We needed to get from Bourges to Arçais in the Marais Poitevin by Thursday. It could be done in one longish hop but we decided to break the journey into two easy, shorter legs. Stage one, we decided, would be to visit the camping municipal again at Rosnay in La Brenne.
This was a short hop of just 115kms. Soon after leaving the Bourges campsite we happened across a Carrefour supermarket and called in to top up supplies and the fuel tank. I would have plenty now to get to Arçais without worrying.
We passed Châteauroux and its airport, dropped onto the free autoroute for a couple of junctions and then took the occasionally jiggly cross-country route to Rosnay.
Given the so-called spring weather that both we and the French have been “enjoying”, I was surprised to see the campsite so busy. I was not surprised to see the ruts in the mud on various of the pitches nor the gravel that had been placed where there had clearly been large mud wallows. All the sunnier pitches seemed to be taken but we found what was currently a secluded shadier pitch complete with its own pile of gravel over the entrance. I had feared that the French campsites might be having such difficulties.
Shortly after we pitched up a tractor turned up with its front bucket full of another load of gravel. After dumping that strategically it went to a motor home which we driven past, just, because it looked as if it were half in and half out of a pitch. Now we saw why, it had become stuck whilst trying to reverse out and leave. The tractor driver attached a rope to the van’s tow bar and pulled it out.
I have a feeling that the camping contraption parked nearby wasn’t about to get stuck in anything.
Today was forecast to remain dry. Francine had so far been unable to do any laundry ‘cos we hadn’t had any drying weather. She was looking forward to getting some clean clothes now, fingers crossed.
Meanwhile, I wandered around the onsite lake checking on the dragonflies and damselflies – they would also have been fed up with the weather, no doubt.
Vaguely more entertaining in a slightly unsettling way was a Brit motor home which was being driven around the campsite as if to take no prisoners. As it turned a 90° corner, the passenger door flew open, clonked one of the many trees and the van continued undeterred. As it came past us, we saw a moulding panel from the door being dragged along the ground, still attached by what I think were electrical wires (probably a repeater light in the panel). Just beyond us around another corner, Mr. Rally-Driver disembarked and attempted to effect a repair.
I went to offer tape but he had some. He reckoned Mrs. Rally-Driver had opened the passenger door as he went around the corner. Why? Maybe she was attempting to bail out ‘cos he was driving too fast. “What are the attractions round here?”, he asked, adding that his son lives here. “Well, he’ll be able to tell you, I imagine.” He’s trying to glue a dislodged panel back onto the door of his motor home and making small talk. Bizarre. Distraction technique, I shouldn’t wonder.
To add insult to injury, he next proceeded to squeeze his injured motor home in between two other units where there wasn’t an extra pitch. Utterly unbelievable. This was the kind of a***hole that makes you ashamed to carry a UK number plate. [I already am anyway but that’s an entirely different issue.]
The sun continued to shine and we did, at least, manage to sit outside with a beer or two and some vino.
Halle-bloody-lujah! This is our 11th day sur le continent and it’s the first one that hasn’t had any rain.
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