In sterling act of courage we dragged ourselves away from our home for the last six days at St. Jurs near Riez and embarked upon 80 miles or so towards Les Alpilles. The Chaîne des Alpilles is a small chain of rocky outcrops, hardly large enough to be called mountains, just south of St Rémy de Provence, birthplace of Nostradamus. Carol had earmarked a couple of possible campsites one of which irritatingly closed its reception between midday and 3:00 PM, our typical band of arrival times. Since our journey was likely to take about 2½ hours, we were on the road by 9:00 AM.

As it turned out we arrived with time to check out a different campsite, one that was said to close on Sept 15th but which sounded excellent. Sure enough it was both very appealing being terraced in an olive grove and would, indeed, close on Sept 15th. Sept 15th is a magic date in France for some bizarre reason best known to the French. It seems to mark the end of everyone’s holiday/vacation season and many of the camp sites close, regardless of the day of the week. I’ve even seen speed limits on roads around La Palmyre on the west coast that end on Sept 15th. Nonetheless there are several folks here and we decided to join them for maximum of four days.

Later we drove a circuitous route through St. Rémy de Provence towards Arles in search of a McDonald’s and their McWiFi. Sure enough Arles was advertising Ronald but on a rotating board which rotated before we could see precise directions. We got horribly snarled up in what appeared to be Friday rush hour around Arles and frustratingly failed our find our target. We returned deflated but a couple of pastises soon fixed that.

I wonder if Nostradamus knows where McDonald’s is?

All those threatening clouds had dissipated overnight and we awoke once again to a cloudless blue sky. Could this ever get boring? No, absolutely not. Anyone who thinks that large amounts of good weather gets tedious needs their lumps felt. Actually, they are simply trying to make the best of a bad job and in denial that it is a bad job. We’ve been here for nearly three weeks and have had two damp mornings that cleared up and were pleasant. I’ll take that over a standard British climate any month of the year. We’ve decided to stay another perfect day.

We drove out to top up with fuel – we will be moving on tomorrow lest we take root – and to visit the Basses Gorges du Verdon where we watched some local youths throwing themselves off a bridge into the Verdon river just for laughs and to the delight of onlookers who applauded them. We drove back through Valensole which we had chickened out of decided against cycling into yesterday. It was pleasant enough but felt a little utilitarian.

We spent the afternoon preparing to leave this camp site that will certain feature on our repeat visit list. It’s completely spoiled us: we have acres of space between pitches, the views are good and it’s so quiet that we feel self-conscious crunching our way through a crusty baguette. It’s bliss but it’s time to move on.

Riez does have a market, at least on a Wednesday it does. Our road sign deductions proved to be accurate. It was an excellent market, too. For once we bit the bullet and paid market prices instead of supermarket prices and bought everything extra that we needed for two more days. Nearly every French market has a good fish stall and Riez was no exception. All the fish looks so fresh compared to some of our pathetically sad offerings at home. If the French get their fish into the middle of their larger country in higher temperatures and still have it smell of the sea instead of smelling “fishy”, why the hell can’t we? We opted for some perfect looking squid to flash in the pan with some red chilli, tarragon, garlic and lemon juice tossed over a salad. Sadly the butcher didn’t have any spinning rabbits, maybe that’s a Sunday special, but we did buy some pork chops for our other day’s meal.

For the afternoon we braved our return hill again and did a 25 mile bike ride towards Valensole. Part of the plain across which we had to ride became a little tedious and, as we approached our target, a serious looking hill plunged down into it. With our minds firmly on the 3 mile climb back to our camp site, we chickened out opted not to descend into town. Good decision ‘cos the sky was blackening rather dramatically over the mountains just behind Billy.

Cleaning out the squid in Billy was interesting. Well, it was more the disposing of the squid guts that was interesting. I ended up chucking it down the chemical toilet disposal. If that doesn’t mask it, nothing will! Our invented dinner worked a treat. Absolutely delicious! Another recipe to chalk up to the caravan cookbook.

Despite the threatening clouds It didn’t rain but we thought maybe tomorrow it might be time to move slightly west to what supposedly would be more reliable weather, not that we’ve had any rain here yet.

One of the main reasons we headed southeast in France this year was to get into an area that we have hitherto not visited. The southeast part of France shouldering up against Italy contains a national park called the Mercantour and, if the weather was favourable, it being mountainous, we wanted to take a look. The chief tourist town for the Mercantour is Barcelonnette and, since the weather forecast was, indeed, fair (other than a strong following wind), we set off on the 100 miles to get there.

It was a fabulously picturesque drive, especially the first half going through and out of the Diois. This is an area we’ll have on our return visit list. Having dragged poor ol’ Billy up and over a couple of serious cols, when we got to Barcelonnette it didn’t really grab. The campsite we had earmarked looked more like someone’s back garden and certainly didn’t grab so we flipped a U-turn, no mean feat with Billy on the back, and hightailed it back out of the valley. We had both been wondering why we were there.

