Long haul by air and road

Over the last couple of decades we've done two kinds of long haul. The first, every four or five years we've managed to go somewhere far away, if not exactly exotic then at least to a distant continent - North America (x3), Japan, Hong Kong, Australia, Singapore, New Zealand. The last trip was to New Zealand in 2018, so we are due another one. Other things however, demand money and attention, like the roof of our house and our car, which is a 12 years old diesel,  increasingly regarded by our offspring as a major contributor to climate change, like beefburgers or fracking. So I can't see us continent hopping any time soon. 

The second sort of long haul we do is by road, usually at the end of each of our extended moho trips. We wander our way to some distant spot, usually as far south as possible, somewhere by the Med, then after a couple of months begin to meander back. A week or so before our return ferry date we conclude we need to scoot homewards quickly. This too feels like a long haul, the present one can be summarised in two words - very wet. 

For once I am lost for words, so I thought I would steal Gill's who keeps a handwritten account of our travels in a page per day diary. It is more succinct, to the point and of more practical use than my ramblings.

Tuesday, April 5th. Meze - Issoire.

am. Blue sky, warmish, packed up and drove through narrow streets, one way. Tried to buy diesel - ended up at Carrefour - Intermarché no good. Called into Lidl for bread, then up motorway. 

Some snow on the high Causse. Lunch in Aire. Then to Breuil, aire closed, onto Issoire, last place, v. busy.

Wednesday, April 6th. Issoire - Gien

am. cloudy and cool. Packed-up and set off for motorway north of Issoire. Drove to Clermont then on N7 to Moulins and Nevers. So many lorries. 

Found campsite in Giens next to Loire & what looks like a nice town & chateau. 

Rain & cloudy - v. cool. Can see Auchun from camping.

 Thursday, April 7th. Gien - Arcis sur l'Aube 

am. rain and cold. Packed-up & drove to Auchun then autoroute to Troyes. Lunch in an aire.

After Troyes, N road to Arcis, v. low on fuel, filled-up at Arcis. Camping-car-park Aire on road north of town. 

Rain stopped, some road noise.

Friday, April 8th. Arcis sur l'Aube - Nouvion-en-Thiérache.

am. Grey, rain and cold. Packed-up and drove to Chalon E. leClerc hypermarket Then mway round Reims, and D road to Laon - diversion on ring road, sleet, heavy and horrible on road. 

Got to Aire, 2 other vans, OK.

Saturday, April 9th. Nouvion-en-Thieache Bavay/Hon Hergies

am. cold, dry, cloudy. Packed-up and drove towards Bavay, parked in Aire, one other van. Texted Jackie at 11:30, who drove us to her house. 

After lunch went for walk then collected van and parked it in village car park next to cemetery. Walked back to van at 11:30pm.

Sunday, April 10th. Hon Hergies

am. sunny but chilly. Walked back to Jackie's house. Walked to Mairie as Jackie needed to vote in presidential election. After lunch J. drove us to Mons to see flat.

 Walked around Mons and went to café in square. 

In evening curry - v good. 8pm watched election results, Macron topped poll in 1st round. Walked back to van around 11:00pm.

Monday, April 11th. Hon Hergies - Bergues

am. Sunny and nearly warm! Walked to Jackie's house to say bye, then set off for Lille at 11:30. Needed service point to empty Thetford, found service point at Esquelberg, aire almost full - 1 place left. After we had finished at the service point people from other vans came out and stared at us with folded arms, it felt intimidating so we left. Shopped at nearby Lidl. 

Went on to aire in Bergues. Took late afternoon walk into town via ramparts. Quiet night.

Tuesday, Apr 12th. Bergues - Canterbury

am. sunny not cold. Packed-up and drove to ferry port at Loon Plage. Boat at 12:00, arr. early at 10:30. 

Five checks for boarding, DFDS, French immigration, police check inside and outside van, UK Border Force, French customs including 2nd search of van. 

On boat loads of lorries, few tourists. Flat calm, crossing OK. 3 out of service P&O ferries parked in Dover. Followed Ukrainian car - woman with kids and lots of stuff. Sobering sight.

