Not Guy Fawkes

Two days ago on the journey south to Angers the motorway was spookily empty. Given the tariff I was not surprised. 

Ten minutes into the return trip we hit a 2km tailback at the first payage. This prompted a long and rambling monologue from me on the subject of the Paris mob. How the 223rd anniversary of the moment Parisians grabbed their pitchforks and marched on the Bastille was being celebrated today in that most French of way - by having interminable family lunch - and right now (11.40am) our arrival at the toll booth had inadvertently coincided with the rush to arrive at 'mamam's' before noon. Hence the 'bouchon'.

Like most of my pet theories (I have many) this proved to be somewhat off the mark. Eventually we reached the toll booths, it was a twisted wreck, a couple of fire trucks and a cherry picker were parked next to it, gaggles of guys in hi-viz and white hard hats were engaged in earnest conversation, a lone woman stood in the only lane functioning handing-out tickets by a blackened machine . It must have been a spectacular conflagration. So much for my Bastille bouchon theory.

Still, my assertion holds true I think, Bastille day brings French people together to celebrate the triumph of the people over absolutism, our nearest equivalent, Guy Fawkes Day, commemorates the opposite, the triumph of the state over rebellion. It's one of the fault lines between our two cultures, we are subjects, the French are citizens. If the French don't like what is happening they take to the streets, gilles-jaunes at roundabouts, trawlers blocking Calais, tractors jamming the Champs Elysées. Our response to having our rights stripped back is to grumble. Hence the genius of the phrase 'remoaner'. Voicing dissent is seen as impolite, un-British, we are trained from an early age not to make a fuss.

As a rule French people quite like making a fuss and seems to thrive when they are the centre of attention. It makes being in France on a public holiday fun, we can't really do 'joie de vivre' and it's awkward if we try, but it's fun to be on the sidelines. Unlike the site at Neufchatel the one at Arques-la-Baitaille is a former municipal and full of French families rather than northern European grey-hairs. It was wise of Gill to have pre-booked, the place was packed; we squeezed onto the last pitch.

The receptionist warned Gill that the local village would be having a Bastille day fireworks display at 11pm. The gate at the back of the site would remain unlocked until 11.30pm so campers could watch the event from the nearby Avenue Vert. This was not something we could avoid even if we had wanted too, our pitch was next to the gate.

The display was spectacular, we watched half of it, then headed back into the site before the gates were locked.

Celebrations continued over the weekend. A 'soiree' with food trucks and disco next to the boules pitch on Friday evening.

A 'bal populaire' on Saturday, this seemed to be identical to the 'soiree' with food trucks plus a talent-less chanseur.  

Other diversions included a vintage Citroen rally in the camping field next to us. All day Deux Chevaux, Dianes, ancient corrugated vans, a three wheeler sports sports car similar to a Morgan but French, trundled past our pitch, their rackety two stroke engines sounding like a lawnmower's badly in need of a service. After they'd gone a whiff of fumes remained, prompting memories of la Republique pre-Mitterand, an unmistakable aroma, like Galloisse or pongy drains .

We had a fun time just doing simple stuff. Though most of France was sizzling, here it was hot in the afternoon, but still comfortable enough do be cycling on the Avenue Vert.

On our final day Matthew borrowed my bike and rode the whole way to Neufchatel and back, a 60km round trip. 

We mooched about locally, did some shopping in the village store and took a more leisurely ride along the trail.

It was good to have company, and I think Matthew benefited from getting out of London for a week. We travel for months on end, but not during the summer months. It was great to rediscover the simple pleasures of summer camping in France, cooking outside, sitting in the warm, lingering 'crepuscule' watching the stars appear through a trellis of twigs. It's what we did more or less every year through the nineties until the mid-noughties. It felt at the time that it would last forever. 

