The Return of the South Wales Six
Tuesday, August 21
Camping Municipal Loretta, Le Poet Laval, Var Tuesday is a busy day. We get up reasonably early and, at the suggestion of Dave and Anne, take our bikes up the hill across the road to the old town of Le Poet Laval. Predictably, the steepness of the incline means we make it about halfway up before we have to park our bikes outside an old disused church (now an exhibition centre) and the adjoining presbytery (now a hippie retreat, we think!). A walk through the foothills of the hilltop community reveals it to be a jumble of tumbledown residences, ateliers, gites and a hotel with a very expensive restaurant attached. There are a number of artists’ studios with some expensive canvases and jewellery, which we avoid, and as we wander around the lovely castle, once in private hands and now owned by the state, we get some great views of the foothills of the Alps in the eastern distance. Later, we head back to the campsite and take a detour just before it to a strange open-air bar-come-restaurant-come-crazy golf complex (yes, another one). Set among a little copse, it’s a quirky collection of knackered old sofas and hand-me-down tables and chairs at which a dozen or so of the local bohemian types are drinking and playing cards. When we ask for a drink, the barman explains that we have to cough up €2 each to join before he can serve us. It’s just our sort of place so we give him our money and our email address to enrol and ask if they serve food. It turns out they do, although there’s only one thing on the menu – the same thing every night – bruschetta. Later, we tell Dave and Anne about our quirky find, make a half-hearted suggestion that the crazy golf bar could be fun... and decide that it’s probably best if we head for Tous les Matins as originally planned. On Wednesday, the day before our departure, we cycle into Dieulefit, a very busy and artistic little town about two miles down the road. It’s full of interesting shops, bars and restaurants and, a little ruefully, we decide it’s another of those towns that’s probably great to visit at night. Instead, the four of us get together again after dinner and swap more stories. I wanted to know about Dave’s other life as a rock drummer and he tells me a lovely story about how he and some schoolmates formed a band at home in Yorkshire in the late ‘70s, played a few gigs and made a record before it all fizzled out, as these things do. The record was good enough to be played on The John Peel Show while Dave hit the dizzy heights of guesting on drums for a ‘name’ band (he’s forgotten the name) who were playing a gig in his town but had an injured drummer. In front of around 500 people, they went down a storm, despite the fact he was making it all up as he went along, and it was one of the highlights of his life. These days, he plays guitar. Well, he couldn’t get all his drums in the back of the van. On Thursday, we all said our farewells and headed off in slightly different directions, resolving, though, to keep in touch. Thursday, August 23 Camping Vallé Heuresse, Orgon Tucked away just outside this little town in southern France lies this great little campsite perched above an old quarry and set on terraces with a dramatic escarpment as its backdrop. At the end of the season, it wasn’t too busy and we found ourselves a pitch quite high up right next to a lovely little pool complex. “Don’t you think it will be noisy?” asked Jane to much scoffing on my part. We had a little drink later on in the adjacent bar, then settled down to have our late dinner. It wasn’t long before we could hear music coming from the bar and then the strangulated sounds of pre-teen girls doing their karaoke versions of a succession of Europop standards, some in French and some in the original, heavily accented English. “Please make it stop,” we said to each other as yet another high-pitched warbler managed to turn Pharell Williams’ Happy to Sad. Such was the lovely nature of the site, though, even this wasn’t enough to send us packing and we managed another night here. On the Friday, we walked down to the old flooded quarry to see it being used as a wake boarding centre and an impromptu bathing area by some of the hardier campers. Saturday, August 25 Camping Le Montourey, Frejus, Côte d’Azur Last year, we arranged with Siblu to spend a week at this busy, family mobile home campsite near this popular resort, about four or five miles from the beach. Finding it was a bit of a struggle but with a little help from the satnav and a lot of intuition we managed to find it, alongside a parched canal and down a very narrow track that eventually dwindles to nothing just after the site entrance. While first impressions didn’t bode well, the site turned out to be a peach and our mobile home, all three bedrooms, two bathrooms, two toilets, microwave, dishwasher and washing machine of it, was a great place to spend seven days, particular when you consider we’ve been cooped up in the tin can since mid-April. We parked the van in front, unloaded our essentials (and four loads of washing) and stretched out on the bed, the sofa, the verandah and around the lovely pool