My AdBlue investigations continue and, as they say in all the best Spoonerisms, the thot plickens.

After Francine thought she saw AdBlue from a pump in a Leclerc service station at 69¢ per litre, I thought I’d look in the supermarkets’ motoring sections for flagons of AdBlue, thinking I might take some home with me. I found some on the shelves of the Carrefour in Bram, close to Fanjeaux. The trouble was, it was €20 for 10 litres, about the same price as flagons back at home. I began to doubt the price at the Leclerc filling station; maybe a “1.” had dropped of before the “69” or we’d just misread it?

Today we unpitched Frodo and drove down avec les bicyclettes to Mirepoix to investigate a piste cyclables. The piste cyclables was certainly flat but was monotonous – dead straight, gravelly and with not much to look at but the trees beside the track; similar to Bassin d’Arcachon. There was a brisk headwind outbound which made it feel like riding uphill. What wimps!

Back in Mirepoix, Frodo was parked near a Total Energies fuel station and, lo, an AdBlue pump. Well, red rag to a bull, I had to go and investigate. Sure enough, the advertised price was €0.699 per litre. Clearly the Leclerc sign had not been misread, was not an aberration and no “1.” had been dropped.

Having emptied my 10ltr flagon into Frodo’s AdBlue tank (capacity 20ltr) I had no idea how much space remained but I wanted to get some for the education. I’d also still got my 10ltr flagon which I thought I might refill at this irresistible price. We found somewhere to turn around and headed for the station forecourt.

As one might expect, the pump was similar to a regular fuel pump – stick in a credit card, decrochet le nozzle – le nozzle was clearly narrower than a fuel nozzle – and start filling.

Or not. Le nozzle trigger kept cutting off. I knew the tank wasn’t full so that wasn’t the problem. I leant on le nozzle against the tank spout with some force, thinking that there might be some plunger device detecting insertion into the spout. Being a little more judicious with my trigger finger I eventually manged to get something of a flow going. Francine called out delivery progress (my back was to the pump and very preoccupied) as I began developing a blister on my nozzle hand from the pressure. Youch! This ain’t easy. I felt like I must be missing something.

Eventually I’d managed to push a little over 8ltr of AdBlue into Frodo. I moved to the flagon. Nothing, nada, nichts, rien. After a miniscule dribble the AdBlue nozzle steadfastly cut off, no matter what I did. Ya can’t press against a plastic flagon with such force. I surrendered but at least Frodo now had a full AdBlue tank, good for another 5400kms before the bleating started again. I had narrowly avoided a blister.

A little reading suggests that there may be a magnetic device on AdBlue nozzles which needs to marry up with a magnet in the neck of the vehicle’s AdBlue filler tank. Being right beside the diesel tank filler, this is apparently to stop les idiots stuffing AdBlue into their diesel.

It also stops people buying reasonably priced AdBlue from a pump and refilling their expensively priced single-use plastic flagons.

It can’t be that difficult to use. I still feel I’m missing a trick. I’ve got another 5400kms to find out.

Whereas the French language, with Velo Tout Terrain, has a much more appropriate phrase for Mountain Bike, it simply doesn’t get it with moths, or “mirths”, as inspector Jacques Clousteau would have it. There are many day flying moths so papillon de nuit seems most inappropriate.

I have long found the sanitary blocks on French campsites a good source of insect material, particularly moths – the lights attract them and most of these probably really are papillons de nuit. So far I have managed to escape arrest for hanging around the toilets toting a camera armed with a 300mm lens, though I have received some quizzical looks.

At Fanjeaux, I’ve had quite a haul of customers in and around les sanitaires. Since I don’t have a field guide for moths of the area (and I’m rubbish at moth identification even with one), I’m not certain what most of these are so take names with a large pinch of salt. I pass some through an app, Obsidentify, which is very decent chez nous  but it really doesn’t stretch to French species, unless they happen to also exist in the UK.

