We have known for months that whatever plans we had for a trip this autumn would need to be organised around Matthew's move. The big day is on hold due to supply problems in the construction industry. He phoned the other day saying the the estate agent was now looking at a November completion date the earliest. This opened a window of opportunity of three weeks in October, just long enough we reckoned for a quick dash south to the Languedoc and the Costa Brava.
For fifteen years while the kids were at home we became experts at bombing down to the Med for Easter breaks, covering the 1000 miles in three days with two motel stops. It seems crazy now, but in the 90s and early noughties the roads were not so crowded and our overloaded Ford Galaxy would cruise happily down the l'autoroute or autostrada at 90mph. The only thing that changed was the destination - Cote d'Azur or Tuscany, Lake Garda or Languedoc, also the size of the kids - bikes replaced buggies and folding cots; the soundtrack too moved with the times, cassettes of 'Just William' stories ditched in preference for The Spice Girls, then Madonna or Moloko and finally on our last Easter trip as a family to Lake Garda, The Fame Monster and Jpop reigned supreme. There were only three of us at home by then, Laura was still at school and Matthew and Sarah were at university. They avoided the long drive south and Lady Gaga, flying into Bergamo to join us later.
Once retired we had no need to dash about, even when our destinations were further afield - Portugal, Sicily or Greece - we opted to travel across France at a more leisurely pace, avoiding toll motorways, keeping our speed down to save on diesel. Now faced with a three week Mediterranean shortish break we realised that we were never going to be able to dash south in a motorhome at the same pace as we used to.
To maximize our time in the south I figured we could get there with three stops if we used the tunnel, four if we used the longer Newhaven to Dieppe crossing. In the end we opted for the latter, shocked that the cost of a single crossing for a motorhome on Eurotunnel had risen to £210. Our return ticket with DFDS on the longer crossing was only £279. Moreover, Google maps reckoned the shortest route from Buxton to the Mediterranean was straight south on the M40, onto the M25, then onwards to Newhaven, ferry to Dieppe then Orleans, Bourges and Clermont Ferrand, and finally down the A75 to Séte. It seemed like a good plan to me.
Day 1 - Buxton to Newhaven, 255 miles.
Of course it rained while we packed the van, it usually does. Buxton's water is famous, what people don't fully appreciate is that far more wet stuff falls from the sky than bubbles up from the healthful thermal springs. The only time I am aware of that the town put in an appearance in the canon of English poetry celebrated its soggy USP.
Written at Buxton in a Rainy Season
FROM these wild heights, where oft the mists descend
In rains that shroud the sun and chill the gale,
Each transient gleaming interval we hail,
And rove the naked valleys, and extend
Our gaze around where yon vast mountains blend
With billowy clouds that o’er their summits sail,
Pondering how little Nature’s charms befriend
The barren scene, monotonous and pale.
Yet solemn when the darkening shadows fleet
Successive o’er the wide and silent hills,
Gilded by watery sunbeams:—then we meet
Peculiar pomp of vision. Fancy thrills;
And owns there is no scene so rude and bare
But nature sheds or grace or grandeur there.
When Anna Seward visited the town in 1799 obviously it pissed down all the time; impressively it has continued to do so most days ever since. In every respect other than the dismal weather Buxton is a perfectly nice place to live. However, I do wonder if we had chosen settle somewhere drier whether we would have developed such an abiding desire to head for sunnier climes.
As often happens by the time we reached Ashbourne, 22 miles to the south and 600 feet lower, the rain had become drizzle; somewhere south of Derby we drove into pallid sunshine.
This did not help, it was not pallid we craved but blistering glare and startling colour. Of course England's soft, shifting light can be hauntingly beautiful, especially around the chalk uplands of the South Downs where we were heading. Sadly it was dark by the time we arrived at Newhaven; we parked up for the night along with a couple of others waiting for the morning ferry.
In fact the next day was considerably brighter. I celebrated the fact by taking snapshot of dawn light on the fruit bowl with a view Newhaven's slightly ramshackle docks in the background. I have a liking for small slightly ramshackle ports, I find them inexplicably pleasing.
By 8.30am we were in the queue for the ten o' clock ferry. It departed early, half empty. England made a valiant attempt to contradict everything I have just said about its soft light. Under a clear blue sky the white cliffs around Beachy Head positively gleamed, like the backdrop to a toothpaste advert.
