Bellegarde

We left Quinson this morning, bidding farewell to the English couple from Surrey. When we arrived two days ago, talking to the English lady, for just over an hour, was the longest conversation Angela had, had, with anyone since leaving England. It's seems the men crave conversation, more than the women, probably to escape being with their wives so much. For the women, a quick chat, then back to a good book is enough. We'd enjoyed our two nights at Quinson, and last night sat outside, accompanied by wine, and talked until eleven o' clock. It was the longest we'd sat out since setting off.

Our lunchtime stop was in the town of Jouques, the journey there meant avoiding a few protruding stone walls, but after the roads of the gorge, it was child's play. We stopped here, because on the Internet, it said, there was a chance of filling up with water at the sports complex, but it turned out to be to no avail. As the parking area by the sports complex was quiet, with good parking for Marge, and a pleasant view of the town, we decided this should be our lunch stop. Over lunch, we discussed how our travels no longer seemed like a holiday, but more a way of life, and we liked it.

On further investigation, we discovered that just around the corner from us was an aire, where we would be able to empty our waste and replenish Marge's fresh water tank. There was already a French van there, and we knocked on their van door to enquire if they knew if the water was 'potable'. After some dialogue with the lady, and 'oui', being shouted a few times from the man, who became increasingly frustrated with us for interrupting his television viewing, which is the main pastime of the French, we filled up, but not our fresh water container, as we were not one hundred per cent sure, the few words of the irritated Frenchman could be trusted, after we'd committed the crime of interrupting his viewing. Real friendly these French!

Next to the Aire was a car park full over supercars, Lamborginis, Ferraris, Shelbys, Aston Martins amongst others. None had number plates and whilst we completed out service stop three young men turned up and drove off in three of them. How strange.

As we left Jouques, we drove along many typical French roads, lined with trees, all very pretty, but a little unnerving for three metre high Marge, when signs appeared warning of low protruding branches. And the day was going so well, now eyes on the road, and up above in the trees. The driver asks, 'are we nearly there?'. As we left the 'trees of doom', we began to pass fruit trees, with fruit boxes stacked nearby, ready for the harvest, and then olive factories, the barrels of olives stacked in lines, awaiting their journey into the factory to be packaged. The weather still warm, and humid, we wondered if the heavy afternoon rain predicted, by a man parked next to us in the supermarket car park this morning, would actually materialise.

Tonight's aire is beside the Canal du Rhone a Sete, at Port de Bellegarde, which is near to Nimes. We are now right on the edge of the Carmargue. Tired from our travelling, the oppressive heat draining us, we secured Marge and immediately took a walk out alongside the canal, the sky a milky hue, rain was imminent. A few drops at first, which was refreshing.

We stopped to watch a fisherman, oblivious of our presence, concentrating on the floats on his lines.

On the opposite side of the canal, there are acres and acres of lush green grapevines. Very nearby is the river Rhone, which we crossed as we neared the aire, we are now in, the Cote du Rhone wine region.

This evening, the little rain we had, has moved on, and the air is just a little fresher, which is a relief. Before his shower, John sat in Marge with no shirt on, as the German man did in the van next to us. After our experiences with certain German men over the last few weeks, we doubted he had his trousers on either! Let's hope nobody arriving, thinks this is a naturists aire!

Tonight, we have exchanged the voices of the bull frogs and cicadas for that of the ducks, much more English.

Quinson (Day 2)

As we readied for bed last night, we could hear the nearby bull frogs having a late night conversation. In the distance accompanying them, the chatter of cicadas.

Today we are having a relaxing day, unlike yesterday! Whilst we ate our breakfast, we watched a group of walkers checking their rucksacks, walking poles, socks and boots, before eating the traditional banana for energy. Obviously, being in the Alps, there are many walks, and in our guide for the area, it says you should allow ten hours to complete one of them.

This morning, we walked once again into the town, to visit the tourist office, which is housed in an old chapel.

Then purchased a baguette from one of the two bars which sold bread, (unusually, there is no actual bakery in the town).

On the way back to the van, we decided to explore more of the narrow streets, passing by an elderly gentleman, tending his vegetable garden, he seemed unaware of our presence as we photographed him. The scene was a true depiction of France, serene and tranquil.

The temperature during the afternoon soared, so we decided to keep out of the direct heat of the sun, sitting under our sun awning, reading and planning our onward journey. Tomorrow, there is a chance we may run into some rain, so we're trying to keep South for a day or two, before turning northwards. Meanwhile, we must be entertained by our fellow van owners. 'Please don't try and empty your toilet through the waste water grid!' The Dutchman did, and of course it wasn't successful. Yesterday evening, a local man walked through the aire, and made a point of telling us we must not do this, which of course we never would, the Dutch however! You wouldn't believe the antics we see at the service points. Yesterday morning, we waited for absolutely ages, whilst a Frenchman, cleaned and polished his hosepipe, then packed it away in its special box. The German couple next in the queue seething, to be held up for so long. The favourite antic, is the rinsing out of chemical toilets, with water from the drinking water tap, and the most disgusting, the absence of handwashing, after performing this exercise. What is wrong with people? Fortunately, we are wise to these practices, and are always very careful where we fill up our drinking water containers.

At the aire here, the is no drinking water, and you have to walk up to the town to the old Lavoir, to fill your container, from the drinking water fountain. We know, all very quaint.

Mid afternoon, we braved the heat, and walked out alongside the lake, hoping the trees would shade us, and offer some respite from the oppressive warmth.

We spotted two large wild mushrooms on a tree stump, defiantly not the sort you should eat.

Further along the path, we came across the prehistoric village. In the town, there is a prehistoric museum. Two groups of school children were there, one group just having taken part, in an activity involving bows and arrows.

Walking to the top of the lake, we arrived at the hydro-electric power station. On the way up, we'd noticed the water was running faster than yesterday, the reason, water was being released from the dam behind.

Early evening, the clouds form, and then disappear, bringing back the bright sunlight. The humidity appears to be increasing, and we wonder if we may catch one of the thunderstorms, that are active a little further north during the night.

During the day, we saw a cat sheltering from the sun in the coolness of a waste pipe. We think it probably had, had a very good idea. No pipes to hide in for us, just cold beer and wine to cool us!

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.