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Avoiding Floods & Discovering Fulltimers

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Every year, the Mediterranean region hosts 200 million visitors, nearly one-third of the world's tourist flow, (that's more than a three-fold increase since 1970).  Hotels, marinas and cruise-ship ports have sprung up to accommodate them, effacing much of the region's famous coastline. Other environmental problems abound as well: Half the region's wastewater is dumped into the sea untreated, triggering algae blooms that create dead zones in the sea; almost 600,000 tons of oil are spilled into the blue waters every year, mostly from illegal cleaning of ship tanks; and commercial fish are declining from overfishing and habitat loss.  "If we follow this trend, there will be no natural spaces left by the end of the century," said Lucien Chabason, coordinator of the U.N. Environment Programme's Mediterranean Action Program in Athens. 

I bought Le Figaro and plotted onto our map the locations of the worst of the flooding. It was all in the area through which we had intended to travel next day. Whatever the flooded areas now needed, it certainly wasn't tourists. Chamonix and Mont Ventoux possibly via The Riviera, came off the schedule for 2002 and it wasn't until 2005 that we got to Mont Ventoux. 

Through the swipecard-operated electronic gate we walked out of the campsite straight onto a wonderful beach and swam in the wonderful Mediterranean Sea, (the level of which seemed to be significantly higher than that of the campsite). 

We swam and read. And swam and read. And swam and read again. Then we retired to the van and hammock in the shade......zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.....

Jo spotted a strange bird. It was the hoopoe straight out of my old bird book, (which I haven't seen for 35 years). Scoffing ants with a nonchalant enthusiasm it went around and around the van. Twice I stalked it, (with all the skill and agility of a cast iron woodstove), and managed one utterly useless photograph. 

We always use the van's upper storey for storage. At night this included an immensely heavy suitcase in which I had felt certain that Jo had hidden an immensely heavy birthday present for me. (In fact she'd asked me whether it was likely to rain while we were in France and I'd said that it might well do, so she'd included enough clothing for a major Himalayan expedition). 

I generally sleep for no more than about seven hours. Jo would sleep for ten if I let her. She has the "wardrobe" side of the not very wide double bed. In the wardrobe we keep a dirty washing bag, a tow rope, a can of diesel, etc., but it was I who, filled with anxiety, had taken to waking at odd hours. This wasn't caused by noxious fumes but by the, (to me), increasing inevitability of my asking her to marry me. 

120902: St Cyprien; Perpignan; Quillan; Foix; Toulouse; Cahors; Puy l'Eveque.

North and west and back into more Cathar territory on a grey morning. (If you're travelling south grey afternoons can be good, (especially if you're a northern European unused to bright, hot sunshine. Our very few grey starts all turned sunny by early afternoon).

Before we reached Toulouse I realised that perhaps I'd needed a short break from awesome scenery. The D919 was simply pleasant, neither demanding nor boring, like the road from Hereford to Brecon and it occurred to me that had we seen a brocantes shop in this area it might have had something worthwhile for sale.

Outside Toulouse we were bamboozled by autoroute signing to places so very far away that we simply hadn't the knowledge to quickly determine towards which distant major town we should have been travelling. We ended up having to recover from a high speed 20mins dash at, (a too late though very soon identified), 180 degrees off course. Worse still, we went to the wrong Gargas, (see 080902), looking for prehistory through an area the topography and geology of which simply screamed, "No prehistory here". And there wasn't any.

We followed campsite signs through Cahors, but they petered out. We followed some more which took us out into the country and several times abandoned us outside very pleasant looking sites the entrances to which were all barred and locked. I remembered my mum's warning that "most French campsites close in early September" and I was feeling tired and pretty glum. For want of campsites with showers, and with a week still to go, was our holiday over already? 

We headed west, tried another closed down site and went on into Puy l'Eveque. There we turned off to follow yet another sign to a campsite which wasn't there, but in doing so passed a large car park next to a police station. 

There were also some fairly basic public toilets. (In our van we have a porta potti, not a standard fitting. When travelling we keep it fastened with elasticated hooks behind the front passenger seat). 

I parked between a long, low-ish Mercedes Hymer motorhome, the only other British registered vehicle, and the cop shop.  

130902: DORDOGNE, Puy l'Eveque; Fumel; Gourdon; Payrac; Rocamadour; Souillac.

A most memorable day:  

We awoke to see the cops' wives taking their children to school. 

I went to ask Mr & Mrs Mercedes about the current availability of campsites "this far north". BBC Radio 4 was clearly audible from their digital satellite tuner. 