Wednesday April 13th. Canterbury - Buxton

Back to Pete's usual ramblings - A2 busy going south, not so bad going north. Total traffic chaos throughout Kent caused by reduced ferry services from Dover due to the P&O debacle and Easter holidays traffic. Big queues at Dartford, heavy traffic from there to Leicester, caravan/moho parking at Toddington services packed with HGVs, after the empty roads of Spain and France it's all a bit wearing. 

It's interesting at what point you start to feel a sense of homecoming, crossing the Trent and the Derbyshire county border on the A50 certainly signals the beginning of home territory; the A515 north from Ashbourne is a little alarming at times due to how narrow it is, and the way quarry lorries hurtle towards you, but the bare hills and big sky, the dry stone walls and dour farmhouses definitely signal home. Then here we are, rattling about in the house after weeks of living in a box. 

The trip began normally but became increasingly challenging. A journey of two halves,  Late January to the end of February followed  the usual winter escape pattern, maybe a little cooler than usual, but still plenty of sunny days. March and early April have been a different story, a series of tricky situations to manage. Firstly covid, ten days of feeling really quite ill while trying to self-isolate as best as we could, moving from one areas auto-caravanas to another every few days. Our plan for a week or more of  R&R at Camping Los Escullos went awry when the Sahara dust storm struck, sending us scurrying back the way we came to Seville. Then homewards along Spain's northern coast, which was sunnier than the south, but chilly. The journey back through France was wintry at times, a tardy spring across Europe generally. The end result of all the dashing about was 4850 miles on the trip counter, perhaps 500 miles more than we would usually clock up on other winter escapes. 

We both feel a bit exhausted, unsure if the fatigue is an after effect of Covid or due to the journey itself, not just its length,  but the fact that circumstances meant that we ended up overnighting in aires more often than using campsites in the latter part of the trip.  In the final fortnight we only spent three nights in a campsite. You do save money, but it does mean you can't settle down and relax. Perhaps next winter we will use the long sea crossing both ways, the additional cost partially offset by driving fewer miles and so ameliorating the increasing cost of diesel and toll charges on the French motorways.

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Cabin fever prompts a meandering post about living in comfort or otherwise in less than a 25 cubic metre space.

That's roughly the size of the space we  inhabit for months on end. It works fine if we are living outdoors some of the time and getting out and about most days. 

.

When bad weather traps us inside it can be hard going. It doesn't take many consecutive days of being stuck indoors before cabin fever sets in. It is now five days since we were wandering around the pintxos bars of Donastia. We have travelled 600kms, stayed in three different places, suffered single digit temperatures every day, had three days of heavy rain, along with gusty, maddening winds most of the time. Now we only have two days left before we head back north, it is probably too much to hope that they will sunny and warm, but with luck they may be decent enough for us mooch about in Meze or use the bikes on via verde that runs alongside the Etand de Thau.

This trip has not been terrible, but at times it has felt like a grown up version of 'Lemony Snicket's a Series of Unfortunate Events'. Take this morning, we had packed up, unhooked from the EHU, rolled off the ramps, all we needed to do was to fold up ground sheet we usually put down outside the habitation door; given the windy weather had I secured it with sturdy 12cm tent pegs. When we arrived I struggled somewhat to hammer them in, but when I came to remove them, one of them would not budge at all, neither levering it with the mallet handle, a claw hammer, or a broom shank had any effect. In the end I had it dig it out. It was then that I discovered the layer of solid clay 6cms below the loose gritty top soil. It delayed our departure by almost half an hour. I felt picked on.

Taken on its own it was no big deal, but combined with bad weather trapping us  inside, consecutive days of motorway driving through blustery rain, lingering post Covid symptoms, then it is difficult not to conclude that this trip has not been as much fun as they usually are. 

I have written before about 'endishness' the sense of ennui that comes with journey's end. We are on day 68, our original intention was to max out our 90 day Schengen allowance but we are heading home earlier than anticipated. Ostensibly this is because Sarah and Rob are going on holiday in late April and need us to look after Ralfi. However, I do wonder if in fact we have a previously undiscovered personal 70 - 75 day travel limit. Even before Brexit overcomplicated European travel we never wandered about for more than 70 or so days at a time, we would fly back while leaving the van in secure storage after ten weeks or so on the road. We always had a reason, family Christmas, needing to be around because of Gill's father's care needs. Maybe though we always have had a ten week wander limit but never realised it.

