Quinson

(Parked alongside a Westfalia James Cook, the Mercedes Sprinter version of our van)

Walking out last evening, the fading sun, lit the pine trees at the base of the mountains.

High in the sky above us, five para gliders dropped slowly downwards, their pilots swirling the bright canopy above them, to prolong the descent.

Today we drove the roads of the Verdon Gorge. Now whose idea was that? Picture this, narrow, winding roads, (which we should be used to by now), rocks protruding from the side, rocks overhanging above, 'will Marge fit under there?', and then, throw around one hundred impatient motorcyclists into the mix! Oh, yes, we must also mention the single lane tunnel, where we didn't know if someone was already in it, and heading straight for us.'Right whose going to back up then?'. Sorry Marge, it looks like it'll be you, easier said than done, with yet more impatient motorcyclists, trying to squeeze between Marge and the rocks. We were really starting to question their mentality! The drive was real white knuckle, having to switch to the opposite side of the road on blind bends to avoid the protruding rocks, despite adopting our 'slow and careful' approach, we needed to stop for Marge's driver to rest her shaking legs, re-hydrate her dry mouth, air her wet clothing, soaked from perspiration, and to generally take a breath. We'd thought we'd left all this drama behind in Italy. But we mustn't forget the words of the young American man, we met the night before we crossed the border into Italy, 'I like to call all this drama, living!'. We stopped again, just past Point Sublime, the views were impressive, and striking, the strata and height of the rocks, and the trees on the valley floor stretching upwards. But the sheer drop frightening. Sometimes the sheer drops were right next to us as we drove. Advice from the driver, 'I can't look at the views, why don't you help me watch the road!'. There were a few English vehicles on the road, and we sounded our horns, and waved to each other, offering moral support for the journey ahead. But for all our nerves, we both agreed, the hair raising drive had been well worth it.

As we dropped down from the roads above the gorge, we drove through the lavender fields of Provence, the fragrance from the bushes subtle, not yet at their full potential.

Tonight's aire is right by the river Verdon. Upon our arrival, we talked to an English couple who'd arrived yesterday, and were planning to stay a few days. We discussed the drama of driving the roads of the gorge, and our cycling trips in Europe. The man's mother had been a cyclist, winning competitions. She had lived to be one hundred and two, after suffering a stroke, as our Marge did. The conversation brought back some sad memories. Saying that though, Marge is with us on our travels, After all, her name is emblazoned across the bonnet of our van, and almost everyday, we remember her fondly in conversation, as we drive or walk out.

We are planning to spend two nights here at Quinson. We are about five minutes walk from the canoe hire, and tomorrow plan to hire one, and paddle the blue waters of the river Verdon.

On our usual walk into the town, taking in yet another French church, we saw a swallows nest in the porch, the parents dashing in and out with constant vittles for their noisy young.

At one point a large insect 3"-4" long which we thought may have been a locust, but think now, was probably a member of the grasshopper family, flew by, skimming John's shoulder, and giving him quite a start. Following it up the road, we found it on a piece of dead wood, its colouring, hiding it well.

As we walked back to the van, we stopped to photograph a three wheeled British kit car, powered by a Citroen 2CV engine. Tonight, whilst typing the blog, we can hear the pleasant notes from an accordion played by the Dutchman behind us.