On the ferry home Matthew reflected on the trip, repeating what he had said to me a couple of days previously in E LeClerc's fruit and veg section, "We're falling behind." It's an inescapable conclusion now when you visit the continent. It wasn't always the case, but it is at the moment. I doesn't annoy me anymore, but I do feel sad about it, and utterly powerless - sitting in a field in France watching the debacle of the parliamentary Conservative party choosing a new leader, an elitist club determining who leads our country.

"Where's our Bastille spirit?" I grumbled mildly in my grey-haired English way.

37.... blimey!

To begin with all went well. We found the car park next to Ashford sports centre without mishap, no sneaky height barriers had been installed since its beatification on Streetview; Matthew arrived at the station next-door on time, happy, but a little outraged that the ticket from Stratford had cost £41 for a journey of barely half an hour. We headed for Dover docks, no queues at the check-in, we took-up our alloted spot at the the head of lane 111 and waited. And waited, 15.30, departure time came and went, the berth immediately in front of us remained empty, the information board changed from delayed to cancelled without explanation. People got bored and started to wander about aimlessly, ever more skimpily dressed as the temperature notched-up towards the low thirties. 

Three hours later a ferry arrived, disgorged its weary passengers and then munched its way through the next course, us!  We arrived in Calais just before 8pm. far too late to reach our planned destination, a campsite just outside Abbevllle. Instead we used the new aire at Sandgatte, it's big, well designed and free. Probably a better bet than the place at Wissant we have used in the past when travelling Dover/Calais. We have only used the pulldown bed stashed in the roof once before, a bit cosy with three adults sleeping in the van, but it saved us tracking down a budget motel for Matthew which would have been the only other alternative under the circumstances.

We were going to have to re-think the trip. Matthew had decided he wanted to visit a city on the Loire with a classic fancy chateau and nice shady cafés. Orleans or Blois came to mind, a long day's drive from our planned stop in Abbeville, but a bit too far from Calais. So we decided to head initially for Neufchatel-en-Bray instead - lovely Normandy countryside, comfortable campsite next to the Avenue Vert.

Sarah and Rob loaned us a folding bike, so we had wheels for the three of us, I reckoned that Matthew on the collapsible shopper without gears would still outrun the pair of us who even with pedelac assistance never really get beyond a sedate pace.

This indeed proved to be the case. We had a lovely couple of days mooching about on the Avenue Vert. Initially Matthew was a bit sceptical that anywhere so close to the Channel could offer the full-on Gallic experience he wanted. He soon changed his mind. The quietly understated beauty of the valley of the Bray, its shady woodlands, bright green pastures and old villages are classic 'field in France' stuff. 

While further south Provence and Les Landes spontaneously combusted and thermometers headed towards 40°, here it was very warm in the afternoon, low thirties maybe, but evenings and mornings were cooler. 

We've used the motorhome aire and campsite at Neufchatel-en-Bray's Camping Ste. Claire many times, but never in the high season. It feels as if you are camping in a big garden, pitches are hedged and clumps of flowering shrubs abound. As you might expect the carefully tended environment and peaceful atmosphere attracts older tourists, Dutch, German and British caravanners out-number natives. I did not see one boule match, it's France Jim, but not as we know it.

Matthew still was set on a visit to the Loire. From the Dieppe area heading for Angers made more sense than Orleans. There was a direct autoroute, but payage. Normally we do our best to avoid France's toll motorways, but our time was limited so we had no choice but to 'prenez le ticket '. 

The bill at the Angers payage reminded us why we usually avoid them - 283km cost €68, almost as much as the fuel.

We opted to stay at the Camping du Lac de Maine, a big urban site on the outskirts of Angers run by the Huttopia group. Luckily our pitch was shaded as by mid morning the thermometer registered 37°. We wound out the awning fully then pegged our Moroccan throw onto it, the three of us huddled together in a shadowy patch. 

There seemed little point in driving more than 300 kilometres to hide in the shade. We decided we had to be brave, the bus stop was only 5 minutes walk from the front gate, Chateau d'Angers, seat of the Plantagenets beckoned, historically important, but more importantly, built in the 10th Century with 3m thick walls, not only resistant to massed trebuchet, it's gloomy interior would be haven of coolness on a searingly hot day.