So we have been discussing how we might travel in future. More precisely for the next three years. After then we become septuagenarians and that will complicate travel even more, limiting the kerb weight of vehicles I can drive and the willingness of insurers to provide cover for longer trips.  

Whatever happens, our travels in Europe will have to work within two 90 day periods separated by a three month break. What we imagined we would do are autumn trips starting in mid-August and ending in mid-November, Christmas and January in the UK, then heading to Santander by ferry in  mid-February, returning home by mid-May.

Now I am not so sure. The vagaries of the Schengen visa rules are not the only considerations. We also fancy more long haul, visiting the Far East and returning to New Zealand. Then there is South America, having acquired a liking for things Hispanic, experiencing its reinvention in Latin America would be interesting. The problem is if the cost of living rises we have experienced over the past few months continue then visiting far flung places for weeks on end will slip beyond our means, It is not just the increasing price of long haul flights and accommodation that is the problem, the cost travelling by motorhome long term in Europe is already increasing alarmingly - a couple of days ago I saw diesel at €2.21 per litre in France. 

By the time we arrive home we will have clocked up over 4000 miles, a little more than usual since we  criss-crossed Iberia in search of a sunny spot. Still, the chances are in 2022 we will total between eight and nine thousand miles travelling in the van, as we have most years. I figure if you calculate the annual cost of fuel at the current prices, fees for low season campsites and aires, ferry fares, including a couple of longer crossings, then the yearly expenditure for our shoulder season European travels would be around £6,300. 

Say that covers 150 days travel -  that's £42 per day. The last time we took a comparable journey was pre-Covid in the early months of 2020, the daily cost then was around £35, the same as it had been on our first long trip in 2014/15. For a while I could not understand why the cost of travelling in Greece in 2015 was the same as travelling in Scandinavia three years later. Then it dawned on me, our first van was far less fuel efficient, averaging 22mpg; the current one on this trip is getting a smidgeon under 30mpg and does even better in less mountainous terrain.

When it comes to long haul, then our 6 week trip to New Zealand cost around £7000, but it remains to be seen what the price of travelling half way around the globe will be once the world finally emerges from the pandemic. I think we might have to face the uncomfortable truth that we are not going to be able to afford shoulder season meanderings through Europe and trips to more exotic destinations. Given the choice of 40 days somewhere faraway or 150 days wandering about Europe then the chances are we will choose the latter. 

Which brings me finally, and somewhat circuitously to how we might re-think our travelling life. I like to think that I am, or at least aspire to be, a rationally minded person. This means I ought to be equally happy to be proven wrong as to be proven right and am able to adjust my point of view when new evidence comes to light or circumstances change. Which brings me to the question - where in Europe are you most likely to get consistent mild winter weather and the most sunny days? Both here and on various Facebook motorhome groups that I have joined, then left, I confidently asserted that only on coasts south of the 38° parallel will you find consistently fine winter weather. I still think there is some truth in this -  Spain - south of  Murcia; Portugal - the Algarve and Alentejo coast south of Sines; Italy - the southern half of Sicily; Greece - the Mani and other parts of the southern Peloponnese. We have had lovely winter days in all these places, I have managed to swim in the Mediterranean throughout the year, but not this year. We have had sunny days, but not a consistent period of fine weather with temperatures nudging up into the twenties.  

So here is our plan B: Long trips of between 70 -75 days;  Autumn in the eastern Mediterranean from the beginning of September to mid November (Gill guaranteed an Italian birthday); Spring in Iberia and France from mid-March to the end of May (Pete guaranteed a birthday with a view of the Med). This would mean we would benefit from the longer evenings and more spring-like weather in April and May. Then we could add all of Portugal, Spain's Costa Verde and the Sierra's of the interior, as well as most of France south the Loire as areas to explore, as well as our more usual stomping ground around the Mediterranean coast. 

The downside is that we would end up in England from mid-November to mid-March, in other words throughout the winter which is what we were trying to avoid in the first place. Still, we could think about flying for a  shorter break to non Schengen destinations during January or February.  Also, if you travelled for seventy odd days in the autumn, getting back mid-November, you could fly out and take city break somewhere in the EU for a week or so up until mid-December, if your next trip to Europe was not until the following mid-March.

