There’s a small display of very good wildlife photographs in one of the sheds on the campsite. It seems they have the Eurasian Scops Owl (Otus scops) in the vicinity. It was calling last night accompanied by a Tawny Owl (Strix aluco) with which we’re much more familiar.

Considering that the Dutch are something of a keen camping nation, you might think they’d be better at it. Apparently not, though. Several years ago we watched a Dutch guy arrive at our Maussane-les-Alpilles campsite. He had two bikes mounted on carriers on the rear of the caravan, something that our Caravan Club strongly advises against. He unhitched the van; so far so good. Then he drove the van backwards on its move but stopped a little too sharply. Down went the back of the caravan, assisted by the weight of the bikes, and up in the air went the draw bar. Oops! The German police are prone to checking the nose weight of outfits and fining you if the weight isn’t within spec. This Dutch outfit clearly had hardly any positive nose weight at all.

We’ve been watching out Dutch neighbours opposite on this campsite with growing interest; they’ve been packing up for three days. They have a caravan, a full awning on the door side of the caravan, a lesser awning on the opposite side of the caravan AND a free standing Coleman event shelter covering four large chairs. There’s only two people but you can’t have too many chairs. (I think two are loungers.) Under the smaller awning are two bikes and I don’t know where they’re going, certainly not on the roof of the car which has no roof carriers.

What floored me today was watching them spread out a tarpaulin. Mr Dutch appeared from the bike-shelter struggling to carry a stand-alone fridge. Then out came a standalone aircon unit of similar size which looked similarly heavy. These were joined by another chest device which was even heavier ‘cos it took both of them to carry it. The lot were wrapped in the tarp, I think just for overnight. Had they been going in the car (if there would’ve been room) I’d have put them in now. I’m betting these were destined to travel in the caravan.

As well as nose weight specifications, caravans have a maximum axle weight; a maximum payload. Guillaume’s is 123kg, though it is possible to buy suspension upgrades to carry more weight. I’m willing to bet that our Dutch neighbour was going to go way over his max. payload. The car, btw, is an Opel Mokka with a weight of ~1390kg, so I think he’s going to be towing an overweight unit anyway, given our guidelines (and they are only guidelines). And where were the bikes going? I’d love to have stayed longer to find out but we need to start heading for the ferry tomorrow so it’ll all happen after we’ve gone.

We did pop off to increase our own payload by 36 bottles of wine. We are big fans of the Beauvignac cave in Pomérols (not to be confused with the similarly named Pomerol and its grand vin ). We love the white wines from the viognier grape and in our view there are no better examples than that sold by the Beauvignac cave. There’s another white wine from this region that we love and that’s Picpoul de Pinet which we’ve previously bought from the Ormarine cave. It is a perfect accompaniment to seafood, like moules marinère.

We set off for Beauvignac where it took us a little while to find the viognier but happily, find it we did. We loaded 4 x 6-bottle cartons on our trolley and made for the tasting desk. I thought it prudent to make sure it was still as good as ever and indeed it was. Then the nice lady wondered if we’d like to try their Picpoul de Pinet. We hadn’t realized they produced it but yes, why not? It was delicious; Francine preferred it to our normal Ormarine offerings. We loaded up another 2 cartons, this time of Picpoul and bought the lot in one stop.

I hasten to say that the wine will be travelling on the back seat of our car and NOT sliding about in the caravan.

With two long driving days ahead to get to Ouistreham and our ferry, we took down Guillaume’s sun canopy ready for an early departure. He always looks a sadly naked when you remove it.

Francine’s cep omelette brightened us up, though.

Yes, yet another market, this time a Sunday market.

We had more rain overnight so I was glad I found firmer ground to park the car on at the side of our pitch. Somehow, between spells of rain on the roof,we heard an owl calling.

We found a parking spot in Meze which gave us a bit of a leg stretch to get to market itself. If you are ever unsure where a market might be in a town, just follow the earlier shoppers carrying their purchases back. You’ll soo find it.

We did find it and it was bustling. There was what we call a spinning chicken vendor and a spot of rotisseried chicken would make a splendid lunch. He just sold his last poulet jaune at €11 so we went for a poulet fermiere at €16.50 which, frankly, is what we usually buy. Why we were trying to be cheapskates I’m not sure.

We happened across another stall that was selling Cèpes and Girolles mushrooms for 10 each bowl. Both of these fungi are highly prized so, since we were in our last week with money to spare, we lashed out on a bowl of Cèpes for one of Francine’s splendid omelettes.