One of the more frequent visitors, however, I do know – or at least, I think I do. This is a huge moth about the size and shape of a Vulcan bomber. I believe this is a French Red Underwing (Catocala elocata). There is a (regular) Red Underwing (Catocala nupta)  which is very similar, though. The first image might leave one bemused but the second, against a window and with its wings slightly spread, gives the game away.

Then we have a little delight which has apparently turned up in the UK as a rare migrant, originally in Lydd, hence it’s English common name of Lydd Beauty (Peribatodes ilicaria). This is the same naming convention as used for a butterfly we call the Camberwell Beauty (Nymphaplis antiopa).

This next one is not new to me and certainly does occur in the UK; it’s the Common Carpet (Epirrhoe alternata).

Lightening things up from the large amounts of dark grey is what I believe is the Small Dusty Wave (Idaea seriata).

Back to the delta wing formation, I found a couple more which I think are the Straw Belle (Aspitates gilvaria) on the left, which occurs at home, and one with apparently no common name, Perigune narbonea, on the right, which does not occur at home.

Posing particularly badly is what I believe is one of the curiously named Armyworm Moth (Mythimna unipuncta), due to the invasive nature of their larval stage.

Finally, rounding things off is one character that I have absolutely no clue about, so I’ll have to try to investigate once back at home.

At least I still haven’t been arrested.

Somewhat inevitably, with the weather threatening to collapse for a while and being in the area, we have ended up back at our old haunt of Fanjeaux. It would be rude, after all, for us to be in striking distance and not to call in to say hello to Luc and Nadine, et al.

We got here from Marciac after a few trials and tribulations deciding to go on a cross-country route rather than sticking to the faster autoroutes. The satnav’s route was thrown a curve ball when the town market barred the road that the satnav wanted to take. So, we ended up following her diversion and ended up in the confusion called Toulouse, which we’d been wanting to avoid.

All was not over, though. Having got to the Toulouse rocade [bypass], Sally Satnav studiously avoided dumping us on the A61 out of Toulouse. Curious. A look at options showed us avoiding single use toll roads. We had had a glitch approaching Amboise and wondered if that was a software update and thought it may have reset an option or two? We’ll never know. We reset the option, found our way to the A61 and arrived.

Hawk-eyes Francine spotted that Frodo had attracted a visitor, and a very curious looking visitor at that. This was a job for my macro lens, being a little less than a centimetre long. Fortunately it remained stationary for me while I set my camera options. This glorious little delight, hitherto completely unknown to me, is a so-called Buffalo Treehopper (Stictocephala bisonia). This is an in-camera focus-stacked image. The “cephala” part of the genus means head but I’m not sure about the “Sticto” bit. There is a fearsome looking thorn on the end of what would seem to be part of the thorax, the abdomen being beneath it behind the wings. However the name is derived, it’s absolutely gorgeous and I’ve never seen the like before.

Moving away from Frodo and into the sanitaire or, at least, the washing up area of the sanitaire, we found a curious little delight. This was even smaller than our buffalo friend, being no more than 5mm across. Once again this is an in-camera focus-stacked image of 15 slices, hand held but with the aid of a monopod. The detail revealed is beautiful. I did try flash at first but the bright light on the white tiles obscured the finer detail and especially the delicate white spots which give it it’s name: Clogmia albipunctata.. I’m going to stick to the scientific binomial because the common English name of Drain Fly really doesn’t do it justice, though it is apparently technically accurate. It’s actually a kind of midge and another new one to me. I love this little creature to bits.

Our June trip to France had begun with ideas of touring the west coast. The weather, however, had other ideas and forecasts of storms rather put us off that idea. Looking for an escape route we considered visiting Marciac but the forecast there threatened grêle [hail] and we’ve seen what a mess that can make of a caravan and, therefore, presumably a motor van. So, we gave that a miss, too.

Here we were actually on the west coast and looking for a way to escape the madness of Bordeaux roads during the Rugby world cup. South from the Bassin d’Arcachon should do the trick, towards Marciac. Let’s give it another go.

Marciac is well known for a jazz festival, I think in August. I like a spot of jazz but I don’t think I’d cope well with the mass of humanity associated with it. Now, though, things should be quieter. We drove down with our replenished AdBlue tank and started deciding where to stay.