Plan B was put into immediate effect which was to head toward Provence and Digne-les-Bains. Neither Digne-les-Bains nor its campsites sounded too appealing but a site near Riez, a camping à la ferme, sounded great. We dragged Billy over yet another col, this one at 1340m/4000ft, down another picturesque valley and through Digne-les-Bains, which actually looked a lot more attractive than the Rough Guide’s description would have one believe. Going up yet another zig-zagging climb we came upon a beautiful high Provençal plateau in which sat our newly targeted campsite.

It’s great; it has sun and views. We’re near St. Jurs about 10 miles north of Riez, which looks like a pleasantly sized town, neither too big nor too small,

and there are clearly things around here to keep us amused for a while, such as the Gorge de Verdon.

We’ll have to amend our idea of what turns us on.

The Vercors Massif is a large, difficult-to-access plateau lying at about 1000m/3100ft above sea level just to the north of Die. It’s an attractive place looking almost alpine and caters both for walkers and skiers. We visited the Vercors once, many years ago when francs were francs and Euros weren’t invented, so we knew some of what to expect. A visit to the Vercors makes obvious one particular claim to fame that makes one realize that further jokes about nearby towns bearing the name “Die” would be inappropriate.

The Vercors is surrounded by higher peaks and cols with few access roads. Its situation makes it easy to defend and difficult to attack. For this reason, between 1942-43, it grew into a stronghold of the maquis, the French resistance movement, during the second world war. Standing prominently in one of the wider, flatter parts of the plateau, with the inevitable French tricolours fluttering, is a memorial graveyard.

About a month and a half after D-Day, in late July 1944, the German temper with the resistance in the Vercors ran out and they decided to wipe them out. They mounted a raid on the village of Vassieux using an SS division sent in by parachute and glider. 750 maquisards and civilians were killed and several villages completely destroyed. A wander through the memorial graveyard reveals that the Germans annihilated some particularly challenging enemies; a child of 18 months lies not far away from old lady of 91. Entire families lie together; clearly nobody was spared. Just for good measure, the Nazis went on to murder a group of wounded, together with their doctors and nurses, sheltering in a nearby natural cave, the Grotte de la Liure.

The skeletons of some of the German gliders used in the assault on the Vercors remain in Vassieux (now restored) and, more poignantly, behind the cemetery that contains the skeletons of many of the victims.

Some things made one’s apparent troubles pale into insignificance.

[Well, you can’t seriously expect me to resist a name like that, can you?]

We’d had some of the wet stuff overnight but the morning was dry though still cloudy; clearly not a day to go up to the high Vercors plateau. Instead, we opted for Die market followed by a relaxing lunch chez Billy. Die market was fun and tempted us into buying some olives for later and a couple of picodon goat’s cheeses produced in a local valley just up the road from us. There’s clearly something about Die that attracts what could best be described as Bohemian types. The streets were full of interestingly garbed people. We’ve seen people in the fields harvesting but those folks are grimy from a hard day’s toil; the Bohemians are something different.

The valley had brightened by afternoon so we set off on a Carol tour south of our valley through Pontaix, just a mile down the road from our camp site, and on to St-Nazaire-le-Désert. St-Nazaire-le-Désert appeared to be asleep apart, that is, from a dipper which flew around the shallow river frenetically avoiding all my attempts to photograph it. It succeeded admirably. There was a lady on a bench crocheting but I rejected her as a photographic subject. (Sorry, ma’am!) I contented myself snapping some much more stationary and considerably more colourful fire bugs. (There’s two distinct pattern variations on the fire bugs and I don’t know if it’s a sex difference or an age difference.)

Since the snows have yet to arrive, we returned over the col de Penne (1040m/~3200ft) calling in at the restored village of Penne-le-Sec just for good measure which was utterly comatose, there not being a single other person in sight. One of the few signs of life was a number of colourful diurnal moths which I now know rejoice in the name Zygaena fausta gorging themselves on a buddleia in the restored village. They are related to the burnets, according to my field guide.

Back to Billy for some barbecued lamb leg steaks and home made ratatouille with, maybe, some sautéed potatoes on the side.

Carol had located a camp site that sounded much more like us on the approach to Die (which, I imagine, is pronounced “Dee” in French); it was a relatively new aire naturelle (4-5 years old) that would “have some shade when the trees grow up”. Aire naturelles provide larger pitches and are more basic with fewer facilities, all of which suits us admirably.  We set off at about 10:00 AM and were quite soon crossing the Rhone, leaving the Ardèche and entering the Drôme departement. The French are very fond of naming their departements after rivers.

After 60 miles as we neared Die, the scenery changed as hills began to develop into mountains on both sides. Our first shot at a camp site, the aire naturelle, looked fine and got better as we were welcomed by a friendly owner. The site is on flat land in a bend of the river Drôme and, given the lack of tall trees, with views of the surrounding mountains. Being new it also has standard plugs and, luxury of luxuries, 10 amp electricity hook-ups. Best not get used to it, 6 amps is more usual in France. We’re equipped with our own shade so the lack of any trees larger than saplings is no problem – unless it gets too windy, that is.

