem to be good. I love that all these tradies - chantiers? - stop for a 3 course 'formule midi' - at noon. There they are in their grubby work clothes slicing off gourmet cheeses after a good meal complete with vin de table.

Meanwhile, I had a delicious poelie of coquilles St Jacques - a creamy pan fried mix of julienned veges and scallops - and Al had a potful of moules - mussels - in a cream sauce and frites. We both pronounced our food delicious.

We didn't make it to our destination though. Stopped instead for a tour of the Chateau of Chenonceaux; huge tourist attraction that I'd read about as a student of French. The place was amazing but it was brimful of tourists - why am I always the one who has to concede? - and school kids, flashing their cameras on the tapestries despite the constant warnings not to. The village of Chenonceaux was pretty, quaint and equally touristique. Still, glad to have seen the place although I have to be in the mood to 'absorb' the feeling. Again, what am I? A clairvoyant with a mainline to Catherine de Medicis?

I couldn't face another 2 and a half hour drive so I suggested that we visit Loches, only 27k away.

Al agreed of course; he usually does. We drove through some beautiful tilled countryside to get here on roads barely wider than our van. When we arrived at Loches, having given Jane no new address, we tried following the signs to the 'camping'. We missed our way and went up tortuous lanes between old stone houses. Was so narrow we had to pull our side mirrors in. Always gets fraught at this stage. I think I started crying!

'We've got to love each other,' I said to Al, because up until then I'd been screaming abuse at him.

Jane, the bitch, was leading us a merry dance. 'Turn around where possible' she says, in her clipped British tones.

I switched her off and we winged it. Al finally found a lane he could reverse into. I leapt out and danced behind the van, winding my arms. Eventually we were back on track and I wondered if tonight would perhaps be the night, such was the frisson in my loins when I saw the 'camping' sign.

So we made it here to the 'Camping La Citadelle. 

And as soon as we pulled into the outer car park and saw the piscine - swimming pool - and the decheterie - place where you empty your van's waste water - we both declaimed: this place looks familiar.

It was. We came here last year. We'd already wandered around the citadel in the rain here. I caught a cold from 'Paisley Pants' - can't link to the post on my iPad - and got food poisoning from a crepe with Rocquefort cheese.

No matter. It's mild, the sun's intermittently shining and warmish and I've washed and dried my laundry which is good because I'm down to my last pair of undies.

Another Chablis? Pourquoi pas - why not?

Au revoir, France...

It's our third night in Strasbourg, Alsace, and tomorrow we cross the Rhine and make our three and a half hour journey back to Munich.

I've forced myself upon several unsuspecting people in Strasbourg over the last couple of days in a bid to speak just a little more French before I return to Australia.  So the receptionist at this camping got it.  She's Venezuelan and speaks French with an odd accent but she's amazingly fluent.  She, like everyone else, complimented me on my accent, that even I have to admit is pretty damn good.  I keep crediting my French professors and teachers, and they've played their part.  The big thing is though that I have a musical ear, am a good mimic - can rip off just about any accent after a few minutes exposure - and I studied drama.  I'm a ham, and ham it up I will.  That all equals good accent.   Pity about the paucity of my other language skills, like being able to find the right word when under a bit of stress.  Sometimes it happens.

Back in 1985, when Al and I first came to France, we had an accident on our second day here.  Yes.  Some cross eyed long haired fool in a rickety old Citroen pulled out in front of our little orange combi unexpectedly as we were going up a mountain.  Al slammed on the brakes and the guy driving a minibus load of schoolgirls behind us slammed into the back of our van.  He immediately blamed us and seized upon the opportunity to escort us to the gendarmerie - the cops - to sort it out.

When we arrived at the police station, this young fellow started to explain that we'd caused an accident.  I understood this, unbeknown to the young guy.  In archaic sort of French I interrupted.  "Excusez-moi!" I said in a wobbly voice.  "En Australie, quand on frappe dans la derriere c'est votre faute!"  (In Australia, when you hit someone in the rear it's your fault.)  The young fellow quickly changed his tack and bowed his way back out of the cop shop.  He then made it his business to help us fix our van as best we could.