complex. Saturday was spent getting things ready for the arrival the following day of the Tossa de Mar crowd, the family and friends who’d joined us for a few days in a Spanish hotel last year: our youngest son Joseph, his partner Georgia, our grand-daughter Grace, now six, and our great friend Marianne. To that end, we dragged the van out for one more trip, to a nearby supermarket, and then, went those provisions had been put away, we got on our bikes and found a nearby Lidl along the canal path. Once these chores were done we could put our feet up, again, and enjoy the calm before the storm. At around lunchtime on Sunday, the foursome turned up in Joseph’s swish hire car and we began three days of catching up, drinking and eating far more than was good for us and, of course, marvelling at how much Grace has come on since we last saw her, around the time of her birthday in March. As usual, the world dances to her tune and we were more than happy to join in, spending hours around the pool, hurtling down the flumes, jumping into the deep end, swimming underwater and generally pratfalling around. Sometimes we even let Grace join in. On Monday night, Marianne generously treated the party to dinner at the poolside bistro but all the real excess was to be found around the table on the verandah of the mobile home where we would sit drinking beer, wine and G&Ts and eating Jane’s homemade olive and anchovy tapenade until midnight. On Tuesday, we gave Marianne time off for good behaviour and she took the train into Nice to explore all its delights, returning in the early evening in time for more drinks and nibbles. It was all over too quickly and when they said their farewells on Wednesday morning to catch the early flight back to Bristol we felt a little deflated and it took until Thursday, when we cycled into Frejus, to get anything like our old joie de vivre back. Frejus and its neighbour, San Raphael, are a little like sisters, where both are very alike but one is older and more sophisticated than the other. In San Raphael, there’s a striking old church, a lovely marina and a great Big Wheel which we enjoyed riding and getting great views of the surrounding landscape. Saturday, September 1 Campasun Mas De Pierredon, Sanary sur Mer With the end of the high season, when it made financial sense to stick to French municipal sites, the whole panoply of ACSI sites came back into the frame and we could enjoy great Riviera campsites for a fraction of what they would have been just days before. One such place is this very smart campsite west of Toulon, just a few miles inland from the stylish resort of Sanary sur Mer. For a steal – €17 a night – we were able to enjoy what is for my money one of the best second line campsites on the Côte d’Azur. We arrived at around lunchtime after a predictable long journey from Frejus, made arduous by the grim logjams through Hyeres and, particularly, Toulon. Nevertheless, a warm welcome from the site manager, a good-sized pitch and a look at the fabulous pool complex made it all worthwhile. After lunch, we had a swim in the late afternoon sunshine and made plans for the next few days. Originally, we were set to move on after just one night and meet friends from Derby in Cassis. They were coming from Port Grimaud, just a few miles from St Tropez and as they were passing through Sanary sur Mer on the way we suggested to them that they should break their journey here. With our glowing testimony, they readily agreed and when they arrived on the Sunday it was the start of a lovely few days together. It’s always good to see Mandy and Chris, our old friends from Belper, but even better when we’re all on holiday. They were seven or eight days into a three-week tour of some of their favourite places in France and we were thrilled they were able to alter their journey to rendezvous with us while were in the south. Luckily, like us, they thought the campsite, with its great facilities and lovely pool, was worth sticking around for and we ended up lazing around for another two nights. On Sunday, we had a lovely meal at the campsite’s own restaurant, overlooking the pool complex and on Monday, our last day here, we decided to take a taxi into the town and have a look around. Sanary may not have the cachet of St Tropez, but you won’t pay €18 for a beer here, either, which is what Chris paid in the legendary showbiz haunt. It’s understated but I’d argue the seafront is just as charming, probably more so when you consider its lack of pretension. The taxi dropped us off in the harbour area and we had a lovely hour of strolling through its shaded quays, stopping at the market to pick up some garlic squid for one of Mandy’s special empty-the-fridge-and-help-yourself meals. Tuesday, September 4 Camping Les Cigales, Cassis At last, two days later than planned, we finally made it to Cassis with Mandy and Chris. Les Cigales is a tight little site on a hill about a mile from the old town but we arrived at about the same time in late morning and found two pitches quite close together. After a quick lunch, we decided to make the most of what we thought would just be one night here and had a walk down the hill into the