Frodo was very nearly brave again. There is an aire de camping car literally just on the outskirts of Marciac town centre. It’s a free one so we plugged the coordinates in to the satnav and found it. It’s a tarmac car park, though admittedly a tarmac car park with electric hook-up points and a Flot Bleu point to buy tokens with which to kick them into life. We arrived early in the afternoon. There seemed to be a motor home being used permanently and, nearby, an apparently abandoned car carefully spreading itself over two spaces. At that point we looked like the only tourer. This did not fill us with confidence. Besides, whilst I could stroll into town from here was I really going to want to cook my dinner and eat it in a car park?

No. For the sake of €19 we could park in the nearby bona fide campsite on grass, albeit covered in autumnal fallen leaves, get out our table, chairs and BBQ (this is not permitted in some aires) and cook and eat in much more pleasant surroundings. Such stopping points serve a purpose but I remain a little bemused about folks spending £70K on a motorhome, only to scrimp on where to park it.

The following morning when we actually went back to see the town there were three touring units in the aire making it look a lot less seedy. One unit had its table and chairs on the tarmac outside the van but I can’t say that that looked any more appealing. We used the aire to park and go and see the town centre and exchanged a greeting. For the most part the motor vanners appear to be a friendly bunch, often waving at each other as they pass on the road. It reminded me of the old days of VW Beetle divers giving each other a “V” salute as they passed.

Marciac is a bit like Mirepoix in that it has a central main square surrounded by ancient arched cloisters on four sides. You can’t move far without seeing some reference to the renowned jazz festival. Having wandered around the square we sat in the local gossip shop for a coffee.

We’ve seen Marciac, albeit without the jazz.

Our last two tow cars for my beloved Guillaumes have been diesels. They have dragged our Guilaumes around France for 16 years or so. However, even our most recent, which we’ve had since 2016, predates a modern diesel development. Somebody once asked if I’d been using “AdBlue” and I looked at them blankly. “Add what”?” I had no idea what they were talking about but began worrying that I was missing something.

I wasn’t missing anything; neither of our diesels had anything to do with any add anything.

Enter Frodo.

Frodo is a modern diesel and comes complete with not only a diesel tank but also an AdBlue tank. When we collected him we were told that we’d get a warning message that the AdBlue was running low and that we should refill it. Right. Alarmingly, we were also told that, if we didn’t refill it soon enough, the engine simply wouldn’t start and we’d be stranded. Great! “How far will we go before it needs refilling?”, I asked. Much scratching of heads. “It depends on your right foot”. Wonderful!

As a complete novice to this modern bollocks and being fearful of being stranded somewhere with an engine that refused to start, one of the first things I did was go onto a well known sales site beginning with A, ending in N and featuring a Z, to order some AdBlue. Frodo’s onboard AdBlue tank is 20ltr so I bought 2x10ltr containers. I stashed one in Frodo’s lockers so it’d be there when I needed it, whenever that might be.

Imagine my surprise when I discovered that AdBlue isn’t even blue, it’s a completely colourless liquid. What is it? I discovered that it’s a 32.5% urea solution in demineralized water, effectively sanitized urine. It has nothing to do with the engine but gets sprayed into the exhaust gases downstream of the engine supposedly cleaning the emissions, making them more green. Piss into your exhaust and clean it up. Why then, for Pete’s sake, is it not called AdGreen? Why AdBlue? What’s blue about it? Nothing.

Some way through our current trip through France, Frodo had completed about 5400kms when up on the dashboard flashed a helpful message, “AdBlue running low, fill up within 2400kms”.

I dived onto the InterWeb. Apparently, 2400kms is the standard warning distance for AdBlue depletion. Weird distance? Well, maybe not, it’s equivalent to 1500mls. AdBlue, though, is German. Go figure.

