St Laurent du Pape to Mondragon

49 miles

We decided that we needed to be heading south as our first real objective was to visit Cassis and take the train to Marseilles. The day started well enough and we packed-up and were on the road by about 10.00am. In the end, however, it turned into 'just one of those days' dogged by minor problems and stressful situations.

Glitch 1

We desperately needed to empty the grey water tank which was increasingly smelling as if a small elephant had drowned in it some days ago.... Camping Garenne, it transpired had no such facility and the receptionist directed us to the Intermarche in La Voloute sur Rhone.

Glitch 2

The Intermarche did not appear to be located where the signs indicated, but in trying to locate it I did manage to take a wrong turning down a one way street which rapidly narrowed to the point where an anorexic Vespa would have been too portly to proceed. Gill bravely hopped out and waved her arms about as I gingerly backed out into a busy main road.

Minor Triumph!

We found a seriously sequestered aire in Le TieL, and offloaded the offending waste water...hooray!

Glitch 3

By this time we were running short of fuel and were relieved to find an Intermarche with a petrol station on the outskirts of Bourg St-Andeol. After buying a few groceries we duly filled up using a card as the attendant in the kiosk had gone for lunch. Now the problems began . The petrol station had been built in the corner of the car park and the way out by the kiosk was very narrow and involved a sharp left turn past a row of gas bottle cages in order to exit the station. This only became obvious as you reached the kiosk and now Maisy lay at a tricky angle with the middle of the van perilously close to the kiosk, the front a couple of feet from the gas bottle cages and the rear a couple of feet from a high retaining wall.

Gill hopped out to direct the salvage operation. As I reversed there was a metallic scraping noise.
"Shit" I thought, I've hit the kiosk. "No", Gill advised, "the exhaust pipe is scraping the kerb". I got out in full 'man-scratches-head- bewilderment' mode. As I reversed as far as I could the exhaust pipe scraped along the kerb, but thankfully it did not drop- off. I was now at a slightly better angle and figured if I bumped the driver-side front wheel over the kerb next to the gas bottle cages and edged forward within a couple of inches of the stacked up empty gas bottles I might extricate Maisy from the jam.

I was just about to do this when a store employee arrived, having probably observed the unfolding drama on CCTV. He was dead against me edging towards the gas bottles, fearing perhaps some pyrotechnic 'Bond-style' catastrophic ending. There ensued a gestured exchange accompanied by me babbling in English and he babbling in French, ending with him shrugging his shoulders having understood my point acted out charades style, "if you won't let me go forwards, what the fuck do you suggest?" I edged out slowly, he gestured for me to stop and took Gill to examine the kiosk, pointing at a scratch along its fascia board. Gill hopped in the cab, "How he thinks we did that, it's rusty!" she exclaimed. Man in suit with name on lanyard now strolls up, the store manager I suppose. He and his employee have conflab, observed by me in wing mirror. Man points at scratch. Suit-man shakes head - and says what must have been "it's rusty you idiot, we'll never nail it on the English grey hairs." Strolls over, "Eets Okay," he says, giving me a thumbs-up sign.

Blimey, I just wanted some diesel - note to self, only use large stations in big hyper-markets, and don't let the fuel gauge go past quarter empty, and end up committed to using the first station that presents itself.

great wine dept....hazardous petrol stations!

Glitch 4

Camping Mas de Sud Ardeche  - the site identified the previous evening on the internet as open until the end of October - was proving elusive, certainly not in the area shown on its website.. Twice we edged through the ancient, narrow streets of St Martin d'Ardeche looking for a sign.

The camp site is here, somewhere...

Gill double checked on Google maps using the Moto. We were close, but the road to it was off main N86 - not obvious. We arrived, the place looked a bit forlorn with wrecked camping bungalows in the adjacent field. "Perhaps they were affected by the floods Jackie mentioned." Gill speculated. As we drew up at reception a fierce looking hound circled the van, barking wildly. Gill opened the door an inch or two, but decided not to get out. A moment later a women emerged, grabbed the dog, and explained that they were closed, but gave directions to the  nearby Camping Acacia, which operated later in the season. However, when we arrived there a large handwritten sign said 'Ferme' in no uncertain manner. After consulting our small library of campsite books we gave up on the Ardeche and headed across the Rhone into Vaucluse and eventually found a pleasant site among pine trees near Mondragon.

Glitch 5

Muriel had a bit of a turn, refused to switch on, then reverted itself to factory settings. Consequently when she resurrected herself she was adamant that she was back in Buxton. Can satnavs become homesick?

Anyway rather than take us down the main road towards Mondragon Muriel decided to take us for a country drive. This was fine until she deposited us on a road running alongside the railway; Mondragon and the campsite was in sight just over the tracks, but every single bridge under the line had height restrictions. Another 10km detour and finally we did find a way across, and yes, the campsite was as as 'pinede' as the name promised, the receptionist charming and the facilities good.

In the end no harm done other than frayed nerves...not everyday is going to be plain sailing, I guess.