The bus took us for a tour of Angers' bland but pleasant suburbs before depositing us right beside the castle. We decided to find somewhere for lunch before visiting it. We booked a table at a nice looking creperie in the old quarter next to the chateau. We had a twenty minute wait before our table was available so we took a stroll around the ancient streets, dodging from shadow to shadow.

As creperies go, the one next to the chateau was quite posh, not rustic like you get in Brittany. The humble crêpe had been elevated too, both the savoury and sweet varieties promising more sophisticated flavours than the classic Breton 'oeuf fromage' or 'chocolat Chantilly'. 

They were stylishly presented too. Washed down with local cider it was an excellent light lunch for a hot day. 

You had to have sympathy for the two women in the kitchen, God knows what the temperature must have been in front of the big circular hot plates. 

The light was blinding and heat insufferable in the white gravelled square behind the chateau's curtain walls. Most Loire chateaux are not castles at all, but palaces. 

The one at Angers is a proper fortress with more than a dozen chunky towers, oddly striped in stone and slate, the round ones resembling medieval cooling towers, look more industrial than military. The impressive gateway still retains its original port-cullis.

We skipped the extensive formal gardens, admired the view from one of the turrets briefly, then scurried indoors into the coolness of the dark interior. 

As well as being an outstanding example of medieval military architecture the place houses a significant example of late mediaeval art.

The Tapestry of the Apocalypse was commissioned by the Duke of Angers in 1375. Produced in Paris, it is a rare example where an entire collection, a narrative series, of pre-Renaissance woven panels have survived. 

The subject matter is unusual too. Aside from the occasional surreal passage found in the Old Testament prophets, the Book of Revelation has to be the most hallucinatory book in the Bible. Admittedly, hell fire and damnation was regularly depicted in Medieval art, particularly in the Last Judgement tympana of Romanesque and Gothic cathedrals - keep the masses subjugated through terrifying propaganda always a tyrant's common ploy!  The tapestries' iconography is lifted from the St John the Divine's account of the 'last of days'. 

What is rare is the scale and complexity - a blow by blow depiction of 'Revelations' like a graphic novel. This is exactly what these six massive woven panels are; they recount the story in detail, originally in 90 scenes, though only 70 of them now remain.

 

I wondered if the popularity of the story in the late 14th century reflected a society moving on from the trauma of the Black Death which occurred a generation previously. Though the events in the Book of Revelation are apocalyptic, the ending is triumphant - New Jerusalem, heralding Satan's demise and good prevailing over evil. The work is fascinating, I signalled my approval by buying a fridge magnet.

It was refreshingly cool in the dimly lit, temperature controlled gallery specially constructed to house the Apocalypse Tapestry. The eye-watering glare and wall of heat that greeted us outside felt shocking. Nevertheless we were intrepid and explored the city centre a bit. Angers is a stylish place, chic with a youthful vibe. 

We satisfied Matthew's aspiration to have a coffee in a shady square in a beautiful old place in the Loire, then moved on to our need to buy some milk; very slowly, as the sole cashier in Monoprix seemed determined to have meaningful social moment with every customer but had yet to develop that most basic of epos skills, to scan and speak simultaneously. 

Despite her best efforts we managed to catch the 5pm. bus back to the campsite. I had tucked a small thermometer under the van's wheel arch. It read 37°, but the real feel in the sun must have been well into the forties. 

By twilight it had dropped to 26° but the interior of the van retained the heat so it still was over thirty degrees inside.We took a stroll through the nearby woods as the stars popped out one by one. Velvety warm nights camping under the stars in France is one of my fond memories of family summer holidays. Tonight though was too much and the forecast was for things to get even hotter tomorrow. Around Dieppe, our port of departure in three days time, the forecast was relatively cooler, around 28° maximum.

