Heels for dust: Three southern towns (fact and fantasy)

We English have a very clear idea about what a town in the south of France should look like. It is eternally bathed in sunlight, has narrow streets with tall shuttered houses, some faced in dun coloured shabby-chic concrete, others colour- washed in pastel shades of pink, blue or earthy terracotta. It will have a shady central square lined with cafés, a boule pitch and a fussily decorated fountain. Above it, on a scrubby crag might be a ruined castle, or a 'village perche' with a spiral of cobbled streets clustered around a modest church with a stubby spire shaped like a witches hat. A municipal notice board will advertise a forthcoming fête, most likely food related - a chick pea festival, soirée asperges or local cheese fair. A concluding soirée de danse with feu d'artifice is a given.

Of course this is France observed vicariously through the eye of Peter Mayle, or enthused over by Rick Stein from the deck of a barge chugging down the Canal du Midi and reiterated in Stella Artois adverts or the columns of Guardian Travel. However, it is not a complete fantasy, mixed up with the retail sprawl, traffic choked by-passes, bizarre roundabout sculpture, strangely shaped lamposts, traffic calming schemes designed with flair and a misplaced enthusiasm for the rococo, woven among all the vicissitudes that assail the weary traveller in contemporary France, aspects of fantasy France occur occasionally as a kind of geographical Franglais.

As a traveller you have a choice. Either sift through experiences as if at a jumble sale seeking an unexpected gem among the piles of tat, or embrace it all, equally happy to wander the aisles of a hypermarket as the streets of some 'ville ancien'.

We have been visiting France for over forty years, more than 120 road trips big and small. Consequently we been around long enough to recognise the fantasy France of Stella Artois adverts resembled some distant reality we once knew, from venerable Deux-Chevaux the colour of faded denim, to plein aire pissoirs, and the evocative waft of Gallois. Equally, we have witnessed France re-invent itself as a technologically advanced country with a vibrant economy, watched people embrace 'le shopping' as a national obsession. As towns became ringed by retail sprawl their crumbling historical centres were restored, streets pedestrianised becoming pleasant places to stroll and socialise. Dog owners now even take time to scoop the poop. Today we look forward to driving off the ferry from Dover to experience what France has become as much as what it once was.

These past three days, wandering about three towns in le Midi, we have experienced an intriguing mixture of France as is and France as was, always, as English visitors, informed by the myth of France as we imagine it to be.

Remoulin

The town lies on the crossroads of two major trunk roads, one running southwards connecting places on the west bank of the Rhone with Nimes, the other, the main road between Avignon and Alés. It's potential as a bottleneck is increased considerably by the fact that the town is one of the few places with a bridge over the river Gardon. These things alone would be reason enough to avoid Remoulin, but it's proximity to the much visited Pont du Gard results in tour buses, motorhomes and general holiday traffic augmenting the line of trucks and frustrated locals edging their way through the narrow streets.

Viewed from the quiet minor road that leads to the campsite none of this mayhem is obvious. Indeed, glimpsed through a shadowy avenue of plane trees, across empty fields, the pale stone church and pantiled-topped houses of the town's medieval centre conform perfectly to a Peter Mayle inspired stereotype. So we stopped our bikes and dutifully photographed it.

We needed to find a supermarket. Google maps reckoned it was about 3km distant across the bridge on the other side of town. This should have been easy. However the bridge had roundabouts at each end and both were choked with traffic. The bridge itself was jammed with trucks, it was narrow and pedalling across it risked being squashed against the 18" high kerb that formed a barrier between the road and the footpath. No one was actually out to get us, but we were at real risk of of becoming victims of some truck driver's momentary lapse of 'care and attention'.

It was touch and go but we did reach the other side. However, the main street was no less jammed. Here the antics of young gun petrol heads in customised hot hatches seemed to exude a more murderous intent. French drivers don't cope with hold-ups too well. They lack a quintessentially British stoicism that accepts that life is basically crap - "Oh well," we sigh. Here locals are more spirited becoming exasperated very quickly in a traffic queue. After 15 seconds they begin to gesticulate wildly, half a minute more results in a cacophony of annoyed horn blasts, then moments later windows have been lowered and insults concerning the moral probity of their mothers are exchanged.

All the while we attempted to pedal past imperiously, weaving our way through the stationary traffic towards Carrefour. Progress was so slow that we experimented with pushing the bikes along the pavement. It was quicker, but irked the occasional passers-by as the pavements were narrow and lined by bollards, installed presumably to protect hapless pedestrians from the attentions of prowling hot hatches.

