Crossing the Pyrenees into France
Thursday, July 20
Aire de St Cyprien, Latour Bas Elne Typical! You set one wheel out of Spain and all hell breaks loose. On Thursday, we decided to cover the 110 or so miles left and made it to the French border. Just as we reached the checkpoint (actually, just a sign saying 'welcome to France') the traffic jams started and our original plan to head for the coastal town of Leucate disappeared in a haze of exhaust fumes. Thinking quickly, we took the first turn-off from the motorway and found ourselves on a quiet coast road. "Okay, where's the nearest aire?" I asked the navigator and within half-an-hour we were at a very peaceful and beautiful aire in the foothills of the Pyrenees. Located at the back of a caravan storage and spares centre, this aire has water, waste disposal and electricity for €14 a night, or €10 if you arrive after 5pm. Not bad for late July. In fact, it was so nice we stayed for four nights and never regretted it for a moment. On the Friday, we cycled into St Cyprien, a bustling beach town with a market, a Radio 1-style roadshow on the prom' and a very crowded beach. We stayed long enough to realise it wasn't for us so returned to the aire through the back roads. On Saturday morning, we headed into the village of Latour Bas Elne to find it celebrating the feast of St Jacques, or the potato harvest, or the Catalan lamb. All three seemed to be the centre of attention and by the time we got to the beer tent, everything was in full swing, including a marching band playing Yellow River. As often happens when these fetes occur, the whole village turns out in force. We had a glass of wine, went back to the van for a nap and went back in later in the afternoon. This event needed us at the top of our game! When we returned at about 4pm the band had been supplanted by a trio playing a mixture of classic rock and pop and maudlin French ballads. Nevertheless, after two or three glasses of the local beer, it all sounded good. Most of those left by late afternoon seemed to be young and old members of the rugby club who, in time-honoured style, seemed to be looking to pick a fight with anyone who didn't instantly embrace them and give them a huge manhug. We felt by now it was time for a pizza or a kebab so we repaired to the edge of town for some food and another couple of beers in some roadside bars, returning at about 8.30 for the main event – a can-can style cabaret in the village square. This time, the audience was the village elders, and us. As darkness fell, we endured this slightly updated but still cheesy version of Les Good Old Days before cycling back. Sunday was spent doing chores in and around the van before the clouds descended on us and the heaviest rain we'd seen for months arrived. Suitably chastened, we decided to split and head for our original destination, Leucate Plage. Monday, July 24 Aire, Leucate Plage Here we found ourselves back in one of our favourite French bolt holes, the windsurfing capital of Europe and one of France's hotbeds of oyster culture. In the past, we've loved cycling to the fishermen's cabins where they serve fresh oysters with cold white wine, and just a slice of lemon with which to cook the shellfish. This year, though, the weather was just too windy to do anything apart from, er, windsurfing and as we don't do that we kept our stay here to a minimum. On our arrival, we checked out the usually helpful municipal site but they didn't have a spot that suited us so we rolled next door to the aire by the beach and pitched our wagon there for the night, for just over €14. Our other favourite place is the beach bar here which has always been the perfect place to have a cold beer and watch the waves roll in. So, in the early evening after a shower we took a stroll, suited and booted, only to find it shut. The bar across the road was open but two halves of indifferent lager for €7, plus a pair of miserable bartenders drove us away after one drink. We found a much more agreeable bar around the corner where they served Leffe on tap, albeit for €4 a pop. The cheery barman explained the town was having a poor season, with business only picking up at weekends. We thought we might stick around for another night but a howling gale which rocked the van back and forth gave us other ideas and we decided to move inland in the general direction of the Tarn and give ourselves a break from the coast. It turned out to be the right move. Tuesday, July 25 Camping de la Lauze, Mazamet About two hours northwest of Leucate we found ourselves at a small and very quiet municipal campsite on the edge of the Tarn region. It promised good access to the town and wonderful cycle routes away from the roads and it certainly lived up to the hype. We found a flat, shaded pitch on the edge of the site and were given the lowdown by the English manager, who runs the place with his Portuguese wife. It appeared we'd come at the right time as there was a rolling jazz festival on later in the week and a lively town to explore just five minutes away along the Voie Verte, the excellent cycle route which extends 80km back towards the coast along a redundant railway line. An early arrival meant that after lunch we were able to walk into the town and check out its credentials. Like so many places, both on the Continent and in the UK, it seems that a huge superstore on the edge of town has ripped the guts out of the town itself. In Mazamet's case, what was once a very bustling, industrial and historic town is now a collection of struggling factories, charity shops, tired hotels and indifferent bars. But, hey, this is France and they don't take things like downturns lying down. Take the jazz festival, for a start. Located in the neighbouring twin villages, it puts on some of the best bands in France and it's all free, with subsidised booze! On the second night, the Thursday, we saw Wake up the Jive, see picture below, a fantastic swing band trying to gain a foothold for themselves on the European festival scene. They were quite brilliant. On the final night, Saturday, we saw an avant garde sextet, The Headbangers, who were also superb although their noodling and hip jazz