"But I like watching Spring come to life in the garden in April and May" Gill mused as we discussed all this. It's true, I do too, we have a lovely patch of mixed woodland at the back of our garden. There is lots of birdlife and entertaining garden visitors like squirrels, ducks and pheasants, and the nocturnal guests we rarely see, like owls and badgers. Yes, Spring is nice at home. That would put the kibosh on plan B. 

Back to square one. Having gone through the inevitable "Brexit, what an utterly ludicrous idea" ritual fulmination, OK, plan C....

Towards the Lapin d'Or and beyond.

Our original plan had been to head northwards from Andalucia  following the Mediterranean coast, past Valencia then through the Pyrenees and into France using the Somport tunnel. So it would have been perfectly sensible to find ourselves parked in the aire de camping car at Oloron Sainte Marie as it is the first place of any size north of the mountains.  Now it makes no sense whatsoever to be parked here given we headed instead for Spain's northern coast in pursuit of better weather. Whether we decide to head home via Bordeaux, Brive or Clermont Ferrand, stopping in Oloron Sainte Marie involves a considerable detour, but we had an ulterior motive.

Yesterday's distractions involved the pintxos bars of Donastia, today's the chocolate bars of Oloron. Lindt & Sprügli have a big factory in the town with a retail outlet. Chocolate pilgrims flock here to worship at the temple of the golden bunny. With Easter little more than a fortnight hence, a huge graven image in gold of the lapine deity greets devotees at the  entrance to the shrine's inner sanctum. 

A single square of Lindt with our post lunch macchiato is a one of our post retirement rituals. We buy the bars in bulk whenever they are on deal at Morrisons, but they only stock about four varieties. 

In the factory shop not only are they cheaper but all the flavours of our preferred 'Excellence' range are available. We bought a couple of dozen and a big bag of mis-shapes and a small golden rabbit for each of the kids. 

An air of quiet deliberation pervades the place, if you like chocolate then being in a Lindt factory shop is a serious business. The joy comes later, piecemeal, literally. I wish I could apply the same discipline to my wine consumption - consume less, but of a higher quality. That remains work in progress. We had  parked at an E Leclerc store about half a kilometre from the Lindt factory, however we noted there is dedicated parking place for coaches and motorhomes behind the shop. Next time.

The Aire de Camping Car in Oloron is on the opposite side of town, the streets are  somewhat artic. choked, I suppose the proximity of the Somport tunnel makes it a major crossing point for trucks heading to and from Pamplona's big factories. Basically, Oloron is in the way. We have a similar problem at home. Buxton gets jammed with trucks, it ruins what should be a peaceful place. 

Eventually we reached the aire, it was basic, but OK. apart from the ridiculously small entrance. To squeeze through you need to swing out into the opposite lane, further irritating the HGV drivers, both those behind and coming towards you.

We slept badly, a combination of rain hammering on the roof, traffic early and late and the inevitable angle-grinder which always seems to burst into life at eight-o-clock sharp no matter where you are in France.

Onwards, on 'N' roads to Pau, then southwest down the A62 towards Toulouse, a miserable journey, non-stop rain the whole way. We reached the city just as everyone was returning from lunch, torrential downpour, people switching lanes all the time, grumpy driver. Just before the A61 junction for Carcassonne and 'Barcelone' we passed signs to the Aerospace Science complex, 'World CIty of Air and Space' a giant LCD display proclaimed; a big brag, but with Airbus Industries HQ and a host of aerospace related training, management and research organisations based in the city it is not an idle boast.

The terrible weather persisted almost all the way to Castelnaudary, our next overnight stop. We intended to use the Camping car park there. An advantage using this national network of paid for Aires is that they have taken motorhome stopovers into the 21st century. Their app is well designed, you can pay online and check if there are available places. That is the theory. Today it showed only two places out of a total of fourteen were in use in Castelnaudary, in fact when we arrived there were only three places remaining. How this glitch occurred became apparent later.

In the meantime, although it was still overcast, the rain finally stopped. The camping car park is next to the Canal de Midi, we decided to take an early evening stroll.