We decided to head back north sooner than planned. Next morning Gill phoned the site at Arques-la-Bataille, a nice ex-municipal, near the northern end of the Avenue Vert. It is less than a twenty minute drive from there to Dieppe ferry port, meaning we would not need to move again before catching the boat home. Usually we don't bother booking ahead, but as well as being high season today is Bastille Day, lots of French people will probably take a 'bridge day' to make a long weekend of it, campsites could well get fully booked, especially near the coast.

27.... blimey!

Matthew arrived for the weekend. We took the opportunity to escape our beloved spot of Pennine gloom for a day and headed to Altrincham market. 

The place has a more urban vibe, but then most towns do compared to Buxton. What draws us to Trafford's finest (only) food court is the Great Northern Pie company's version of a steak and ale one, it is well worth the hour's drive.

Between brief periods of quiet pie appreciation conversation turned to the fact that Matthew rarely escaped out of London and had not been on holiday for three years. We discussed going camping together, he could take his tent, we would stay in the moho and provide the transport. At this point it was a vague aspiration rather than a plan. Over the next couple of weeks plans for an inexpensive short break somewhere outdoorsy in England morphed mysteriously into a quick dash to Normandy and the Loire, somewhat more alluring, but considerably more costly, particularly with diesel heading towards £2.00 per litre, but hey...it's only money.

But when? This proved as tricky a question as where. We arrived back from Spain sometime in the second week of April and plan to depart for Greece in the third week of August. Timings matter these days. We need a 90 day break between long trips, and in order to head off to Iberia next January we have to return to England by the end of October. Now contemplating a surprise visit to France, finding a week long window that wouldn't bugger-up our Autumn plans required very careful planning and much messing around with dates using an on-line Schengen calculator. The sweet spot looked to be 9th - 17th July, so we booked it, outwards Dover/Calais, homewards Dieppe/ Newhaven.

We decided to stop overnight on the way south at the Lee Valley site in North London so we could meet up with our other two offspring and pickup Matthew. Then we realised leaving a day earlier would coincide with Laura's birthday; we managed to be all together for a family birthday for the first time in decades.

We had a meal in an Italian place at Here East in Hackney Wick, then finished up with candles, cake and tuneless singing back at Sarah and Rob's who live nearby.

 

It was great. Laura, our youngest, now 27, how the hell did that happen?

Now we had a day to spare before our ferry crossing, so we stayed overnight in Canterbury New Dover Road park and ride. 

We use it a lot, but it's a few years since we hopped onto the free bus into the city centre. Our arrival coincided with a swarm of gnats, millions of them all over the city centre, so thick that at times they scrunched underfoot. 

It was late afternoon, we found a local Tesco's and did a bit of shopping, bought a few silly trinkets and a nice stripey picnic bag in Flying Tiger then set out to find somewhere to eat. 

We recalled years ago once eating at a bar that specialised in Belgian beers in the old quarter by the Cathedral. We found the area but the place was long gone. 

In fact over the ten years years or so since we were last here the area has changed a lot. Much more touristy, with a Harry Potterish vibe, a bit ridiculous. I guess throngs of American tourists are bussed here from the cruise ship terminal in Dover. It's never going to improve things. The restaurants seemed to have gone downhill too. The Italian place we used to eat at - Pinocchio's - still gets positive reviews, but it was quite a hike from where we were. We found a bench and consulted our phones. Canterbury seems to have developed a Turkish community, there were quite a few Levantine restaurants dotted about. The Olive Grove looked good, so we headed there. The place had an eastern Med vibe and menu. The decor was insane, a weird mixture of Turkish and Moroccan influences. 

The paintings dotted around the place were even stranger,  Scheherazade reimagined by Chagall. I decided liked them, kitch but quite cool.

The food was good too, and the people waiting-on attentive and chatty

Back at the van we exchanged messages with Matthew finalising arrangements for tomorrow. We agreed he would head for Ashford International Station and we would park in a nearby car park next to the sports centre. Not a height barrier to be seen on Streetview. It would be simple, hopefully...