So, we’ve done 5400kms and could do another 2400kms before being stranded. That means we’re using 20ltr of AdBlue in 7800kms – 4875mls. Say 5000mls for ease, though you’d be stranded by then. So, regardless of the cost of my diesel, I’m adding 20ltr of AdBlue to the running costs. On good ol’ A-z-n 20ltr of AdBlue is £35.

At our next stop I bit the bullet, opened the 10ltr AdBlue container and managed to decant it into the tank. The flagon came with a handy-dandy spout but it took a lot of holding and juggling to get the air to escape and the AdBlue to flow in. It had the desired effect and stopped my dashboard warning bleat.

Enter Rip-Off Britain.

Moving on from Arès to Marciac (famed for a jazz festival), we called in to a very modern Leclerc supermarket and stopped at its fuel station to top up. Some of the pumps also dispensed AdBlue. Very few stations do, at least for cars; many do for HGVs but the nozzle isn’t compatible with cars. Brilliant! The AdBlue was 69¢ a litre.

So, 10 litres of AdBlue in France, €6.90 (roughly £6). 10 litres of AdBlue in Rip-Off Britain, £17.50 – more or less three times the price.

Why is this? It’s pissin’ awful.

We’re at the Bassin d’Arcachon on France’s west coast largely for seafood but Francine wants to see the sea. Francine always wants to see the sea, in this case the Atlantic Ocean.

This area is lousy with bicycle routes, though not always very well linked up or, indeed, signed. from our campsite we should be able to follow cycle routes through the forest to the Atlantic coast and back. We set off.

This area is pan flat; there really isn’t any need for electric assistance on a bicycle though many do, of course, have electric bicycles. We felt quite self-righteous riding proper bikes. Being pan flat there are little or no hills to contend with but neither is there any respite to the need to pedal. We knew we’d done the 12kms or so to the coast.

Neither is there any variation. We hit the last cycle track with 7kms to go and dived into woodland which remained unvaryingly the same until we got to the coast or, at least, to a boardwalk which led to the coast. We locked our bikes and took to Shank’s Pony.

The coast here is pretty much dune-covered and it’s a fragile habitat under protection. [Very good]. We crested a line of dunes to reveal miles of beach, miles of surf, miles of surfers and miles of sunbathers. We’d be bored witless in 10 minutes. What do these people find to do all day?

There was nothing else; there was no town or habitation that we could see. There was a bar but, at 11:30, it was shut. We didn’t fancy hanging around on the off chance that it might open at midday. We mounted our electrically unassisted steeds and set off on the return pedal.

Let’s face it, this is not our environment. The seafood we’d had was excellent but you need only a day for that  and there are seafood areas that are much more to our taste. This is for those folks who begin describing a resort with, “it’s got a lovely beach”. We don’t care, we don’t do beaches.

We won’t be back, though the campsite we eventually found on our fifth attempt was very pleasant. I suspect, though, that in one or two years time it will be entirely given over to cabins and have no touring pitches left.

Time to get the bikes off the back of Frodo. Since we are here largely for some oysters or preferably a plateau de fruits de mer, it was time to go searching for that, too. There is an area of seafood cabins in the oyster harbour of Arès so Francine started trying to understand the cycle route map we’d been given. It proved tricky.

Our journey began easily enough ‘cos a piste cyclable was right outside the entrance to our campsite. Then we began to struggle. There was supposedly a canal with a bike track beside it. We found the canal – more of a mud-banked river – but no cycle route was obvious.

We overshot, then doubled back, when a man on a VTT [Velo Tout Terrain –  a much better phrase than Mountain Bike] suddenly appeared from between some trees beside the “canal”. What we found was more of a sandy footpath than a cycle track but gamely followed it anyway, frequently dismounting intentionally before we were forced to dismount unintentionally by deep, soft sand.

We got to a wildlife lake which proved dull, save for a spectacular Kingfisher flying about, then followed a better cycle track all the way to the front at Arès. We had to work our way along the front before finally arriving at the cabins selling seafood.

We’d pretty much selected a cabin to try when a bus-load of wrinkly gastronauts pitched up and swarmed inside. We changed our choice to the much less swamped Chez Pépé.