In good weather the location would be great. The old town centre is along the tow path. Pedal in the opposite direction and you have miles of traffic free cycling through beautiful countryside.

We contented ourselves with taking photos of the big canal boats. It was good to get some fresh air and a walk after two days  solid of driving through downpours.

When we came to leave next morning discovered the problem. The automatic barrier system was not working. Two men in yellow vests had opened the gubbins, one was on his mobile while the other stood beside him wearing a Mr Bean style 'I am perplexed' expression. Of course it's always a challenge in France to work out if two men garbed in hi-viz have turned-up to repair or vandalise something. They did have Ville Castelnaudary badges, so we presumed they were here in a technical rather than a political capacity.  After a few minutes they abandoned trying to fix the machine and raised the barrier manually. 

It was only later as we headed down the motorway that it dawned on us that the  electronic system still believed we were parked in Castelnaudary and would carry on deducting €11 every 24 hours until the €65 euros we had credited on the system had gone. Gill phoned Camping Car Parks' helpline, got through first time, they were happy to deal with the problem in English and fixed it in moments once they had our customer number. When was the last time that happened in the UK, a customer service line that answered promptly then actually offered customer service? In fact, when we checked our balance we still had €65 credit. It seems the machine at Castelnaudary really was dis-functional, not only had it not checked us out, it seems it hadn't registered us arriving either. This could well explain why when we turned up yesterday the on-line system  recorded two places in use when actually there were ten vans parked in the place. Still, you cannot expect remote systems to operate perfectly, what was impressive was the efficiency of the customer support team in dealing with the glitch.

We identified two possible places to stay next. We needed a campsite. Once we start heading north up the A75 in a few days time we will not have time to do laundry; we probably underestimate the extent our itineraries are shaped by availability of fresh underwear. 

Finding campsites open in France before Easter is very tricky, lots of them aren't, those that are seem coy about advertising the fact. On websites 'open March to September' means available from a secret date sometime in March until sometime in the autumn that hasn't been decided yet. Recent reviews can be a useful indicator that a place is actually open, or simply phone ahead . 

A meandering discussion ensued as to whether we should head for a place we discovered was open in the hills north of Narbonne or another on the outskirts of Bezier beside the Canal de Midi. Earnest vacillation took our minds off the fact that the weather was still truly dreadful; through the Arriege, all of l'Aude, almost as far Herault heavy rain cloaked le Midi in greyness. We ended up near Bezier simply because we had lost the will to make a choice and had sailed past the turn-off to Narbonne in a state of confusion.

It turned out to be an inspired indecision. Les Berges du Canal proved to be a great little campsite in Villeneuve de Bezier. The rain was forecast to be replaced by gales  from the northwest, the 'real feel' first thing in the morning below zero. However It was sunny so we did get the laundry washed and dried. In the evening there was almost a sunset, the first break in the clouds for five days.

Looking at the photos we took over the three days we stayed here it looks like a picture perfect southern French town, a pleasing combination of ancient and modern, an excellent Cave Cooperative, and good cycling along the Canal de Midi tow path.

Swanky new Hotel de Ville, I presume the 2CV6 is owned by a local who is paid by the Mairie to do a circuit of the place every half an hour to create an authentically Gallic vibe. 

The area by the Canal de Midi was truly lovely. Is Herault Department our favourite part of the south of France? Difficult to say, parts of Provence are very bewitching too, but we do seem to keep returning to the eastern part of the Languedoc more than anywhere else in France these days.

For a place called Villeneuve the centre seems quite ancient.

More Brownie points - an excellent Cave Cooperative, they were doing a deal on cases of Rosé where you got six bottles for the price of four, it would have been impolite not to have taken them up on it. 

What the photos can't show is the temperature which even in the middle of the day struggled to reach double figures and the maddening northerly gusting at over 70kph day and night. A classic Mistral that in a Marcel Pagnol novel would have driven the protagonist to brain his evil neighbour with a le Creuset frying pan before hanging himself in an olive grove overcome by remorse. We haven't quite got to that stage yet, but might by tomorrow.

Hopefully we will have some more seasonable weather before we begin to head north in three days time. Our plan is to stay in Meze, have a Picpoul de Pinet and some seafood in one of the harbour side restaurants, perhaps manage to have a pedal by the Etang de Thau. It is fair to say overall this hasn't been our easiest Winter trip, but it certainly has had memorable moments, some of them for all the wrong reasons.