They seemed surprised that we felt we were in a predicament and briefly lent me three books: one by the Caravan Club with a map of campsites including those open all year, (I plotted a few locations in the Dordogne and in Brittany onto our road atlas), another similar book and a third

provided at each. Most, if not all aires de service are, I think, free at all times. (Compare this with over-nighting on UK motorway service areas which costs about £8.00). 

He liked our "little van". 

"Did you realise it was 10 degrees last night?", he asked and I wondered briefly if he'd meant Fahrenheit.

It was too cold for them. They were heading for Spain from Turkey where they'd spent a "wonderful" 10 months "amongst the friendliest people we've met in eight years of travelling". 

They'd been through most of the EU countries and Scandinavia, Morocco, etc. 

"You know what they say about foreigners... They're allright in their own countries", he said. (I didn't tell him that human rights abuses make both Turkey and Morocco very boycott-worthy).  

For many years they'd lived in a small village only 18 miles from our UK hometown, but now returned there only once every two years and seemed not to be sure why they bothered to any more. 

He told me to develop a bad back and to retire as soon as possible. He'd worked for 40 years so must have been in his mid-60's, but they both looked to be mid-50's. 

Most of the motorhome users appeared to be retired people and their vans were mainly the big Peugeots and Citroens, far larger than ours. Judging by the way they were driven, i.e. very cautiously, some were definitely hired, rather than owner driven. 

You'll have heard of "snowbirds"? They're retired people in motorhomes vans who migrate with the seasons up and down the west coast of North America. 

I have a Canadian-British colleague who saved like mad intending to retire at 40 and do that snowbird thing. Now he's in his mid-30's with a wife, two children, a mortgage (and part ownership of two or three villas or apartments in Spain). 

Jo and I still talk about Mr and Mrs Mercedes, but we've agreed that we wouldn't want to uproot from Britain completely - two five-month long trips per annum would be adequate for us!

Between Fumel and Gourdon the rusty red cliffs started to appear in the wooded valley sides. We video-ed short stretches of this journey with Dido on the CD player in the background.  Deviating along a skinny lane we passed a "fortified" watermill and came into Rocamadour on back roads and down to the car park field by the river. It seems that every town in the Dordogne region is built on a cliff. Perhaps that dates back to prehistoric times when on a ledge on a cliff was a pretty good place to be. 

We bought from the artist three long slim pictures of local scenes, but for some reason they don't look quite as wonderful as I'd thought now that they're over the fireplace at home.

From a British-registered sporty Toyota emerged three people in their 60's, a stout-ish woman in crumply trousers and two men in misshapen, ill-fitting shorts and discordant cardigans. In a way that perhaps can only be learnt at, (second rate, but),  expensive schools they had taken style terrorism to astonishing new lengths. Disgust bordering on fury twisted the woman's pastry face as she read the Free Tibet, For Fox Sake Ban Hunting and I Don't Buy Esso stickers in the back window of our van. Ahh, deep joy - AND little did she know that from 12 - 150902 The Green Party's national conference was going on about 200 metres away from our back door in England.

We found a very good site, (it must have been - we stayed three nights), Les Ondines, (the water sprites), in Souillac, a municipal site right next to the Dordogne river, the level of which I somewhat anxiously checked every time we passed it. 

140902: Souillac; Sarlat la Caneda; Les Eyzies de Tayac; La Grotte du Grand Roc; St Cyprien; La Roque Gageac; Domme; Souillac.

Within the more modern town of Sarlat, La Cité was very crowded. We'd had to park on the outskirts on a steep hill up out of the town and, not expecting much, had left the cameras in the van. It was so very busy that we could hardly believe it was just a market day in this, in parts, very medieval place. The streets over a large area were full of stalls. There was no rubbish for sale, (apart from the disgusting paté de fois gras), but everything was high-priced, (for the fat-walleted tourist). 

There were skillful musicians outside the main church, and little twisting up and down alleyways up and down which we politely twisted around the other tourists. Some of these ancient thoroughfares were barely wide enough for a loaded packhorse. There were ancient open courtyards, a church turned into a market, shops, restaurants and little dark, cool and in a few places almost subterranean corners in which to escape from the skin-stinging sun.

	At La Grotte du Grand Roc.

We visited La Roque Gageac and Domme which, like Rocamadour, are clinging cliff-edge towns topped with ancient ecclesiastical or defensive structures.  "Home" to Souillac on Dordogne-side roads past a wood where a plaque said that the Resistance had done something very brave (against the nation who build Volkswagens!).

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