A brisk, chilly breeze had swept away the morning mist, it looked lovely but did not bode well so far as the four hour crossing was concerned. I am only comfortable at sea in a flat calm, it became increasingly choppy and I felt ever more nauteous. Maybe the tunnel at almost twice the price would have been the better option, l wondered.
Day 2 - Dieppe to La Mailleraye-sur-Seine, 48 miles.
Who first promulgated the fashionable phrase, 'the new normal'? It turns out the idea is older than I thought and can be traced back to the end of WW1 and debates about what the post war society might look like. Of course there is good sense in the idea that there is no point in fretting about things you have no control over. However, humans are not always sensible, especially when confronted by a 'new normal' they vehemently disagree with.
You've guessed it, we are sitting in the slow moving 'Other Passports' queue as if we hailed from Mongolia or North Korea, while fellow our Europeans are waived through the nearby EEA lane with a nod and a smile. So far as Brexit's new normalancies are concerned I cannot forsee me simply accepting them. They will always rankle.
Unsurprisingly we are not in the habit of taking a few cases of English wine with us when we visit France so we were unprepared to be quizzed by the French Douannes in Dieppe as to whether we were carrying alcohol or cigarettes into the EU. Of course duty tree allowances work both ways, it's just I had never considered it until now. In fact limits are more stringent when entering the EU than when returning home from Europe.
One issue that seemingly has resolved itself concerns travelling across the Channel with meat and dairy products. If you recall, when the Brexit transition phase ended last February there were stories in the press about overzealous Dutch customs officials seizing Waitrose ham and tomato sandwiches from hapless British travellers disembarking at the Hook of Holland. Sanity seems to have prevailed for once, UK Gov's website now states unequivocally that foodstuffs for personal consumption can be imported freely. No need to bin the contents of the fridge every time you cross the channel.
Finally all new normal border formalities completed , we dutifully followed the sat nav's breezy instructions towards our planned destination - the Aire at Neufchatel-en-Bray, less than thirty kilometres away. We know it well, what could possibly go wrong?
The usual road was coned-off, while attempting to resist the sat nav's determination to re-direct us down the nearest cart track, and hunting for miniscule yellow 'deviation' signs hidden in the hedgerows, we ended up completely lost. Irrationally I became set on heading to Evreux, about 60km further on. Gill pointed out the stupidity of having to drive straight through the middle of Rouen at rush hour to get there. Somehow we avoided a row and stumbled upon a compromise, crossing the Seine north of the city by taking the Pont de, Brotonne, and settling for the night at a nearby aire at Mailleraye-sur-Seine.
The reviews on Searchforsites were all very positive. Situated right by the river the aire is run by the 'municipal', it costs €10 euros per night, the barrier system seems reliable which is not always the case in France and you get a generous pitch with a nice view. One note of caution, after rain the pitches closest to the river bank can be soft. After choosing one we had second thoughts and decided to move onto the asphalt opposite. We needed our Milenco skid mats to get moving. It's the only downside with our van, it is useless on wet grass
We had fun watching the river traffic. A mix of enormous river cruise boats, bulk carrier type barges and small sea going tankers and container ships. We don't really have big navigable rivers in the UK. I imagine the Seine must be a fully navigable all the way to Paris. The river's commercial traffic must take thousands of truck journeys off the roads.
Day 3 - La Mailleraye-sur-Seine to La Ferté-Saint-Aubin, 175 miles.
We've dubbed the giant wheatfield that runs west to east from Chartres to Troyes French Yorkshire because it reminds us of the boring stretch of the A1M between Doncaster and Darlington. It's not horrible, just very tedious to drive along. Even if you cross the plain north to south - Évreux, Dreux, Chartres - a shorter distance geographically - it still seems to take forever.
Small features loom large, points of minor interest to relieve the boredom: the apparently permanent 'bouchon' at the lights near Nonancourt - a regular occurrence on our journeys hereabouts since 1989, the view of Chartres cathedral from the north, afloat in mist above the bare fields, just as it would have looked to a pilgrim six centuries ago.
As soon as the unmistakable outline appears in the windscreen I cannot help but recall the antics of Dr. Crossley who taught the architecture element of the Late Medieval Art module I studied. He was very theatrical and liked to act out how the nave columns interrelated with the quadripartite vaulting by making extravagant arm gestures and leaping about. His balletic approach to architectural history must have worked because almost half a century on I still can remember quite a bit of what he taught me.