Other than some bread, that was about it. We returned for some spinning chicken.

We did try a wander to walk off lunch but, alas, the track was way too muddy after our second spell of overnight rain so we gave up and spent a lazy afternoon.

The campsite has a resident cat. It’s a very handsome cat (though all cats are wildlife murderers) but it keeps yowling. Francine calls it shouting. It is never quiet for more than a couple of minutes and the sound carries over most of the campsite. Here it is mid-yowl. It doesn’t appear to want fuss; quite the opposite so Francine has formed the opinion that it simply doesn’t like people.

The cat’s in the wrong habitat, if that’s the case.

The threatened rain turned up and it turned up in spades. Overnight we had a doozy of a thunderstorm as well as a mozzie buzzing around inside the caravan. Naturally the hammering rain woke us up and then, having heard a mozzie, it’s difficult not to keep listening for it. We did eventually get back to sleep.

We had originally planned to go to the Carrières de Lumières at Les Baux de Provence. The Carrières de Lumières is a lightshow of projected images inside an former bauxite mine using the more or less white, flat surfaces of the old underground mine caverns as the projection screens. Images are projected onto the floor and ceiling as well as the vertical walls. It is quite spectacular and is probably Francine’s favourite tourist site in France. It’s almost a 2-hour drive away from where we are camped.

However, we suffered a set back whilst planning our excursion. The French, bless ‘em, are gradually introducing clean air zones in parts of France, beginning with the more metropolitan areas. To enter them at certain times, vehicles must display a Crit’Air vignette, a windscreen sticker, testifying just how dirty or otherwise your car exhaust fumes are. You can buy them from a French government website for the princely sum of about €4 but delivery was said to take about 6 weeks. Paris and Grenoble were, I think first on the list and now Toulouse has followed suit, along with Rouen, none of which were on our target list. So, we ain’t got one.

It now seems that Montpellier has joined in since July 2022, though just how is uncertain – we read something about an “education period” [loose translation for French I’ve forgotten]. There isn’t a practical route from us to Les Baux de Provence without going through Montpellier. One of the routes is on the autoroute but still crosses the Montpellier area.

So, we thought better of it – leave it to next time WITH a vignette – and decided to visit Villeneuvette instead, which Francine had read about. VIlleneuvette is an old village that was given over to the manufacture of military uniforms and the houses were mostly those of the workers.

Meanwhile, outside on the campsite, lots of campervans were having fun and games. We and several of them are at the bottom of the campsite’s gentle slope. The torrential rain had flowed down, of course, and had softened the lower ground so much that vehicle tyres had sunk in slightly just as they stood, without moving. When they tried to move, with ill-advised amounts of right boot in particular, they dug themselves further in as wheels spun and refused to gain traction. Some of these beasts weigh 3500kgs but even a modest VW campervan was having difficulties.

Several of us got together to try and help one of the larger units. I went and found some wood to try under the wheels. Someone else was trying cardboard but it simply got shot out of the back with no benefit whatsoever. Some keen individuals tried pushing as the right boot went down – good luck with that technique on 3500kgs.

Happily there was a more sensible Swiss motorhome which a) had parked up the slope so it could at least drive downhill, and b) carried a pair of sand mats to stick under the driving wheels. Happily, by repeating their use, the hulk managed to clamber out of its self-excavated ruts and struggle to the gravel track. I couldn’t believe that its driver, after first use of the mats, actually started reversing back into the hole having made a little progress. “NO!”, I screamed. Numpty!

Our own car had sunk very slightly but drove out on tick-over quite nicely without much drama. It was still worth parking somewhere a bit different, though. The tyres were smothered in mud but there was a handy-dandy hose with which to rinse them off.

Villeneuvette wasn’t really worth it. We wandered around it being unscintillated for 30 minutes but returned in short order to Mèze, again, this time to share a dozen oysters and a dozen pallourdes [a type of clam], and very good they were, too.

Any sleep that was had last night was disturbed sleep. Perhaps because there is some heavy rain in the forecast, the farmer whose vineyard is immediately adjacent to our campsite decided to harvest his grapes all night, quite literally. I snagged this shot of the grape harvesting machine this morning as it continued its steady trundle up and down the lines of vines. Throughout the night the sound would recede as the tractor moved away, then build up again as it returned to perform a clattering turn and attack the next row. Francine likened it to the Chinese water torture, anticipating the next disturbance.