We were offered a pleasant table within earshot of some very unpleasant “music”, which seemed to consist of strange electronic sounds but with a complete absence of musical notes. Bizarre. What was this, techno, garage? I couldn’t guess. It seemed to be a choice designed to give diners indigestion. Happily ones ears block some of it out after a while.

We let our ears block and ordered a plateau with oysters, prawns, whelks, langoustine, winkles and brown shrimps. I also ordered a bottle of Entre Deux Mers which the waitress warned us was, “très, très, sec”. Maybe they get lots of Brits drinking sweeter wines? “Très sec est parfait”, I replied.

And so it was; the seafood was terrific and the wine was delicious. They even eventually changed to some music including some musical notes so the ears could unblock.

Well sated, we plodded our way back to Frodo along rather more obvious cycle tracks, calling in to the local Carrefour Contact to top up our supplies en route.

We got on the road after our night at the Camping-Car Park. Sure enough, in a village a little way down the road was a pleasant looking free aire. The village appeared to have no commerce so I don’t really know why the aire was there. Often, they are an attempt to bring a few tourist euros in to the local community but I’m not sure where you’d’ve spent them here.

Eventually we approached the insanity that is the roads around Bordeaux and got on the rocade [bypass] going round the north side heading west. We were heading for the northern shores of the Basin d’Arcachon at a place called Arès.

We duly arrived in Arès and headed for the campsite that Francine had selected. After a slightly tortuous approach it proved to be full. “Bother”, said Pooh, crossly.

We headed for our backup destination which happened to be a larger site that we had stayed at with friends about 35 years ago. Full. “Bother”, repeated Pooh, crossly again.

We had driven past another site a short distance down the road so we headed for that. Permanently closed. Yikes! What Pooh said next is not repeatable and is certainly very un-Pooh-like.

It was beginning to look as though we’d have to stay in the manger. All we needed was Francine riding a donkey with towels wrapped around our heads and people would start worshipping us in a few years time.

I had trouble turning around in front of the narrow approach to the closed site’s locked barrier but eventually managed it. There was another site nearby so we pulled in to that. Closed for lunch. “Jesus!” [Blimey, they’d started worshipping us sooner than I’d expected.]

We began heading back towards a big supermarket, wondering what to do, but drove past a fifth campsite unknown to us. “Do you wanna try that?”, I asked Francine. “Why not?”.

There was a handy-dandy gate into a field which offered the possibility of a 3-point turn. I 3-point turned and drove into the unknown campsite. Surprise of surprises, there were two mangers available. This site is clearly going over to wooden cabins for the most part but still had abut 16 touring pitches, two of which were free. One was distinctly unappealing but the other, nestled into the trees with just one other unit beside us, looked good – tight but good. We went for it and after a few attempts at pitching that didn’t work, we eventually managed to find a way to make Frodo fit, just missing trees on either side of him (with one mirror folded in).

We have been camping in France for 40+ years and have never had trouble getting onto a campsite in low season. Just once in high season,many, many years ago, proved a difficulty but they allowed us to stay outside the gates on hard standing and use the facilities, because there were no other options nearby. This was a new experience.

We’re in manger #62. We’ll take a few Magi bearing gifts, if you can rustle them up, but tell them not to bother about the frankincense

Well, brave may be a bit of an overstatement; adventurous may be nearer the mark.

Prior to leaving on this trip, Francine discovered another chain of places for Camping Cars [the French term literally meaning Camping Bus] to stay overnight: Camping-Car Park. It cost a mere €5 to join so she went for it. Why not, another string to the options bow? ‘T was a bit close to the day of our departure when she applied online but impressively the membership card arrived from France in a matter of days. (They claim within 72 hours but if you’re really worried, you can arrange to pick your card up at one of the sites rather than having it sent.)

The system is entirely automated. Entrance to and exit from the aire (it’s effectively a chain of aires de Camping Car) is barrier controlled. You load money on your card and your contactless card opens the barrier to enter, then again to leave. Money, typically €12-13 a night, is deducted from your card. There is an electricity hook-up and a service point for waste, water and chemical disposal. You can use them just as a 5-hour car park or service stopover for just €5, if you want.