Partial success, shame about Rita..

Two posts ago....

"Hopefully we will have some more seasonable weather before we begin to head north in three days time. Our plan is to stay in Meze, have a Picpoul de Pinet and some seafood in one of the harbour side restaurants, perhaps manage to have a pedal by the Etang de Thau"

I suppose it is too much to ask for all your hopes to be realised, so the fact that some of them were gave us something to celebrate as the weather in Meze became increasingly spring-like over the three days we stayed in the aire.  However when we arrived it was very wintry. On our first morning we woke to 6.7° inside and barely over zero outside. 

A minor triumph of design in our moho is the way the heating control knob can be reached by dangling your arm out while the rest of you remains under the duvet. Once you've mastered the trick of twiddling the contol from above then you never need to get out of bed until the interior temperature reaches the mid teens. It would have been nice to have snoozed away half the morning, but France tends to rise early. Yesterday in Castelnaudary traffic and angle-grinders serenaded us from from 8am; here, in deference to the fact it was the weekend, testing out the P.A. system in the adjacent Salle de Fête was delayed until a little after 8.15am.

MC Marteau seemed to have some kind of special effects thingy, because he jabbered away for what seemed for hours on a setting that made him sound as if he was underwater. At around 10am the sub-aqua rapping was replaced by music, then interrupted by frenetic commentary as we if some kind of community sports event was happening. Eventually curiosity got the better of Gill and she stuck her head around the door "There are lots of families with kids and two bright yellow gazebos," she reported. This failed to distract me into taking a peek, I had become so engrossed in blogging about cabin fever I was unable to extricate myself from its malign effects, as if being trapped inside had become a semi-permanent state, like Stockholm syndrome.

Time slipped by, sometime after lunch Gill announced she was going to check out what was happening. I muttered something about not moving an inch until the temperature outside reached double figures, so she headed off on a solo social anthropology foray, returning twenty minutes later clutching a jar of locally produced honey. "It's a fête," she announced, showing me the photo she had just taken of the adjacent jollifications.

The music changed from lo-grade Europop to jaunty Occidental folk. The sun made a brief, paltry appearance, I realised for the sake of my sanity I was going to have to take a walk, so we both headed off to explore the delights of ville de Meze's "la Fête du Printemps." It must be the one day in the year where there is some sense in municipal architect 's decision sometime around 1993 that the town' investment in a new Salle de Fête would benefit stylistically from the addition of two protuberances of a vaguely phallic nature at its entrance.

 

I don't know which is more impressive, the expectation from the locale populace that the municipal authorities will provide regular cultural and social events for their delectation, or the assumption from the Mairie that locals will patronise them, whatever they maybe and whatever the weather. Given the icy blast the spring fair was busy, the big tables beside the food stalls, now half empty, were covered in bottles, plates, scrunched-up serviettes weighted down by drained wine glasses; clearly a jolly collective lunch had been had by all.

The event was bigger than it looked from the van, stalls selling local produce and art and crafts - heartfelt junk - as Gill calls them, stretched along the shoreline of the small 'plan d'eau' that separates the football field and Salle de Fête from the Olympic sized skate park and adventure playground.

The folksy music became ever more Occidental, a hurdy-gurdy wailing behind the jaunty tune. The dances were quite intricate, patterns forming and reforming like you get in a kaleidoscope, it was absorbing watching how the mirrored cadences of the melody were reflected in the interweaving figures of the dancers. Some were skilled and dressed in traditional costumes, others a bit bamboozled but they all looked as if they were having fun.

Really traditional dance demands a live band but the music today came through the PA. This resulted in an impromptu moment of cultural dissonance. MC Marteau 's appearance was considerably cooler than his early morning attempt at sub-aqua rapping would have led me to expect. He was tall, thirtyish, wearing skinny jeans, a beany hat and a khaki parka with faux fur around the hood. Despite the gloomy weather he sported shades and his hipster beard looked professionally maintained. As the dancers below expressed their Occitane identity with gusto MC Marteau made some cool moves of his own behind the decks. I do wonder if in his head he was deejaying a pop-up live set featuring Roisin Murphy on a sun drenched beach in Ibiza while the rest of us wiled away a blustery Saturday afternoon in early April in Meze.