Luckily Gill by this time had nodded off, otherwise there is always a good chance I will share as I drive along whatever nonsense is going on my head, in this case a quick summary of the development of Gothic cathedral vaulting patterns in France during the 12th and 13th centuries. She had a narrow escape.
About 30kms north of Orleans we joined the A10 autoroute. Usually we try to avoid using France's toll motorways to keep travel costs down, but with time at a premium we needed to make rapid progress south. The upside is they are much less stressful than having to deal with all the 'rond points' and the constantly changing speed limits you get on route nationals.
It was about 4pm. when we reached the aire at La Ferté-Saint-Aubin. It's free, but officially only operates after the adjacent Camping Municipal closes for the season at the end of September. The scrap of waste ground designated as the the aire doubles up as a spot for markets and fairs. Though the spot is a bit rough and ready it does have a 'flot blu' service point and the surrounding parkland is attractive. The nearby riverside walks have modern sculptures scattered around under the trees.
La Ferté-Saint-Aubin's most famous site is across the main road. The chateau dates from Eighteenth century and is built on a grand scale overlooking three large ornamental ponds. The main gates were locked, so no chance of taking a closer look.
We spotted a side entrance by the church and in the process discovered a tangle of ancient houses which seemed the be site of the original village, predating the more modern town which straggles alongside the busy main road. Eventually we found the side gate, it was locked too. However, we had set out for an early evening walk and were not to be stymied. At the opposite side of the park we happened upon a footpath heading into the woods by the side of the river Cosson.
Clearly the Chateau's grounds had once been more extensive, for as well as the natural woodland we came across more formal avenues of specimen trees now unkempt, with once neatly clipped lawns overgrown and running wild.
The woods were full of ponds too. About 20kms south of the Loire, we were on the edge of La Sologne famous for its marshes and small lakes. I posted a picture of one on Facebook commenting that it looked 'painterly' with the water by Monet and the feathery trees by Fragonard.
One of the joys of simply wandering about is when you are suddenly confronted by a beautiful nowhere in particular, unexpected delights are always the best.
Day 4 - La Ferté-Saint-Aubin - Massiac, 217 miles.
We headed south down the D2020 aiming to rejoin the autoroute at Vierzon. However, we needed a supermarket stop before we joined it. We have driven this way so many times before I have a mental map of local stores in my head so did not need the sat nav's assistance to find the Super U in Salbris.
Clear skies and a road heading south, definitely one of my 'happy places'. Even the mundane image of the van parked up in front of the store under a deep blue sky was enough to lift my spirits.
South of Bourges junctions are few and far between on the A27. You get the impression that its intended for long distance travel rather than local journeys. America's mid-west is known colloquially as 'the fly over states; maybe France's central departments are 'drive through' ones, they certainly feel somewhat remote and thinly populated.
We stopped for lunch at a motorway aire somewhere in Allier. Its name was Aire du centre de la France, maybe it is, in which case geographically France is like a Polo Mint with nothing in the middle.
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One advantage of using the motorway meant we avoided the outskirts of Clermont Ferrand. They can be tricky. The closer we got to the Massif Central the more overcast it became. Overcast means downcast so far as we are concerned even though the forecast for coming week is looking very sunny indeed. Yes, the Auvergne and Cantal is a magnificent upland landscape much grander than where we live in the Pennines. However lockdowns over the past two years have trapped us for months in overcast uplands. What we want are sunny days and a blue sea view .
Even in the best of weather the villages and towns of the Cantal are hardly uplifting, with a distinctly severe countenance, seemingly specialising in being a tad ramshackle with tall dun coloured houses and narrow streets that cling to the edges of the steep valleys. Our destination - Massiac - conforms in the main to this stereotype, though like many places in the area has it cultivated a specialist product - macaroons. Cantal cheese and macaroons, it's an unusual USP.
We were glad to arrive despite the general dullness. Sadly the free Aire de camping car had closed, the riverside pitches were fenced off and the asphalt parking bays over the road limited by a 2m height barrier. A sign directed us to the town's Camping Municipal, out of season motorhomes can park there, but it costs €10. Another place added to Campingcarpark's growing empire.
The brand seems destined to become to what MacDonalds was to the humble local burger joint. Increasingly what once were free places to park overnight are disappearing behind contactless card operated barriers only accessible through the Campingcarparks App. Like many things it is a mixed blessing. Being able to book online and check ahead on available spaces does bring the somewhat haphazard matter of finding a place overnight into the 21st century. Also, the places are well maintained and you are guaranteed that even in the winter months the services will work and the water tap will be turned on. However, part of me feels slightly crestfallen that something that was once freely available has been monetised, and that you need a smartphone and a contactless card to access the service.