stylings, I suspect, went over the heads of the rather sedate and elderly crowd, even young hipsters like us! In between these events, we busied ourselves around the campsite, taking a breather from all the travelling to catch our breath and slow everything down. We explored the Voie Verte for 10 miles but found it as dull as it was flat, although we did happen upon the village where Marechal Soult was born, lived and died. A general and statesman from the Napoleonic era, his life story is very interesting if you can be bothered to look him up on Wikipedia. We also headed into the hills for a day to have a look at the Lac de Montagne, a lovely beauty spot where we strolled around the lake before boiling ourselves a pot of coffee. We also tried to find Hautpoul, an inaccessible (by car or motorhome) village in the hills overlooking Mazamet but, alas, we got stuck along the narrow lanes which take you there and gave up. It's meant to be lovely, though. On the Sunday, after recovering from the two €5 bottles of rosé we drank at the Headbangers gig, we did our second load of washing and waited for a predicted thunderstorm to arrive. Monday, we thought, would mean a trip to the night time market in Mazamet and making preparations to leave for Albi, further into the Tarn region. As it was, we left on Monday... the nocturnal marché will have to wait until next year. Monday, July 31 Aire, Albi We'd been tipped off about Albi and this lovely cathedral 'city' was firmly on our route to the west coast so we drove an hour or so north and found the last space on the area of the car park dedicated to motorhomes. It's one of the great things about France that the local authorities will not only provide a space for you to stay overnight but they will also make it free, while still making cars pay alongside you for every hour they are there. The payoff, of course, is that you are expected to use your time on their patch by poneying up the dough in the bars, restaurants and tourist sites. In Albi, which features the biggest brick built structure in the world, there is much to spend your money on, but the cathedral isn't one of them. Remarkably, apart from its choir area, the cathedral is free to enter and wander around. Inside, it is just as impressive as its incredible exterior suggests. We had a look inside the cathedral on the afternoon of our arrival and had a walk around the lovely town, which is one of the prettiest we've seen so far in France – well preserved without resorting to tatty souvenir shops to make ends meet. In the evening, we checked out a few bars on the periphery of the old town and, after a very hot night on the aire, we strolled around the wonderful Toulouse-Lautrec museum (he was born and raised here) and the adjoining gardens overlooking the Tarn. Tuesday, August 1 Camping municipal, Monesties In mid-afternoon, after our walk around the museum, we headed to a cheap little campsite in another lovely Tarn village, close to the historic town of Cordes sur Ciel we wanted to visit. For €11, we had a pretty spot by a little river. The village had two lovely bars and a nice tourist centre but little else and, at 10 miles from Cordes, was just too far to cycle. Oh, and there was a nasty smell coming from the shower blocks and no hot water so on Wednesday morning we struck camp and drove to Cordes, knowing there was a good aire which we could use as our base to explore. The town looms up majestically from the plains around the Tarn and dominates the skyline as you head towards it, like an inland Mont St Michel in Normandy. The aire is just outside the town but it's an easy if steep walk to the base of the village and then a bit of a hike up the hilly streets to the top. Once there, having passed atelier after atelier, selling everything from ceramics to fine art, we had a look at the amazing panorama, paused for breath and then walked back to the van. We had lunch at the aire, wondering if any of the prime grassy, sheltered pitches would become free. They didn't so we wrapped everything away and headed to Laguepie, recommended by the manager of the campsite in Mazamet. Wednesday, August 2 Camping Les Tilleuls, Laguépie Located on the banks of the Viaur, at the bottom of a very narrow, winding road, dense with trees but with huge pitches, Les Tilleuls had just about everything we wanted in a campsite, apart from a vacant spot. Its popularity with families stems from its lovely, quiet location and the clean river which flows so lazily past the site that it's perfect for children and adults alike to swim and frolic in. We'd had enough travelling and so liked the look of it that we accepted the offer of one pitch for the night in the hope that another would become available later, and so it proved. The pitch we started our stay in would have been difficult to get out of if our imminent neighbours blocked our only escape route but later in the evening the receptionist said that we could move onto the accessible pitch on Thursday morning once a couple in a VW camper had moved on after one night. Result! On Wednesday night, thrilled that we could stay for as long as we wanted, we strolled along the river and had a few beers in the town, making sure we left some of it undiscovered for later visits, and came back to the campsite bar for a pizza and a bottle of rosé. We also booked our spot for the main event at the campsite on Thursday night – the visit of 'The Professor', a one-man 'Dirty Rhythm and Blues Orchestra'. We can't wait! For €12 each we get a front row seat and a bucket of chips and mussels. It turned out to be a great night. The Professor is actually a little duo – him on piano and foot drums and a neat jazzy/rockabilly guitarist – augmented by a great female singer/saxophonist who was really the star of the show, and criminally underused! The Prof is from New York but has settled in Switzerland where they clearly think his brand of cod r'n'b is the real deal. Nevertheless, they put on a good show for the campers and we managed to get at the front of a very long queue for the mussels and chips. We enjoyed a litre and a half of rosé, made more palatable by our secret stash of Cassis, before we snuck