We had decided to hang a right and head for the Basin d’Arcachon to the west of Bordeaux in a bit of a quest for oysters. Francine found a CCP about half way there which would allow us to break the journey and try this new-to-us system out. This site had 16 spots and there’s a handy dandy app that shows you everything you need to know including how many spots are currently unspoken for. You can reserve a spot of the day, if necessary, for free or can pay ~€27 a year for the privilege of booking in advance. Our site was showing 11 or more spots free so we just went for it.

On arrival, we found out how to operate the system; drive up to the barrier over the vehicle sensor, offer up the contactless membership card and, if you have money on your card, the barrier opens. If you don’t have money on your card you can load more via the app or at the entrance (if you don’t have roaming courtesy of bloody Brexit and aren’t connected). You can even become a member at the barrier and get your card immediately.

We were in. Several of the spots had those clever concrete latticework blocks laid out that allow grass to grow through, the remainder were simple gravel. Clearly this somewhat utilitarian and is not somewhere that you’d stay for a long period but it is a useful addition and was fun to try. We reversed Frodo in to get the sunshade opening in right direction and got settled.

We were just outside a village, Jurignac now rebadged as Val-des-Vignes [the marketers have been at it] and went to investigate. There was a small, essential alimentation food store but in all honesty there was very little there and it very small. A farmer was driving repeatedly up and down the road with a humongous tractor and trailer harvesting something. He was about the only sign of life that we saw.

It doesn’t show but Frodo was facing one of the marketers vineyards. On top of the rise within the vineyard was a series of masts upon which a group of seven or so White Storks had chosen to roost. They hadn’t nested there since there was no nest in evidence so my suspicion is that this was just a rest stopover for them on their migration back south. Just imagine sleeping balanced on spikes like those. Amazing.

Just four of the available 16 spots had been taken overnight.

In the morning we used the service point which had obviously been purposely designed. The taps, push-button controlled, were threaded to take a standard hose pipe adapter – France frequently has awful presmatic taps which no hose fits and which keep cutting off, which is the point of them, of course – and the vidoir [chemical emptying point] was very sanitized for those of a gentile disposition having a wide spout down which to pour the unmentionables without actually seeing anything. I’d never seen the like before. Excellent.

There are free aires, it’s true, but if you want guaranteed facilities with a bookable spot, these seem a reasonable approach. They’re not for longer term camping, though.

The Storks were the most interesting life that we saw.

Right, I had my nature break now it was time for some culture. We woke ourselves up with some coffee and took a leisurely stroll up into the village to the entrance to the chateau of Azay-le-Rideau. The pathway was marked with cute little metal “AR” buttons.

We coughed up our tourist euros and surrendered my monopod – tripods/monopods not permitted in the chateau. Walking sticks or trekking poles fine, but not rubber-footed monopods, apparently.

Francine went into the chateau for a gaup while I remained outside studying line-ups of the chateau itself. This is the one I chose, using the cameras built-in keystone correction which, incidentally, shows up in Lightroom perfectly well but not when I export it – the export has the converging verticals back. Weird. Pretty for a pile of old stones but weird. [This is a screen grab of the corrected perspective shot.]

We wandered back into the town and found an appealing small bar selling Grimbergen Blanche beer, and very nice it was, too. At €4.60 a glass it should have been, too. I did enjoy the old plaque on the wall over the outside patio area, though: loosely translated, “here, on 23rd February, 1854, absolutely nothing happened.”

We spent another enjoyable afternoon in our lazy-le-Rideau campsite. I wandered along the riverbank again but nothing new offered itself to the camera, unsurprisingly.

Dinner this evening was Paupiette de Lapin avec sauce Champignon. I don’t think there’s an English translation of a paupiette but they are like little pillows of meat, in this case rabbit, stuffed. They’re very tasty and go well with a mustardy mushroom sauce. It is also Coco de Paimpol season and we couldn’t resist those as a veggie accompaniment.

Delicious.