We came here largely to revisit the Vercors plateau, which was a French Resistance stronghold in WW II. Previously we had stayed to the northwest of the Vercors so this time we are on the southern side. Our helpful host gave us a local attractions guide and I’m sure there is enough entertainment for several days.

We cycled the five miles into Die. I was sure we were going down hill, even though it seemed to be hard going, and that the return five miles would be up hill and into the wind. There’s something about mountain territory that makes judging the lie for the land difficult, though, and we seemed to be going down hill on the way back, too. Maybe Mr. Escher designed the roads around here. 🙂

After our barbecued guinea-fowl, some strange wet stuff fell gently from the sky in the late evening and overnight. Oh well, I suppose it had to happen. If tomorrow proves too murky for the plateau, we’ve lucked out again; Die market happens on Wednesdays and Saturdays.

Having oggled some of the strange constructions atop volcanic outcrops in Le Puy, today we were setting off to move 65 miles or so south to Aubenas. While I was packing, Carol set off à bicyclette to get breakfast and some milk. She returned with breakfast and a plastic bag. To be fair, the plastic bag did actually contain 1 litre of farm fresh milk. Other than the fact that it was in a 1 litre sachet, the most notable thing about the milk was that it was unpasteurized. Not quite what I expected to see in the centre of the Brussels bureaucrat-regulated European Economic Community. It’s a bit too creamy for decent tea but it makes an excellent coffee, for those of us who take it white.

The road to Aubenas, though relatively short, was very picturesque, across the quite high plateaus of the Massif Central. The road was made somewhat longer by the fact that we were towing straight into the teeth of a strong southerly wind which, since it was also a very warm wind, I assume was the Scirroco (even if I don’t know how to spell it). Many fields were adorned by green effigies of a lentil-man, a bit like a vegetable version of the Jolly Green Giant, but the fields were sadly ploughed up so I still haven’t seen any growing lentils.

Our descent from the higher plateau towards Aubenas was scenic with a few “interesting” bends but Billy coped admirably, even if he couldn’t stop to enjoy the views. We found a pleasant camp site just outside Aubenas and had lunch before going to look at the town. It was, well, pleasant enough but unscintillating.

We’re moving off again tomorrow, eastwards towards Die at the southern side of the Vercors Massif, another strenuous 65 miles or so.

Le Puy, to give it its familiar shortened name, lies smack bang in the middle of the Massif Central. a huge formerly volcanic mass of uplands in the middle of France. All three roads leading to Le Puy cross passes topping 1000m/3000ft. We bought new sleeping bags before embarking upon this trip. They are considerably thinner than our old sleeping bags. Today we awoke to utterly cloudless skies with a noticeable chill in the air. The noticeable chill was inside Billy, too. Am I going to need to leave overnight heating on to compensate for thinner sleeping bags in the mountain regions?

I didn’t realize before we got here but Le Puy is famous for several reasons.

First, the town is surrounded by volcanic pinnacles of rock. Rather more spectacular, in my view, are the pinnacles of volcanic rock within the town itself. One of these, the Rocher Corneille, stands 755m (~2300ft) above sea level and is capped by a massive statue of The Virgin (yeah, right!) and Child The statue was cast from 213 guns captured at Sebastopol (it says here) and painted red. Why anyone would cast 213 canons into a Virgin and Child statue so large that it dwarfs the town, then paint it red, is completely beyond me. Another needle-pointed pinnacle is capped by the impressive but ludicrously situated church of St-Michel. Completely bizarre!

Secondly, the town was once a centre of lace making. The lace making still goes on but it’s clearly now done purely as a tourist attraction. I know it’s very clever but quite why a grown man would sit with a cushion on his lap painstakingly twisting very fine thread mounted on dozens of bobbins into intricate, fine designs for hours on end is completely beyond me. We did, however, see a very clever machine dating from 1920 that automates the arduous task and in a most elegant way, bobbins dancing magically before one’s eyes.

Thirdly, Le Puy is the start of a pilgrimage route to Santiago de Compostela, a 1600kms/1000ml trek into and across Spain. Once again, quite why an otherwise sane individual would decide to embark upon a 1600kms trek from Le Puy-en-Velay to Santiago de Compostela is completely beyond me. “I’m just popping out for a walk, dear, I may see you next year if I’m still alive.” Somebody must have thought it was a good idea. Apparently Le Puy’s Bishop Godescalk did in the 10th century.

Finally, Le Puy is famous for its appelation controllée green lentils. Ah, now this I do understand. They are delicious and we eat them quite regularly. I imagine that the volcanic soil sets the lentils of Le Puy apart from others but that’s just a guess. I haven’t yet found a lentil museum. I’d love to see how they grow, though.