I wonder if the days of wild camping in a motorhome may be numbered. It's not just about municipal authorities waking up to the fact that they can make a bit of cash out of it, the ever growing number of people with motorhomes and campervans in itself is putting pressure on free camping spots. A couple of vans drawn up in a remote beach car park in the Highlands or Alentejo off season does not really offend or discomfort anyone. Fifteen or twenty vans might, and if seafront promenades or famed beauty spots become rammed with vans all summer long then it is unsurprising the locals get narked and local authorities decide to ban overnight parking.
I reckon on our longer trips we might wild camp 20% of the time, if we had to pay for these places it probably would add around £200 to a 70 day trip. Annoying, but it would not be prohibitive. For people living full time in their motorhomes, often on a shoestring budget, the demise of free places to stay would be serious challenge to their lifestyle. A society that can't tolerate alternative lifestyles, that overtly or covertly insists everyone must conform, isn't really a free society at all.
Day 5 - Massiac to Loupian, 163 miles
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Well that was more of a rant than I had planned. I blame the skill of French wine makers who can produce bottles that are so drinkable that between two of you it's amazingly easy to demolish the whole lot while remaining convinced you've only had two small glasses each. Anyway, today's burning question. Why is it that the more we travel the more difficult it becomes to make an early start? Maybe the first half of the paragraph answers the latter part's question!
In truth we've never been very perky. While we are still tucked up under the duvet some early bird always seems to fire-up their van and drive off before sunrise. We seem to have gone to the opposite extreme, often more or less the last van standing. Today was no exception, it was almost 11.30am. before we exited the aire. We're in France, which means we hardly got moving before lunchtime.
I've stopped attempting epic drives as well, heeding the advice to have a break every two hours, which today resulted in having lunch at the view point overlooking the Millau viaduct.
A few posts ago I owned up to the fact that I had a bit of thing about big bridges. Millau has to be one of the most spectacular bridges on the planet, an engineering tour- de-force and thing of great beauty, a must see destination for any 'pontist'. Though we've crossed the bridge a dozen times or more we've never actually visited the viewing platform on the hill above it. It's a steep climb. Gill, who is pending an hospital appointment to assess if she requires knee replacement surgery, took the wise decision to sit on a bench halfway up, I continued onwards up the vertiginous bit to take the required photo.
Somewhere between Massiac and Millau the north become the south. You cannot pinpoint the moment exactly, The mountains of the Auvergne and Cantal are massive grassy hills rather than craggy Alpine peaks, but as you head southwards the sward becomes thinner, the soil stonier, the bushes scrubby and gnarled - a garrigue not moorland. It looks southern but it is not at all verdant, arid, harsh and unforgiving under the blazing sun.
Only when the A75 falls off the southern edge of the Massif Central, descending the Cirque de Navacelles in a series of swooping S bends, do you reach your imagined Midi: vineyards stretching as far as the eye can see, hillsides clad in olive green, golden stone villages beyond an avenue of plane trees, undulating dunes anchored by ebullient umbrella pines, momentarily, deep blue or sparkling silver, the first glimpse of the Mediterranean that triggers an impromptu cheer from the cab.
On the cover of a guidebook, a photoshopped illustration in a Sunday supplement or tourist board poster any of these images might seem laughably clichéd, but together, experienced as a living landscape, it is difficult not to be moved, to sense some Barthian 'punctum', a momentary pang of emotion.
There is no sense to such a response. When I return to the shores of the Mediterranean I feel a sense of homecoming; I know this is a silly romantic notion, but I feel it nonetheless. In his poem 'Goodbye to the Mezzigiorno' W. H. Auden explores the inexplicable fascination 'the South' has for many northerners. It concludes:
... Go I must, but I go grateful (even
To a certain Monte) and invoking
My sacred meridian names, Vico, Verga,
Pirandello, Bernini, Bellini,
To bless this region, its vendages, and those
Who call it home: though one cannot always
Remember exactly why one has been happy,
There is no forgetting that one was.
Maybe it's as simple as that. For us the south is our 'happy place', a solace and a refuge from a troubled world As I commented on the video of Mèze's market bar that I posted on Facebook, "Was the 860 mile drive worth it? If the question arises you have missed the point..."
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