Argens Minevois to Montolieu

18th October

69 miles

I woke up just before 7am. and could not get back to sleep. It was still quite dark, the patch of sky visible through the roof-light above the bed was an deep grey, with a sprinkling of stars in it. I tried to recall a line from a poem by Sylvia Plath about a window lightening and swallowing its dull stars, but could not remember it exactly, nor the poem it was from. Maybe it was from 'Inomniac', I mused. That thought struck me as mildly ironic. An owl was hooting nearby, I thought I heard a distant train, but maybe it was the wind rattling the dry, yellowing leaves. A couple of cars passed. People start work earlier here, so that was not so surprising. There's no way I am going to get back to sleep I thought, and them  promptly dropped off. The next thing I knew, it was much lighter. So I got up, filled the kettle to make coffee glancing out of the window at the mirror-still canal. The sun had not broken through the mist that  formed above the canal. Indeed, as the morning progressed the cloud thickened No repeat then of yesterday's glorious blue skies. A shame, but everyday can't be sunny I suppose.

We decided to head for a small campsite about 15 miles north of Carcassonne. We nipped up the motorway for a couple of stops, partly for quickness but mainly because the Michelin Campsite book usefully lists the French autoroute service areas with camping car emptying points.

The motorway was busy. Gill recalled that it was the beginning of the French two week school holiday break leading up to Toussant. The service area was crowded, and irritatingly someone had parked their car in the bay of the motorhome service point. I squeezed on. The water was not working, but I really did need to empty the Thetford cassette, which I duly did, clearing up using the 10 litres of 'emergency" water we were carrying in a plastic jerry can. Just as I was about to pull off a second car pulled in to the bay, drawing up a couple of feet behind me. He then saw I was about to pull away, reversed a foot or two, but peeped his horn in an annoyed way. This resulted in an inevitable outbreak of grumbling about inconsiderate road behaviour in France. Although the service area was busy, there were still plenty of empty parking bays a bit further from the shop and cafe. Rather than walk the extra 50 yards or so people preferred to park in the day designated for motorhome next to chemical toilet emptying point. Why?    Oh dear, I was feeling grumpy, maybe it was the effect of the previous nights insomnia.

After filling up in Carcasonne Leclerc we arrived at the campsite in Montolieu just before 12.00. Having written yesterday of the Republic of the Recently Retired, it appeared we had arrived at one of its tribal gathering places. In adjacent pitches  were two other English couples travelling long term. Sue and Stu were coming to the end of a thee month trip, and the couple across the way half way through a 12 month adventure. The Belgian chap next to us saw I was trying to wash the cab using a cloth and washing up bowl, he kindly loaned me his telescopic brush, sponge and bucket, so l gave Maisy a long overdue bath. Soon I was chatting to my neighbour about families back home, his summer trip to Poland, and the challenges of dealing with the plague of mosquitoes which appeared to have descended upon southern France in the last week or so. These occasional moments of sociability are important. It is possible to go for days and days with just each other for company, which is fine, but could I guess lead to eccentricity eventually.

The village of Montolieu is about 2km. distant. Helpfully Sue and Stu who had just been for a bike ride told us that the Epicerie re-opened at 4.00. Really with Matthew arriving on Sunday, we should have stopped off at a larger store on the Carcassonne ring road. But keen to arrive at the campsite before noon we had pressed on. The four hour middle of the day close -own does catch you out sometimes.

The village is a bit of a French 'Hay on Wye', home to many antiquarian bookshops and a museum of bookbinding. This commitment to belles letters has attracted other cultural enterprises, ateliers of the talentless interspersed with houses with artistically improved shutters and the odd badly whittled wooden figurine carved on the corner. You just know you have arrived a a ville 'crusty' by the  plethora of mangy feral cats and the sprinkling of places offering alternative therapies. For some reason, cultural pretension  and hypochondria seem go hand in hand. It's easy to spot if you are developing the early symptoms, it always starts with a small pain in the arse (Pete stands-up, rubs backside ruefully).

One of the many antiquarian bookshops

Some learned tomes, and a lot of second hand Dan Brown!

Bookish types...

and run of the mill modern art

decorated shutters

Apart from the heartfelt bookish overlay, in all other respects Montolieu is a typical workaday village with a sleepy Cafe du Commerce, bog standard medieval church, a Place de La Republique, a dusty boules pitch in the square. So traditional, that at four in the afternoon the local youths were not out there doing wheelies on BMXs, or revving scooters to annoy the elderly, but out with the grandees, throwing boules themselves. It's a strange cocktail, culture, crusties and traditional rural life, but instantly recognisable not only here, but also in Hay on Wye, or Hebden Bridge. It's easy to be cynical, but I have to admit, the Toulouse sausages we bought in the local Epicerie were delicious, and the bottle of Carbardès, produced in the nearby village of Conques  equal in quality to anything we've purchased in more renowned 'named' villages. So maybe you need the cultural overlay to generate the additional income to keep local shops and services going. Perhaps I should try to be less of a cynical old git. It is difficult though to change a habit of a lifetime.