Added to this, our legs knew they had embarked upon a cycle ride yesterday. Nonetheless, we decided to investigate the opposite direction along the VTT route and cycle to Mèze.

We mounted our trusty metal steeds and began along the track through the fields once again. This time the supposed Camargue steeds weren’t in the field beside the track; they clearly have a decent area in which to wander.

Hanging a left this time, the VTT route to Mèze was considerably less enjoyable than the route to Marseillan. It started well enough on a dirt track, although there was a hill that had us off and walking, but then it joined a minor road which proved to be the majority of the route into town. We did eventually arrive at the delightful Mèze harbour, another one that screams Mediterranean at you.

The brightly coloured red and blue boats in the foreground are interesting in a peculiarly French kind of way, though, as seen here, there is a vital part missing. These are the boats of the Lance Mézoise. Imagine, if you can, an Arthurian knight carrying a lance on horseback at a jousting tournament. Pick up the knight, remove his armour and stick him not on horseback but on a platform at the end of a laddered extension mounted on the stern of these boats. Now organize a marine jousting tournament between boats. It is a bizarre sight, though regrettably we have never been present when an actual event is taking place. There are guys strung along the laddered extension presumably for stability or to act as a counter balance. Marseillan also indulges in this sport (Lance Marseillanaise) as does Sète on the opposite side of the étang (Lance Sétoise).

[Aside: I’m intrigued why the accent apparently changes from Mèze to Mézoise as it does with Sète and Sétoise.]

We wandered around the attractive harbour before treating ourselves to helpings of moules et frîtes for lunch at a harbourside restaurant before tackling the long and winding road back to the more pleasant countryside part of the VTT back to the campsite. Since neither of us was driving, we could both share the workload on despatching a bottle of Picpoul de Pinet, which is a must with mussels. We really should have had a bottle each.

That made the road home route a little more acceptable.

We are at Camping Villemarin a short distance from the shore of the Bassin de Thau [pronounced “Tow”] and surrounded by vineyards. The Bassin, or Étang de Thau is an oyster farming lagoon, about 15km long, just west of Montpellier on the Mediterranean shore of France. It is mostly separated from the sea by a large sand bar but is open to it through a channel. In addition to the main cash crop of oysters, mussels are also raised and fish are caught. Marseillan is at the western end of the étang with Mèze more or less in the centre. Camping Villemarin is pretty much equidistant between Marseillan and Mèze.

In our first day here the campsite has provided a reasonably rich source of wildlife. Guillaume’s pitch is littered with Cicada exuviae, the nymphal case left behind after the emergence of the adult. We are hearing Nightingales still singing, though the song has changed from the early summer song. There are the occasional ratcheting croaks of  tree frogs, which we haven’t heard in recent times at Fanjeaux, though they used to be abundant there. It’s great to hear them again. We haven’t seen one yet but in this area they will be the Stripeless Tree Frog (Hyla meridionalis). There were some interesting owl sounds overnight but we’re not sure which owl(s) and Francine has also found some mosquitoes or, rather, the mosquitoes have found her.

The weather has cooled down a bit. We drove into Marseillan to a Carrefour supermarket to buy supplies and froze. I think the supermarket must’ve had the air conditioning turned up for the higher temperatures of late but they have now gone.

After eating some of our supplies for lunch, we mounted our bikes and followed a track through the fields to get to a VTT route that runs between Marseillan and Mèze more or less along the shore of the étang. IMO the French term, Vélo Tout Terrain or VTT, is a much more appropriate phrase for what we call a mountain bike. Along the field track we passed some white horses which may have been those normally found in the Camargue, since they appear to turn white rather than starting out white. We hit the VTT track and hung a right towards Marseillan again.

We had to hang a left off the VTT route to get to the edge of the étang. This was a more industrial area concerned more with working than with tourists. There was an out-of-the-way restaurant, though, billed as an oyster bar restaurant, which was doing good business. Francine snagged a view out into the étang.

Backtracking to the VTT route we continued along into Marseillan. The track led straight to the side of the harbour without having to mess with town, not that the town is too difficult. The harbour just screams Mediterranean.