Next day was still cold, but sunny and the biting northerly blast that had plagued us for days abated. We unloaded the bikes and headed to the Intermarché in town before it closed at 12.30. Afterwards we rode back to the van via the harbour. Even though the air was bitterly cold a few hardy souls were eating lunch outside of the fish restaurants on the quayside. As Gill remarked, why would you do that, wouldn't the meal be stone cold long before you had finished it?

We passed the stop for the water bus to Sete. Tomorrow's forecast was better than today's, I hatched a plan to take the boat across the Etang and see if the Rita Hayworth toastie I had in the small café in Sete last October was as seductive a culinary experience as I remembered. With that we pedalled back, had lunch, decided it was still too cold to cycle around comfortably. Gill continued her project to re-read every word Jane Austen has written, I finished the previous blog post that started as a reflection on the issue of moho cabin fever then meandered aimlessly all over the place. We need to do something we agreed, Sete, tomorrow, whatever the weather.

In fact Monday dawned gloriously clear and without a breath of wind. It was still very cold, but so long as we wore hoodies and our quilted jackets then it was possible to cycle without the risk of imminent hypothermia. It was one of those luminous days in the south that you never get in summer where the clarity of light is such it transforms the mundane into the hyperreal.

 

Not everything went to plan, when we locked up the bikes at the water bus stop Gill reread the timetable. "It only operates June to November," she informed me. 

"Oh, I must have missed the small print yesterday," I mused, a bit crestfallen. Gill advised that actually the writing was quite big.

Back to plan A, lunch at one of the fish restaurants by the harbour. There are lots to choose from, some offering very reasonable fixed price menu de jour. The problem was we didn't want a full meal, what we wanted was tapas, but France doesn't do small plates. In the end we settled for a snack, we did manage have a croque each, a Monsieur and a Madame,. but no Rita for Peter.

They were fine, but nothing special. I reflected that I have had a very toastie orientated few months, starting with the sex bomb croque in Sete last October. Nothing since had quite reached Rita's heady heights. However I recall the one in Milfontes with fondness even if I can't recall exactly what was in it. 

Same goes for the XL sized toasted sandwich I had in Sesimbre, halfway through I recall thinking you can have too much of a good thing. 

However, last week in Zumaia at the Kraken café, there was a toasted sandwich almost in the Rita Hayworth league, a simple concoction of cheese, mushroom and caramelised onion. Clever the way it had been put together so the flavours were layered. Not as outrageously squidgy though as Sete's  Hollywood queen of a toastie. 

Am I developing a toasted sandwich fetish? I guess that's fairly vanilla as fetishes go. In one other  respect our lunch in Meze was memorable, the rosé was delicious and looked fabulous against the blue sky.

We wandered about after lunch just reminding ourselves why we love it here.

Pleasing mix of pleasure boats and inshore fishing ones in the harbour, with view of old town beyond. In an alternative reality we bought a small house in the narrow streets behind the quayside and are going into a gentle decline due to over-indulgence in Picpoul de Pinet and prawns.

 Love the central square with the old fountain and Mairie beyond. As well as the Tricolour, the EU's gold stars and the Languedoc region flag, the yellow and blue of the Ukraine flag was fluttering too. 

It took us a few visits before we came across the little park behind the Salle de Fête in the centre of town with a view of the Etang de Thau.

The posters for the first round of the presidential elections have just gone up. It's like a gallery of the usual suspects.

Coincidentally we were in Meze in May 2018 on the day of the election when Macron won. Pundits are predicting it will be the same candidates in final round this time, le Pen versus Macron, with a victory for the incumbent forecast. Worryingly le Pen may get a higher percentage than the 35% she achieved last time. 

The forces of the right are always with us, and even now when the bloody consequences of unbridled nationalism are all too clear to be seen, a sizeable minority of people in France seem still to be drawn it.  And to portly traditionalists with enormous noses 

However it's much too colourful a day to become sad about the world.

Especially when just for you Gaia puts on her brightest clothes and lights up the whole earth with a sunny smile, asking, "Why are you, my cleverest and most favoured children so confused and fucked-up?"