Red Alert

Cassis to Sommieres, with diversions!

120 miles

11th October

Last night we were disturbed by a hefty thunderstorm. France Meteo has been forecasting unsettled weather for days; consulting the net, it seemed the weather may be better in Languedoc, so we packed up and headed off, planning to stop off at a couple of aires on the way to reduce our average rate of spend. The Cigales campsite in Cassis is the only one in town ; at  €23 per night in low season  for a two star site that's quite expensive, but I guess if you have a monopoly you can charge what you like.

We decided to return to Sommiere in the Gard, as it was a nice aire in a pretty place, and best of all it was free!. When Jackie phoned from northern France she greeted our decision with some surprise. Apparently the entire region had been declared a meteorological red alert area and national TV news was full of reports from flooded towns and villages right next to where we were headed. As we drove through St Martin de Crau it was a bit overcast, but nothing that would alert you to an impending disaster. We crossed the both Rhones (grande et petite), each were swollen, but neither looked likely to flood. Only after we had passed through Vauvert did we get any inkling of the problems reported on the news. A route barré sign blocked the road. I tried to make a detour through a nearby village, the residents were out in force, the floods clearly were a bit of an event. People began to wave their arms at us, the way forward was blocked too. I turned into a narrow side street. Gill, now well used to directing me out of tight spots, jumped out and directed me as I reversed into the main road. As we drove back out of the village I pulled to one side to let the large red Pompier truck through. It was followed by a breakdown lorry and car transporter. Clearly some vehicles had become stranded. We doubled back and Gill map read us through by an alternative route. It took us right past the Source Perrier. At that moment, with gallons of H2O falling freely from the heavens, the bottled water business struck me as decidedly odd.

A little later than planned we settled ourself down in the aire at Sonnières. It's situated  a few hundred feet from the river Vidourle, so we decided to go and have a look at how this area had coped with the torrential rain storms of the previous few days. Compared to our visit of just a week ago the river had risen considerably, but it was still many feet below the height of the flood defences.

We had noticed on our previous visit an unusual footbridge, called a 'pont submersible'. In effect it was a set of joined-up stepping stones designed to provide a pedestrian walkway to the bus station on the opposite bank. Most of the time it was perfectly safe, but in times of heavy rain the walkway was designed to be  submerged, and to prevent local commuters being swept away, automatic ironsafety gates has been installed at each end.

le pont submersible

' Moments barrier' were clearly of some import to the local citizenry, for a gaggle of older residents had gathered on the nearby benches to observe the closed gates. Sadly, we had missed the main action, for although the gates were closed, the river had subsided slightly and was now lapping harmlessly six inches or so  below the pavement. The only evidence remaining of the great inundation were a few twigs and one large tree branch deposited on the walkway by the subsiding waters. Whereas the ebbing of the waters was entertaining enough for the gathered octogenarians, the sight of the recently revealed walkway was an irresistible temptation for local youth. Four of them arrived, three boys, cocksure, dressed in trackies and garish trainers, and a younger girl, stick-thin, wearing a skimpy tee-shirt and a mini pencil-skirt. The boys took one look at the closed iron gates, then vaulted over them athletically. This was not an option for mademoiselle; both her height and the skin-tight nature of her attire rendered any form of vaulting hazardous to both health and modesty. Not to be out-done she grabbed the iron railing to the side of the barrier, swung outwards over the raging flood-waters and flipped over the lowest part of the fencing with the skill and artistry of an Olympic gymnast.

breaking barriers

All four of them now swaggered across the 'pont (almost) submersible',basking in an adolescent heaven of having not only done something slightly transgressive, but having performed it publicly in front of elders and betters who were in no position whatsoever to do anything to stop them. I was left to ponder whether the state of adulthood is the moment when you lose a natural inclination towards dumb insolence. One day you simply wake up to find there is no point in sticking two fingers up to authority, and  discover to your surprise and consternation that you have had authority thrust upon you. We're all Peter Pans really; none of us wants to grow up.

12th October

Sonnières to the Lac du Salagou

40 miles

Given the uncertainty over the weather, in retrospect it seems a bit daft to head further into the hills. Almost three decades of living on top of a Pennine should have taught us that. For some reason though we decides to use the aire at the Lac du Salagou as a stop off.

We knew the place from previous visits to France and the summer before last rented a house for a week in Liausson, a village overlooking the reservoir.

Apart from anything else, the aire itself was scruffy and the sanitary facilities bordering on the insanitary. The campsite next door had a few people in it, but in the end we were the only van to stay in the aire overnight. It felt a bit lonely and insecure.

When we woke next morning the sun was trying to break through. There is an outdoor centre based at the lake and part way through breakfast a coach load of French primary school kids turned up. Soon clip boards and handouts in hand, in groups of four or five they started tearing about the place screaming at the tops of their voices It was like watching the Famous Five on speed. One of the questions on their hand out clearly concerned the aire de campingcar. As we ate breakfast group after group rolled up, stared at the shit choked WC emptying point, made a note, then blazed off to find the next fascinating spot on their list. Oh the joys of the geography field trip.

At first the teacher accompanying them made a desultory attempt to maintain control by wandering around in a sweat shirt and blowing a whistle. By the time we departed she' d clearly decided that this was a futile hope, and had abandoned the kids to their andrenalin fuelled antics and now stood guard over their backpacks stacked neatly at a kiosk. She'd stripped down to a body-hugging running suit and was engaged in an earnest conversation with the well honed young manager of the place. No doubt they were exploring the finer points of the outdoor education curriculum and it's place in the pedagogy of middle school education.

"What was your main impression of the Lac du Salagou?" I asked Gill as we drove off.

"Mud." She replied. It was true, we were finding heaps of the fine red dust in every corner of the van. ,and a few nooks and crannies of a more personal nature for days.

One of the main reasons why we had come this way was its proximity to the Montperpoux cave cooperative. It's not just the wine itself which is delightful, but the setting, positioned on the low hills overlooking the valley of the Herault. We got to within two kilometres of the place, having negotiated some fairly narrow, hazardous country roads, when we came across a route barré sign. The road was being resurfaced. The 'deviation' through a nearby village looked even narrower and hazardous. Discretion being the best part of valour, we gave up, drove straight to the autoroute and reached the Loupian Municipal Campsite by 12.10am. which should have been great had the office not had a lunch break that lasted from mid-day to four in the afternoon. As we wandered about, the manager took pity on us, popped out of her cottage and opened the barrier, "go find a pitch and sign in this evening," she suggested.

"Merci beaucoup, Madame," I replied, taking the opportunitiy to exercise more than 50% of my entire French vocabulary in one fell swoop