Marseillan is the home of Noilly Prat, a vermouth of which the locals are quite proud. It comes in ambre and rouge forms as well as the original one we are most familiar with which is dry white. Not everyone shares the locals pride over Noilly Prat. At the Paris House restaurant in the UK many years ago, I asked if they had Noilly Prat, having recently returned from its home. The French maitre d’ sort of sneered down his Gallic nose saying, “ve ‘ave some in ze kitchen, sir, for cooking”. Snotty bastard. 😀

And very good for cooking it is, too.  😉

We’re off to one of our favourite parts of France in the Languedoc around Mèze and Marseillan for our final week. We have stayed in this area several times before but we are heading for a new-to-us campsite. After the arrival of the Hound of the Belgian Baskervilles, Francine found an Aire Naturelle campsite pretty much midway between Mèze and Marseillan. We’d be able to use our bicycles there – it’s far too hilly around Fanjeaux.  Since it’s a small site and ACSI (mark of the devil) listed, I used the site’s website to email and make sure they had a spot for us. That all went swimmingly well.

The new location is about 2 hours away towing Guillaume so we had all morning to pack up. Taking down our sun canopy awning set the Belgian Hound off, or course. I had to wander to the edge of Baskerville’s pitch to unplug the electricity so that set it off again. Then there was emptying the waste water – bark! Some water remained in the aquaroll but being clean water that went into the opposite hedge. [Ah ha, fooled you, you bastard.]

We left at about midday having bad farewell to Luc and Nadine. I must say that I have never been quite so pleased to leave our beloved Fanjeaux campsite.

The journey went well until we approached our new campsite’s turning and overshot. Concentrate, man. We spun around a roundabout and did better on our second attempt. The approach road was jolly bumpy, so very slow, but once we finally arrived the campsite looked very pleasant.

The pitches were hedged for a bit of added privacy. We picked one of the smaller pitches which just seemed to suit us. Pitch size on “regular” French campsites is often 100m². Aire Naturelle sites go up to about 200m². so they can be worth seeking out. We wouldn’t get a neighbour in front of Guillaume ‘cos that was an access lane for les sapeurs pompiers [firemen] to pick up water. Behind Guillaume was a large pitch with a unit on the far side. Guillaume was content.

The track in from the reception was labelled Avenue des Libellules. I wonder if they know I was coming? As the sun was shining, I soon started seeing some dragonfly activity. The hedge behind Guillaume was being used by some Western Willow Spreadwings (Chalcolestes viridis) to hunt from. We call them Willow Emerald Damselflies in this country. Some darter dragonflies were living up to their name and darting about; these turned out to be Southern Darters (Sympetrum meridionale) which we don’t get in the UK. The pair in tandem here were in Guillaume’s sun canopy, hence the pants lighting.

Time for a drink.

In a few days time it will be Nadine’s birthday and we’d been invited to the family party up at the farmhouse. For a brief while it was tempting, then we wondered if we’d be the odd ones out. We were also getting itchy feet having been here for two weeks. The arrival of the irritating Belgian Bull Terrier that doesn’t bark but keeps barking settled any debate. We’re leaving tomorrow for pastures new so we swept up all our Euros and paid Nadine.

Francine was keen to get Nadine a birthday present, though, especially as Luc an Nadine had marked Francine’s birthday and we’d be missing hers. A trip to Bram secured an orchid in a pot of an appropriate colour (there’s a particular green that Nadine favours) and we called in at the farmhouse again to present it.

There was a campsite soiree in the evening organized by our hosts. This was a slightly different format form others we’ve attended, though. Luc brought down a few BIBs of wine and some nibbles but we campers all chipped in with food for a communal nosh. It worked quite well and proved a convivial evening with our usual mix of languages.

I thought there was going to be some German thrown in to the language mix but we were a little surprised when the occupants of a German registered camper van turned out to be Brits. ‘T was a rental job which they’d picked up in Toulouse and they were just getting used to it. They’d picked a good place to et started, this being one of the friendlier campsites you could ever bump in to.

The Belgian dog had begun stress-barking almost continuously because both its owners had deserted it to attend the soiree so Mr Owner went back to babysit it.

The damn Belgian dog was quiet overnight, mercifully. It fixed that in the morning which was otherwise sunny and pleasant.

Gruissan is a resort on the Mediterranean coast about an hour away by car from Fanjeaux. It has a super al fresco seafood restaurant that overlooks a series of salt pans where, if the timing is right, the water turns a fabulous shade of pink. It’s quite spectacular the first time you see it. We have been there a few times and enjoyed a wonderful plateau de fruits de mer, a seafood platter with all manner of crustaceans.

One of the main events we were looking forward to on this trip was a birthday lunch for Francine and, of course, what we really wanted was a reprise; another chance to pig out on seafood. We departed Fanjeaux at about 10:00 to give us an hour to wander around the town before descending upon the restaurant.

