Many years ago we stayed at a camping municipal at a village called Hérisson [which translates as hedgehog or sea urchins if you’re Spanish]. I had very vague recollections of liking it, even though the memory has been dulled by too many bottles of wine. It is close to the autoroute that would lead us back in the right direction for our ferry and split the journey at a suitable point, so we decided to give it another visit. The location may be why it’s open through October.
We arrived early afternoon. I remembered nothing of the approach roads and, I must say, that my mind had reorganized the campsite a little. All that mattered not a jot. We arrived in good weather and had many delightful pitches from which to choose. It’s one of those, “pitch up and wait for la guardienne to turn up later”, jobs.
Here’s what I mean by delightful. The pitches are neatly hedged, so you have some privacy even if occupancy is high (which it rarely is, apparently). The majority of the pitches are right on the bank of the most idyllic little river Aumance. With 50+ pitches available, there were maybe half a dozen other units occupied (plus a handful of unoccupied seasonals) when we arrived. I was in the middle of rural central France with a peaceful, idyllic outlook – what’s not to like?
All this, for two people with electricity will set you back the princely sum of €12.94 a night, inclusive of taxe de séjour. Why would you park in a car park if something like this is available?
Francine and I wandered into the village and found a characterful bar. The characterful bar became even more appealing when I spotted that it sold Goudale beer, to which I had become very attached on this trip. Francine had a couple of white wines. [I couldn’t avoid of spot of sun flare but what the hell.]
A group of a dozen or so walkers wandered through, some of which sat for 30 seconds, then wandered on without buying a beer. I was bemused. Sanity returned, as did they, half an hour or so later when, this time, they did sit down to order drinks, animated conversation included. All was well.
We returned to Frodo for yet another paella. If you’re feeling good, make a paella. Madame hadn’t turned up but a sign at reception said to just leave the money in the letter box. I love it.
I loved it so much that, after dinner staring at my idyllic outlook, I got all emotional, decided that this was as perfect as it gets and was ready to take the happy pill.
I seem to remember thinking that about Jalón in Spain, too. What I don’t remember thinking it about is England.
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