We arrived at Carrefour unscathed but mildly traumatised. Having stocked up on life's essentials we took out our phones and attempted to find a quieter route back to the campsite. A network of residential streets ran parallel to the main road. These appeared to offer a safer cycling route back to the bridge. They were narrow, one way lanes with cobbled speed bumps and lined by a series of metal panels to create safe areas for pedestrians. The streets would have been ideal but the route was also well known by local drivers as way to beat the jam. On bikes we held them up, they attempted to hurry us along by tailgating a metre or so from our rear mudguards. It was less dangerous for cyclists than the main road but equally stressful. This was a pity, as the route took us through the older quarters of Remoulin, which would have been nice to explore in a more leisurely fashion. That was not an option. We have no photos whatsoever of our visit to Remoulin, apart from one taken in the car park of the Cave Cooperative where we stopped to buy a couple of bottles.

At least in the Cave Cooperative car park nobody was trying to kill us.

St Rémy-de-Provence

It rained steadily on the journey from Remoulin to St. Rémy, easing off only after we reached the campsite. We opted to dodge the showers and walk into the town centre. If Remoulin is a place which embodies the gap between fantasy France and fact, St. Rémy seeks overtly to reinforce the postcard perfect Provence stereotype. It is well endowed with a crowd pleasing past - the site of significant Gallo-Roman remains at Glanum, it is the birthplace of Nostradamus and most popular of all, it is the location of the asylum where Van Gogh lived for a year between May 1889 - 90.

St Remy - picturesque sidestreets

Nostradamus - a local boy

As far as I could work out there are no actual paintings by Van Gogh in the town but this does not prevent the locals cashing in on the connection. A small 'museum' houses 19 reproductions of paintings Vincent produced on the days he was let out of the asylum. There is a waymarked walk so you can visit each spot. St Rémy's many gift shops will sell you a 'Starry Night' fridge magnet, an 'Irises' tea towel or even a bandaged ear mug - a Vincent mug shot!

It may be a tousist trap - but it is a lovely place nontheless.

Herbes de Provence

However, despite the flagrant sales pitch it would be unfair to characterise the place as simply a tourist trap. Its tree lined streets, narrow alleys and sun dappled squares are beautiful and the location at the foot of Les Alpilles' barren limestone outcrops tempts you to head out for a hike, well, if it stopped raining. The problem is that you cannot escape the notion that the place oozes charm by design. A tantalising pitch is still a pitch and no matter how willingly you succumb its seduction, in the end you feel like a victim.

Brignolles

We were due to catch we catch the evening ferry to Corsica departing at 9.00pm. This resulted in us having a lot of time on our hands between exiting the campsite in St Remy and arriving at Toulon Docks. We spent part of the morning wandering around the Gallo-Roman remains of Glanum. It took less time than planned due to being on a timed car park ticket. It turned the visit into an archaeological speed dating event. I learned a lot considering we only had 50 minutes to appreciate a place that had been inhabited over 1000 years but four different civilisations. Perhaps engaging with somewhere intensively more effective than perusing.

Glanum car park - 5 euros an hour - time for an archaeological sprint.

Poppies in the car park - very photogenic< I thought.

First century BC Roman Mausoleaum

Usual thing - rippling muscles, mindless violence - Roman victory.

The Roman remains were interesting -

The information about the earlier fifth century Gaulish Irom Age town was more fascinating - simply because pre-Classical settlements tend to be buried beneath later Greek and Roman buildings, so getr overlooked.

We headed towards Aix-en-Provence on tree lined N roads avoiding the autoroute tolls. It sounds romantic, but the avenues of plane trees and their stripes of shadow and light make for hazardous driving, so much so that speed is restricted on some sections to 80kph. Not that we needed to hurry. To avoid the traffic around Aix we paid a €5 toll and took the motorway, stopping at an Aire to have lunch squeezed between two Polish artics.

We did need to stock-up on non-perishable goods before sailing to Corsica. Most consumer goods are imported from the mainland, so it's more expensive. Gill found a hypermarket in Brignolles which boasted a motorhome service point. It was on our route and seemed somewhere that we could park the van for a couple of hours. Though the town does not really figure in our guidebook, photos on-line looked pleasant enough. So after we had shopped went for a stroll.

Remember all those things I said at the beginning about the English's fantasy South of France town? Brignolles is lovely, as close as we have come in a long time to finding a workaday ordinary place that might provoke the string of effusive, overused adjectives found in a Guardian Travel or Lonely Planet piece extolling the delights of Provence. Just occasionally the dream of France and the reality coalesce. Those are the moments we remember, the ones which draw us back.