But back to today.  I've bought bread that we don't need just to have the interaction in the boulangerie; I've befriended the owner of a restaurant and told him our life story and how 'triste' - sad - I am to be returning home after seven weeks in France.  A couple of days ago a beautiful young waiter in a restaurant gave me an impromptu French lesson - I was trying to work out a conjugation.  That earned him a five euro tip.  He reminded me a lot of my son, Pete; such an obliging young man; polite.

Anyway, I really am triste to be leaving.  It's been an amazing holiday, and ride, literally, given it was a cycling holiday.

Think we're planning to be back here in two years for the fete du velo, the highlight of our time away.

Dare say I'll shed a few tears as we cross the Rhine tomorrow, but it's best to leave wanting more.

On Wednesday we have to face 'the inspection' by McRent, the company from which we rented our van.  Last time we were charged 100 euro because the delightful young frau who inspected the van - that I'd scrubbed on my hands and knees - pronounced - after inspection, 'Zis van is not clean. Zere is a hair and zere is shampoo.'  This time I'm ready for her and she will be challenged!

But that's Wednesday.  Prior to that we have to find our way from our camping in a suburb thirteen kilometres out of Munich back to the bike shop to get our refund.  Hope Sat Nav Jane's up for it.

So, til we meet again, la France.  Missing you already.

Gigny-sur-Saone, Bourgogne, France

Been out riding our bikes through the French countryside near our camping ground at Chateau l'Eperviere in Gigny-sur-Saone.  It's in the Bourgogne.  Beautiful day after a couple of wet ones.  I've been trying to drink in the sensations again. I'm not given to description but this is it.  Spreading, enormous fields of sunflowers, barley, corn, wheat - lots of it harvested and now the fields are dotted with round bales of hay.  Cows in the meadows; families of cattle it seems.  Maybe I don't get out in the countryside enough at home, but I'm not used to seeing the bull amongst the cows and calves.  Makes for a pleasant vista for the cyclists, us.

There are also the tiny ancient villages through which we cycle.  They all have their ancient church at the centre and their village squares with monuments to local saints and those lost in the wars.  Old stone houses with wells out the front, now often full of flowers.  Reminiscent of my English childhood days spent at my uncle Charlie's farm, where at five, I learned to ride a two-wheeler and first experienced the wind through my hair and that feeling of speed.  Pervading all is a sweet wet smell of hay.  Probably a bit of manure too, but I quite like it.

Sensational.  We stayed at this place in 2010 early in that trip through France and England.  So glad we returned to Gigny-sur-Saone.  Have a bit of a lump in my throat right now, given we're just seven days shy of having to get back to Munich, sell back our bikes to hopefully get half price for them. The day after that we must return our 'camping car'.  Don't want to.  However, I will be glad to connect with my own shower and toilet.  (Let me just say, I don't like having to deal with the ablutions of men, other than my husband, in these unisex 'sanitaires'. Can never get used to men pissing in front of women as they do here. Find it disgusting and sexist. Men can whip it out along the road, whenever the urge takes them.  They wouldn't take kindly to a squatting female though. Sorry.)

Anyway, I am very grateful for the opportunity to travel as we do, and for a working life that enables us, as Australians, to take Long Service Leave for a few extra weeks whilst still being paid.  Lucky country.

On another note, I was really concerned about my bike.  It was scraping and clanking and eventually the handlebars seized almost completely.  Great for riding in a straight line but a bugger when you need to go around a corner.  Had a brilliant idea this morning.  Asked at reception here if they had any oil.  They did.  Presto, new bike.  Amazing what a bit of oil can achieve.  Wish it would do the same for my arthritic hands.

So here's to France, WD40 - oil - and a non-ironic adventure filled final week in Europe.

Note: rather than being due to the end of a brilliant holiday, my melancholia could be the result of having run out of Harmony Menopause tablets.  Just saying.

Cycled about 30 k today.  Have done several hundred kilometres since we picked up our bikes in Munich what now seems like months ago.

There are three people in this relationship.

Always wondered how we'd go with a threesome. No. I'm lying. But there are three of us now, winging our way down southish in France. We picked up a passenger. Jane. At Leclerc Supermarche.