town, figuring we could get a taxi back up it later in the day. Cassis is another charming little seaside village, perhaps one notch up the food chain from Sanary. Some very chic little shops give this place a charm all of its own but it’s most famous, perhaps, for the tallest coastal cliffs in Europe which dominate and loom over the town like divine sentinels. After a drink or two in a beachfront bar, we took a ride in a little tourist train around the town and out to a scenic headland. There aren’t many better ways to spend an hour than to watch the world go by and listen to a potted history of the area. That’s not strictly true, but you get the idea... In the evening, we ate and drank the remainder of our supplies and then, in the morning, we carried on our journey towards Spain while Mandy and Chris went back to Port Grimaud to continue their all-too-short holiday. Wednesday, September 5 Camping La Lagune, Frontignan Plage, Sete The plan as we set off quite early (9am) from Cassis was to get on the péage as quickly as possible and drive the 200 miles or so to L’Escala in Spain. We had the route programmed into the satnav and it seemed like a simple plan. Get to a Spanish Lidl by lunchtime and be on the beach for the late afternoon sunshine. Somehow, things didn’t quite turn out that way. First of all, I decided to go against the electronic advice (“Well, I’m not going THAT way for start!”) and head for what I thought was the most sensible route to the motorway. Then, once we’d found it, I missed a crucial turn-off and ended up slap-bang in the centre of Marseilles, one of France’s biggest and baddest cities. “This is going to turn out very badly,” I said to Jane as the satnav guided us down yet another tight alley in search of a sensible way out of this hellhole. In my mind I had us being hijacked by a gang of swarthy cut-throats who would then proceed to sell us into prostitution and white slavery. I was wondering which one I’d choose when, magically, a tunnel appeared as if out of nowhere and when we emerged we were back on the péage and heading once more for Spain. I’d have gone for white slavery, in case you were wondering. By this time, though, it was getting late and any plans we had of getting to the Costa Brava in time for Tipping Point had all but disappeared. As a consequence, we rejigged our plans and headed to a campsite north of Perpignan. Here, at this cheap (€13) but comfortable little place, just 200 yards from the beach, we had a perfectly fine time, even managing to get in the Med’ for our first dip in the sea since Croatia. The walk back through the little town reminded us of why we liked this part of France so much: there was nothing to it apart from a few ramshackle bars, pizza joints and shanty-town campsites but, with a nice beach, it had just about everything we needed. In fact, we could have spent a few more days here but by now it was officially autumn and Spain, where we planned to spend the rest of our time abroad, was calling us. Thursday, September 6 Camping Illa Mateua, L’Escala For lots of reasons, this is one of our favourite campsites, and it just keeps on giving. Last year, a week later in the season, we arrived not knowing what to expect but we were quickly charmed by its location on Montgo Bay, the amazing snorkelling at Illa Mateua, its excellent facilities and the neighbouring town of L’Escala, which manages to be an earthy Brits bolthole, a traditional slice of ‘real Spain’ and a quite chic, funky seaside town. It also has some excellent supermarkets, cheap fuel and, a little to the north, some interesting Roman ruins. After filling up with diesel and stocking the shelves with food and drink (Lidl gin is half the price of what it is In France!) we checked into the campsite and parked ourselves close to where we had been last year – just the right amount of shade, just the right amount of sun, not too far from the showers, close to the free tennis court and the ‘secret’ pool no one seems to use. Once settled, I got chatting to the Dutch guy next to us who said he knew Derby very well and had once run the Old Gate pub at Brassington. This prompted me to write a column for the Telegraph on all the other Derbyshire connections we had found in our travels and what a small world it is. We didn’t know the half of it. On Friday, we started our new health and fitness regime, rising early for a run/brisk walk around the area. This was followed by a swim, a game of tennis and a bike ride into town. On our return, we noticed a British van parked at reception. It looked the same make and model as our first van, an Ace Siena. Back at the van, we both scratched our heads: “Wasn’t our Ace on an 07 plate?” I said to Jane. “I think it was,” she said. “I can’t be sure but the number plate looks familiar... I think it’s our old van!” A quick check through our old pictures on Facebook confirmed it was and later that day we popped round to introduce ourselves to the van’s bemused new owners. They were a young couple who’d inherited it from his late father who had bought it in 2010 from the same dealer who had taken it from us in part-exchange for the Rapido we have now. Small world, eh? |