Sometimes you’ve just got to move on...
Tuesday, July 31
Camping Croix d’Arles, Langres Serendipity is a wonderful thing and it’s helped us out a number of times on this trip. You know how it is – you’re driving along en route to an agreed destination and suddenly a campsite appears as if by magic at the side of the road and hooks you in, almost instantly. That’s how it was with this small, wooded and fairly secluded site, about five miles south of the walled citadel town of Langres in the Champagne region. We were heading for Dijon but when we passed a nice-looking site, with a swimming pool, we decided to turn around about half a mile down the road and swing back and have a look. Not for the first time we were glad we did. Here, by a memorial to General ‘Blood and Guts’ Patton, who liberated the area in WWII, returning after his heroics on the same spot as a tank commander during the First World War, and just south of Langres, where the encyclopaedia founder Diderot was born, is a relaxed, quite funky little transit site. When we arrived a lunchtime, the couple who run the place were sharing a spliff on the little terrace in front of reception. Chilled out, they weren’t about to open the reception just for us, indicating we’d have to wait until 3pm when it opened, but in the meantime we could find a pitch and hook up. Perfect... man. We found a spot near the loos and with good WiFi, made ourselves at home and had some lunch. Then, once we’d squared everything with the Doobies, we had a few beers at the simple site bar and ordered a pizza from the nearby cabin. By early evening, the deserted little site had filled up almost completely, mostly with Dutch motorhomers and caravanners breaking their journey either south to the sun or north back home. The site, actually, the couple who ran it, seemed very relaxed at this state of affairs. Their mornings were spent taking the fees for the night before as everyone cleared off by 10.30, if not before; then they rolled themselves a joint for lunch, supervised the cleaning of the two toilet blocks, then sat back and waited for the evening trade to roll in, which it surely did. As we weren’t in a hurry, and the site offered seven nights for the price of six (working out at around €18 a night), plus we rather liked the place and had the pool to ourselves in the morning, and it was absolutely roasting for most of the time, we decided to stay around for a week. So, we settled into a little routine:
We also had a game of tennis in SdG and I managed to get my bike serviced for €12, but mainly we just dossed about the campsite until Tuesday morning came around and we, with a heavy heart, said goodbye to the Doobies and this lovely, wooded enclave in the middle of nowhere. Farewell, Nick, you were our inspiration While at Langres we heard the terribly sad news of the death of Nick Machin, a colleague from the South Wales Echo, a brilliant journalist, a great golfing partner, a top tea maker and a lovely friend. Over the course of the following week or so, many very eloquent and moving tributes were made online, all far better at me than putting into words what Nick meant to everyone. In death, as in life, no one had a bad word to say about him. He was perennially cheerful and a lovely colleague to have in the newsroom, especially when times were fraught, as they could often be. Hailing from the same East Midlands local newspaper background, we shared the same appreciation of what daily, or evening newspapers meant to people, and it was always lovely to hear from Nick roughly the same accent as I remembered from my days in Derby. We last saw Nick at Easter when he was still hopeful of beating the brain tumour with which he was stricken. The love and care shown to him by his wonderful wife Sufia could not have been more life-affirming but over lunch it was clear to see that the old Nick was being cruelly taken away from us all, bit by bit. That they had only a few years together made Nick’s plight all the more tragic but I think they both felt blessed that they had found each other during their world travels and even more fortunate that they had toured Europe together in 2016, before Nick’s diagnosis, inspiring us to to take a similar chance ourselves a year later. Nick’s funeral, in the splendid surroundings of Llandaff Cathedral in Cardiff on August 24, should be a fitting tribute to a wonderful human being who, whether he knew it or not, was an inspiration to everyone who met him. Tuesday, August 7 Camping du Lac Kir, Dijon Well, seven days later than planned, we made it to Dijon, home of the famous mustard and a lovely old city in its own right. The aire we stayed at, adjoining a municipal campsite, offered all the facilities of the camp for €12.65 (about €10 less than the site itself) but we had to squeeze ourselves into a little-ish space on a car park. Undaunted, we pitched up, had lunch in the covered area by the bar, availed ourselves of the free WiFi, then took the short cycle along the river into Dijon. On a Tuesday afternoon, Dijon is probably as quiet as any other middling French city in early August, ie very quiet. Even so, the funky shops and restaurants as well as the swish-looking tram system marks this place as somewhere worth sticking around for.. if we wanted to. After a couple of hours wandering around, noting its pleasing mix of old and new architecture, we cycled back along the river and around the lovely Lake Kir which features a very busy ‘beach’ area, as well as lakeside brasseries, sailing clubs and a fine cycle path around the perimeter. In the evening (it’s getting to be a Tuesday tradition) we had a lovely pizza from the campsite kiosk and, after a stuffy night in the stultifying heat, scarpered in the morning. Wednesday, August 8 Camping Cuisery, Cuisery An aire by a marina, well reviewed and €20 a night... what’s not to like. Well, pretty much everything about this grubby, underwhelming excuse for a campsite. For a start, the electrics went AWOL four or five times in the space of about an hour, probably because one of the sailors at the adjacent marina was trying to boil a kettle and toast a tea cake at the same time. Each time, the site managers/bar owners threw a switch and brought everything back online. Then, they overcharged us by about €3 for some mysterious reason, the toilets and showers