17th October
59 Miles.
Marseillian Plage was not without its small irritations. In fact there are billions of them, so many of them that the Aire swarms with the little buggers from dawn 'til dusk Then after dark, no matter how careful you are in terms of shutting the fly-screens, they invade the van and spend all night slowly devouring its occupants. This is hardly surprising really given that a large malarial swamp had to be drained before the tourist developments were built. They now call it an ecologically sensitive wetland, and are busy protecting it. Perhaps it's only a matter of time before some Eco-warrior or other starts to campaign to re-introduce the malarial mosquito in pursuit of returning nature to its raw state.
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| an Arabic twilight in Marseillan Plage aire |
Between the passing of nearby night freight trains and mossie-fear neither of us had a particularly comfortable night and were looking forward to leaving Marseillian Plage as soon as possible. It's simply not our kind of place, and I think it was getting us both down.
It was a gorgeous day, more like summer than autumn, so it was a pity really that we had to head for the Centre Commercial in Bezier. We needed an Orange shop as the SIM card that Gill had bought in Dijon now needed topping up, and her valiant efforts to negotiate a French automated telephone system had proved just too tricky. We needed a human, an Orange elf, so here we were standing waiting for Jessica, the only assistant in the Bezier Orange shop to speak a smidgen of English. Unfortunately her current customer appeared to have decided to turn her entire life over to Orange: mobile telephone, wireless modem. on demand T.V., sat-nav...box after box piled up beside her, and every one appeared to demand a different triplicate form and back-up documentation- identity card, passport, drivers licence, Bac certificate, marriage certificate, divorce papers, grade three piano exam....it took forever....in the meantime Gill played with the display phones and I took surreptitious photos on my iPhone of my fellow customers. Finally, Jessica finally completed the asset stripping of the previous customer who staggered out of the shop in her underwear bowed under the weight of a mountain of Orange packages, happy as Larry that she was the most connected person in Languedoc. Now it was our turn. Jessica showed off her smidgen English skills (like pidgin but with a smaller vocabulary). Gill got out the exhausted Moto, explained the problem, Jessica 'd'accored' a couple of times. Clicked two boxes on her computer screen, took a €10 note off Gill. Bingo, on line again, the whole transaction took less than two minutes, and Jessica did not even need to photocopy Gill's First Aid at Work certificate that she'd brought along 'just in case'.
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| Jessica maximising her sale |
Finally, after a spot of shopping in Auchan, we were able to head off to Capestang, a small town on the Canal du Midi where we planned to walk along its lovely tree lined banks. Which we did, and it was indeed, lovely.
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| Capestang marina |
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| Hooray! Illy coffee! |
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| The inevitable noisette |
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| lucky to find a parking place in the dead centre of the village |
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| the floating restaurant.... |
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| somehow it did manage to fit through the bridge, did the diners have to (two) duck? |
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| The Canal du Midi |
We had planned to stay at the aire in Ouveillian (the usually reliable IPhone spellcheck keeps changing the village name to Ouch William,which you must admit is a distinct improvement). 'All The Aires' did warn the entrance to the site was narrow. I could have coped with that but the uneven ground looked seriously dodgy so far as Maisy's low slung exhaust was concerned.
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| The Ouch Wiliam Cave |
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| Big bunch..... |
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| Two boxes for Spain.... |
"Lets go on to Argen Minevois," I suggested. This was a pity, because the Cave Cooperative, where the aire was situated was planning a major shindig later in evening to celebrate the nouveau vendage. I may not be a great enthusiast for nouveau wines, but experience has told us that any knees- up in a winery is worth hanging around for. Sadly, there was no room at the inn. So after buying a consolation box of Cotes de Narbonne red, and a case of Grenache rosé, we toddled off towards the next aire, at Argen Minevois.
As is often the case in off the beaten track France, the village gathers around a tumbled down keep. In this case a golden stone assemblage of ancient houses, Romanesque church, over sized Marie, and vertiginous public toilet. The entrance to the aire described in our guidebook had been roped off - clearly no longer in use. We did find somewhere to park about 100 yards further on picturesquely situated next to the canal, just opposite some moored river cruisers. After a short debate we decided to stay put - our first venture into wild camping. As Gill said, "We're not annoying anyone, and anyway the only difference between us and the boats opposite is that we've got wheels."
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| The dream pitch |
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| The hills of Languedoc...perhaps my favourite landscape... |
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| passing traffic |
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| evening reflections |
Very occasionally reality lives up to your dreams. Softly the evening light faded and the only the castle above us caught the setting sun, reflected in the still water. The Canal de Midi turned a deep amber colour, mirroring the shades of the overhanging plane trees' foliage. I went into the van to get another Leffe; the ragu that GIll had simmering on the hob was beginning to smell very appetising. Gill is very serious about her ragus. Perfecting them has been a decades long project re-defined by many a restaurant visit up and down the Italian peninsula.
"We're living the dream. Pete," remarked Gill, over dinner.
"Ah yes," I agreed, "citizens of the People's Republic of the Recently Retired."
"Populated entirely be the slightly bewildered," Gill ventured.
"Hmmm," I said, "but happily so,"
"Happily so," Gill agreed."
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