She's proved useful & paid her way already. I've handed the reins over to Jane & Al's happily acquiesced to her guidance. He doesn't question her directions; doesn't swear at her. Well, he ignored her wise counsel once but ended up listening to her once I'd insisted that we weren't going on toll roads or motorways.

I didn't quite trust her at first. Had my Michelin spread queasily on my knee, as usual. I followed the map as long as possible. That is until Jane & Al conspired. 'Go across the roundabout and take the third exit on your right' she said in her clipped English voice. I was no longer able to find the place names on my map. Had Jane dropped out for some reason we'd have been farqued. Al says not. Says he'd have driven to the next village & asked directions.

But Jane was wonderful. I dropped my shoulders & watched the luscious French countryside go by. Al swung the van down tiny lanes that we'd never have found without our savvy passenger.

She led us past a magnificent chateau - de Courgeres, I think. Only eight other people there enjoying the perch in the moat & the classical gardens. Jane led us there through the back of a church. Thought she was leading us up a one way street but we have to trust.

Had lunch in a restaurant strictly used by local people. A bell announced our arrival & every - every! - diner turned to unabashedly stare at us. We were seated, opposite each other, in the middle of a table for ten, who all stared & wondered.

Then the young waitress insisted on speaking to us in perfect English. 'Il faut practiquer - you have to practise,' she said. Not sure if I've conjugated that French subjunctive correctly. Turned out she'd lived and worked in Sheffield, UK.

We had four courses for 10 euro each. Wasn't photo-worthy but good enough fare, especially the cheese. And it came with a choice of red wine or cider. I went with the red and a litre bottle of table wine was plonked in front of us. We could have as much as we wanted. Same with the cheese.

The other thing about Jane is she doesn't mind being popped into the glove box while we're doing our tourist thing.

She may be just a voice in a box, but Al & I have talked freely to her all day; chided her when a lane's been too narrow; congratulated her for taking us around busy Le Mans so we didn't even notice its existence.

She got us successfully to this municipal camping in Sable sur Sarthes. It's a bit windy, but that's really not Jane's fault.

And to those of you who are sat nav/GPS savvy, apologies. As I've said before, I'm easily entertained.

And thanks to the Kiwis we met in Beaune for planting the idea. Think we'll be enjoying the roads even less travelled for the next three weeks.

Vannes, Gulf of Morbihan and the rest.

Well, here we are in rainy, cold Vannes on the Gulf of Morbihan. We've driven here today from Nantes. Had a brilliant pitstop in an historic village called La Roche de Bernard, just before you get to the Gulf. Goes way back to the 15th century and earlier. It's a seafaring sort of place. Lots of tortuous lanes winding up from the river. It was the place of a famous battle between the Royalists and the Republicans during the revolution. Now, at this time of year, not quite the 'high' season, it's a quaint, beautiful old place. Hard to believe people were beheaded in the village square where we had our grands cafes cremes..

We wandered around, as we do, getting wet despite our plastic bike jackets, because the weather here is...merde. Shit.

We've had two sumptuous meals today. Meals. Well three if you count the Special K and 'soja milk' we had for breakfast. Our staple. Supposed to mitigate against the fromages, pates, beers and vins blancs secs - dry white wine. (Okay, so I only managed one AFD but hey, that's better than nothing. Just.)

The first repast was a 0.35 euro baguette purchased at the Carrefours Supermarche. We filled it with some ham and a soft cheese and ate it in the van in the carpark outside Maccas. Rain was hammering against the sunroof as we ate. The sandwich was delicious.

The third gourmet experience was also in the van. Al fried up some garlic, onion and mushrooms in 'good' o-live oil, added tins of tuna, carrots and baby peas and there you go. Even better that he follows through by giving good dishwashing while I write my stupid blog..

We're staying right on an estuary here in the municipal camping Conleau in Vannes. We ventured out around the point before in our plastic ponchos and popped into a bar that had a great music mix. Bit sort of bossa nova and bass is all I can say. There was a Spanish rendition of Sting's Fragile in there, but that's all I know. Better than sitting in the van in the rain.