were unusable and there was no chemical waste disposal. A shame, really, because it was a nice location and the nearby town, up a hill about half a mile away, is one of those ‘book towns’ created by the French to give some life back to dying communities. We had a look and found it to be a poor man’s Hay-on-Wye. We’ll not rush back. Thursday, August 9 Camping Car Park Beaujolais, Villefranche-sur-Saône With the weather mercifully cooling down as we headed slowly south, we needed somewhere to pause for a few days, if for no other reason than to clean and air the van and wash our sweat-stained bedding. We’d decided that with time on our side (we need to be in Frejus by August 25) we could afford to be a little footloose and, while having a campsite to aim for, we could stop at any place en route that took our fancy. To that end, we continued south on the main D road, avoiding the main toll road, and tried – and rejected – three campsites or aires that, to our discerning minds, just didn’t pass muster. The first, a huge sprawling complex, was virtually deserted; the second was billed as a serviced aire but was, in fact, just a car park outside a campsite. The third, meanwhile, looked okay but when we arrived at just after noon had already been closed for half an hour, and wouldn’t open again until 4pm. So, we had a look around on foot, picked a spot, had some lunch, watched an episode of The West Wing and waited for the municipal site’s managers to turn up. By the time they did, there was quite a queue waiting. In addition to us, there was a German couple behind us and also an extended family – parents, grandparents, pregnant women, teenagers, toddlers and babes in arms, all loaded in about three vans and two cars. The Germans seemed uneasy; we seemed uneasy; the French family seemed relaxed. When the office opened at 4pm, we let the Germans go first and they booked themselves in and returned to their van outside the gate. We sat tight. Then the French family checked in, but the Germans weren’t moving. Like us, they wanted to see where the big gang would pitch up and then, presumably, pitch up as far from this noisy-looking mob as possible. After 10 minutes or so, they were back in the vans and moving onto the site, followed by the Germans who turned right as Les Munsters turned left. Where did that leave us? Well, we were only planning to stay a night or two but, to our shame, we both felt we didn’t fancy it any more. Why? Because a ‘rough’ family had turned up? Because we didn’t like the look of them? Because their kids looked a bit ‘unsupervised’? Because we’re a pair of snobs? Whatever the reason, we turned around, found the co-ordinates of another aire about 15 minutes away and sloped off. Sometimes, no matter how tired you are, some places just don’t feel right. We only have one van, one life, one chance and we’ve both agreed that if somewhere doesn’t feel ‘right’ for whatever reason we can move on. Sorry, Munsters, you’re probably lovely people and you really won’t be up till 2am dancing to fiddle music around a camp fire; your kids won’t be scampering around our van and we won’t be so anxious that we can’t sleep. But why take the chance, eh? So this is why we’ve ended up here, at an old municipal campsite that’s fallen on hard times and been bought out by a chain that specialises in unmanned aires, with all the services, including electricity, showers, loos and waste facilities. It’s by a river – still the Saône – and a swimming lake; it’s not far from a Lidl and a Decathlon, and a train station on the main line to Lyon; there’s a restaurant by the river and an even better one about half a mile away; there’s a good cycle path along the river and it’s working out at about €12.65 a night and we’ve just about got the place to ourselves. On the first night, having had a very stressful journey, we take a walk to the restaurant behind us that is advertising itself as ‘restaurant, crazy golf and karaoke’. Undaunted, we wander in a little nervously to find it is actually a very chic bistro that has a singer-guitarist discreetly knocking out a few mellow numbers in the background and, by the way, probably the world’s greatest chef. We go for the three-course €25-a-head menu and I have a fantastic salmon and prawn mousse to start, followed by duck in raspberry sauce. It’s incredible. Jane has a vegetable terrine, which is fine, followed by what she said was the best fillet steak she’d ever had. All this was top and tailed by an olive and anchovy tapenade and some delicious ice cream. Hey, the wine wasn’t bad either, or the Leffe! Over the weekend, we explore a little of the surrounding area, firstly cycling into VSS along the main road from the campsite, via the railway station that connects the town with Lyon and beyond. We park up halfway along the one main street and walk around what is a very smart, Mediterranean-style town (we’re obviously further south than I thought), full of high-end boutiques, well-patronised bars and restaurants, a nice church and an interesting walking trail around it’s more fascinating old buildings. But it’s a little too far from the campsite (and along a very busy road) to make it worth visiting more often. More accessible is the swimming lake and beach right next to the campsite. It’s €2 or €3 to get in but it’s free if you have a membership card that comes when you stay at least a night at this aire. On the Sunday, Jane’s birthday, we cycle around the lake, then along the Saône before leaving the bikes back at the van to walk to the ‘Crazy’ bar for a liquid, happy birthday lunch. Suitably inspired by a couple of Leffes each, we go back to the van where I try to cook two big duck breasts for dinner. They go down a treat although Jane’s dicky tummy in the middle of the night might suggest otherwise! |
From top, the tomb of Christ in the cathedral at Langres, a typical Langres street and a statue of Diderot, Langres’ most famous son. He is most famous for creating an early version of an encyclopaedia; above, a lovely picture of Nick and Sufia
Above, some views of Dijon, a lovely and unassuming city we encountered on our journey south through eastern France; top, on her birthday, Mrs Wells looks good for her age, thanks to a steady diet of Belgian’s finest. They weren’t both for her!
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