back to the van, not 20 yards away, for extra supplies of Leffe. All this heady mixture inspired Jane to leap about on the camp trampoline for five minutes... after which she promptly fell down the stairs leading off it and bruised her legs. Poor love... she'd swam in the river that runs alongside the campsite earlier in the day... it must have been the exhaustion and the excitement that affected her balance On Friday, we walked into the lovely little town, past the inflatable slides on the river, for some essential supplies, noting that there's a jazz band playing for free later in the market square. The fun never stops in this part of the Tarn! Top, Wake up the Jive at Bout du Pont de Larn and, above, our one-night campsite at Monesties. The jerry-built circular toilet block drove us away. Right, one of the main streets at Cordes sur Ciel. Below, some more images of Cordes sur Ciel and, right, the 'Professor' in action and some views of the lovely Laguépie
Sunday, August 6
Camping Municipal, Caussade We'd loved to have stayed a little longer at the lovely campsite in Laguépie but we reckoned we'd seen just about enough of the place by Sunday morning. Plus, we we were getting a little freaked out by the very shaded pitch we were on. When the temperature is constantly in the 30s it's odd to feel like you're being kept in a dungeon. Still, it did the fridge good. Anyway, on Sunday morning, after a shave, shower etc., we headed for an aire at St Antonin, about 10-15 miles west of us, which had been recommended by friends. We made it there all right only find it in the middle of a very busy fete, complete with classic car show et al. The upshot was that the aire was temporarily closed, there was nowhere else to park, so we moved on westwards to a nice-looking municipal campsite in Caussade, the 'City of Hats' where, apparently, the straw boater was born. Not surprisingly, the industry that grew up from this amazing product has waned since the 1930s and, since the death of Maurice Chevalier, there are only enough barbershop quartets in the world to keep just one factory going. Nevertheless, the French being what they are, they're keeping the ghost alive and selling the town based on its former glories. Hats off to them, we say! We made it to Caussade by about 1.15, checked in, nosed around (good shower blocks!), had lunch and then cycled into the town, about five minutes by bike, to see what it had to offer. A fair bit as it turned out. While everywhere was shut (natch) on Sunday afternoon, it looked to have a lot going for it, including a haberdashery and a Vietnamese restaurant, and an Irish bar. We made a note to check out all three on Monday morning when we do a little shopping. Cycling back to the camp, we continued back the way we'd come in with the van and bought some fruit from a stall on a farm and investigated a country park behind the campsite. Okay for picnics but that's about it. Monday saw us heading to the supermarket to stock up on essentials and head later into the town for its huge street market – more hats, olives, and overpriced tat. However, we did get a bargain when we checked the bikes in for a mini-'revision' from a lovely guy who runs a hunting, shooting and cycling shop in the town. For €15, he tightened everything up, oiled all essential parts, adjusted the brakes and gears and – most importantly – did the one job that's proved so hard for me for some reason – pumped the tyres up. As you'd expect, the bikes feel like new at the moment and cycling has gone from being a chore to a pleasure. In the afternoon, after we'd picked the bikes back up, the Scouse caravanner we'd met earlier in the day came over to warn us about the 'orage' that was coming in at about 9pm. To be fair, the weather was a bit close but there were hardly any clouds in the sky and none on the horizon. Come 9pm and we were happily playing cards outside but at 10pm the first lightning flashes illuminated the sky and by midnight it was a full-on electric storm. We'd already packed away the awning, the ground sheets and the table and chairs and at about 4.30am this proved to be the right decision as the rains came so hard we felt the van could be washed away, just like in those news clips you see of southern France from time to time. In the morning, though, there were a few puddles but we looked set fair for another decent day. I felt like putting the bike through its paces and hurtled off in the morning to a Lidl I'd found on the web and came back with the panniers stuffed with goodies. Offloading them back at the van, I then cycled off for some more provisions from the SuperU and had a nose around the rest of the town, eyeing up any prospective restaurants in case we're still here on Saturday when it's Jane's birthday. In the afternoon, the very helpful manager of the site (a dead ringer for Chris Hollins) printed off some important documents for us and, as a reward for all our hard work, we strolled over to the Moroccan food stall which operates on the campsite on summer weekdays and had a very nice chicken and meatball tagine dish for €12. Tomorrow, we're going to the pictures for the first time in years to see a subtitled version of Dunkirk, or Dunkerque as the French call it. We may be the only English people there and, as it's been criticised by the French for its apparent lack of acknowledgement of the role they played in covering our backs as we conducted an orderly withdrawal from their country in 1940, it might be an interesting evening. * For a review and news of our evacuation to the coast, see part VI |
Above, some images from the fete we enjoyed at Latour Bas Elne. Below, a young girl plays on the steps of her house, and two old timers take a breather in the lovely old part of Leucate... just before the winds came
Above, the war memorial at Mazamet, the gigs in and around the village and Jane at the Lac de Montagne. Below, the amazing cathedral in Albi and some other sights around the town
Above, our pitch in Caussade, apres la deluge, Rodney, of the previous night; our tagine dishes being prepared and, finally, the glory of not cooking in the van!
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