Anyway, I'm very easily entertained. Have already mentioned that I'm fascinated by how others 'ablute'. Had an interesting toilet experience at the local bar. Clearly there used to be four 'stalls' in this big room that now contains a urinal in one corner and the toilet bowl diagonally opposite in the other. The toilet facility has been modified to make it disabled friendly. Despite this being an old building everything in this 'bathroom' is state of the art automated including the lights. Don't sit too still too long or you're in pitch darkness. (Not that I did - didn't have my iPhone with me.) The flushing action on this low, seatless toilet was idiosyncratic, for want of a better word. After I'd pressed the button water was so slowly dispensed, filling the entire bowl to the rim, that I had a bit of a panic. Had I blocked the pipes?? I leaned down to push the button again, prompt a bit more action, but before I could the entire bowlful was sucked away down the u-bend, so swiftly I jumped. Well, I thought it was funny.

So despite the rain, I'm having a good time.

Beaune, Bourgogne, France

Takes my breath away.

Circumnavigated les remparts en velos. Slow ride took about half an hour. C. 14th wall. 'Moat' that's now part carpark part gardens. Incredible is the word that keeps coming to mind. Ancient stone walls several feet thick. Turrets, those 'slits' where arrows could be fired at the assaulting enemy. Name escapes me. All so hard to believe now. Drink it in. It's real. The French seem oblivious as they go about their lives, dressed so chic.

Was perusing the bricabrac at the Saturday market here in the centre ville de Beaune. Al was perusing the real-estate in a shop front.

'We could do it, Jules,' he said. 'Swap ours for one here.' I wandered over to the window & briefly, for an instant, entertained the idea. I LOVE this place. It suits me. That is, at the start of summer on a warm blue day on holiday. It's so engulfing. Feel like I'm absorbing richness through my pores. And that's before I get started on Chardonnay.

Not sure I'd manage winter, although the interior of the restaurant at which we had lunch - quiche Lorraine for Al, omelette aux champignons for me - looked very cosy. Suppose I'd sit inside.

I'm like my mother. Lachrymose. The tears come readily here & it's not cos I'm still in the wake of my dad's death, although that's still very present. It's thrown all this splendour into even more relief.

Al's just punctured the mood.

'Good example of why dogs shouldn't be brought into restaurants. It just pissed in the pot-plants.'

We're not German, not that there's anything wrong with that.

In some part of my mind, by virtue of having started learning French aged 11 and continuing through 2 years of study at 'teachers' college', I think I'm French. When I get here, I'm all thrilled cos I'm going to speak French and partake of the culture. And when I get here, I'm completely tongue-tied for at least 48 hours.

I can usually manage to ask for an 'emplacement pour un camping car, deux personnes avec electricite, s'il vous plait' and then the person at the desk responds in rapid fire French and a little bit of wee comes out.

Went into a bar in Langres, trying to work out whether they served food, or just drinks. Couldn't remember the verb 'mangez', to eat. 'On peut ...er, er, er...' my fingers are miming up to my mouth. Perhaps he thinks I want to be sick the noise I'm making. I'm remembering 'dejeuner', to dine, but that's not the word I want. 'Mangez?' he asks. 'Bien sur!'

Somehow, I manage to order a chicken liver salad for Al. Mistook volaille - liver - for poulet - chicken. 'This isn't chicken,' Al remarked, when he got his little bowl of tiny turds sitting on a bed of lettuce. He ate it anyway and said it was good. I had a taste. Hmm. Not for me. Glad I had the grilled Langres cheese on little pieces of toast atop egg, ham, tomato, lettuce and delicious mayonnaise. Simple, but good.

Did a few hills on our cycle up to the walled town of Langres yesterday. Only rode about 10k round trip, but felt it in the old calves later. Justifies the bottle of Bordeaux in the evening.

Today, it'll be our fourth night in France. The patron at the camping told me I had a really good accent when I was booking our spot today, here in Dijon on the Lac Kir, right on a canal and cycling paths all over the place. Once again, a little bit of wee came out as I beamed with pride.

Basically, I'm Bart Simpson in that episode where he's in France and he can't speak French and then suddenly it clicks in and it's working. It's a good feeling. Glad all that French stuff got into my long term memory.

Another interesting phenomenon: we hired our 'camping car' in Germany, thus, we have German plates. The English campers don't speak to us, though they're all acknowledging their compatriots all over the shop. Can't think what that's all about.

A bientot.