Monday turned out to be market day in Gruissan and it was busier than we’ve ever seen it. We restricted ourselves to buying a plait of Lautrec garlic – Lautrec garlic is supposedly very good garlic – before heading round to the restaurant.

Disaster! The car park was heaving and the restaurant was fully booked. We have never experienced that before. Other changes had been made in that the dining area was no longer particularly al fresco but had been glassed in (there had always been a roof). Even the salt pans weren’t particularly pink. I can’t resist reusing this shot from 2018 when the water really was stunningly pink. It’s quite a sight.

We returned to the town where the market was now being cleared up and found a small restaurant facing the square which was advertising a plateau on it’s chalk board. It was good but not quite the slap-up feast we envisioned for Francine’s birthday; it was slightly less varied and about half the price. Still seafood it was and it went down well with a bottle of white wine.

In the evening back on the campsite at Fanjeaux, Luc and Nadine turned up at our pitch bearing gifts for Francine in the form of a little hamper of local goodies: olive oil, tomato and basil pasta and a grinder with a mix of Gruissan seasalt and rainbow peppercorns. That went some way to softening the blow.

Francine declared it to be laundry day. Once her camp duties were done, we needed some shopping so went to a large Intermarché supermarket on the edge of Castelnaudary. It was absolutely heaving, all checkouts having lines of 5 or 6 people waiting. We decided not to add to the crush and did a swift plan change to call in to the supermarket at Bram instead. That was more civilized. What’s with Sunday morning shopping at Castelnaudary, we wondered?

Our sheep farm campsite at Fanjeaux, Les Brugues, is frequented by many regulars, particularly from the Netherlands and Belgium as well as the UK. We’ve been part of Team UK since 2006 and so are familiar with being happily reunited with various members of Team Netherlands and Team Belgium.

This year we are the only representatives of Team UK but there were three units here representing three generations of one family from Team Belgium: a lady in one caravan, her son in another, and her granddaughter with partner in a tent. Being regulars, and longer serving regulars than us, Team Belgium had also been with us to the farm house gatherings which makes for an interesting evening juggling languages. The lady is delightful and it was good to see her again. We hadn’t met her son before but we were soon getting on quite well. He shares an interest in nature.

What Team Belgium’s son apparently didn’t share was an interest in alcohol. This proved to be to my advantage. An overnight camper had left several bottles of beer on their pitch, presumably accidentally, when they vacated it and moved on. Our new friend discovered it and, since it was of no use to him, donated it to our sanity fund. It was Heineken, so not my first choice but at least it was proper Dutch Heineken and not the rubbish brewed under license in the UK. It was a welcome gift.

I do not understand why most of the European beers that are available in the UK are brewed under license and, IMO, ruined. Few of them are the “originals”. Stella Artois is decent in Belgium, Heineken is decent in Holland and Kronenbourg 1664 is decent in France but British brewers manage to wreck them. We are simply unable to brew decent lager, it seems.

A fourth member of Team Belgium arrived in the shape of nice lady’s daughter. Her caravan, which is kept at the farm, had been positioned for her by farmer Luc. We did know her from a previous trip and now she turned up with her partner. Getting reacquainted was at first a pleasant prospect. That changed rapidly when she announced that she now had a dog, “but don’t worry, he doesn’t bark”. It was a 1-year old male Bull Terrier and was pure muscle. Remaining standing when the damn thing jumped up you, despite being told “nicht springen” (or words to that effect) was a bit of a challenge. I really should have explained that dogs speak English, not foreign languages like Flemish, French or German. I heard partner mutter the word “kak” (sp?) which I knew meant that, once out of the car, the dog had crapped on the campsite.

This was the last time I heard the dog that doesn’t bark not bark. Next time I saw it or, rather, it saw me, it launched into a series of barks. A hefty male Bull Terrier has a loud bark, though I don’t recall hearing one bark before. If anyone else dared to wander past Belgian Daughter’s pitch it launched into more barking. For the sake of peace and quiet I began to feel that I needed to keep out of the bastard thing’s line of sight. I was trapped in my pitch. I would hate to meet a Belgian dog that actually did bark. Go to the sanitaire – bark; fetch water – bark; take the loo to the vidoir to empty it – bark. Since stopping it was impossible, after a while we began turning winding it up into a sport.

This was a lesson in how to ruin a normally peaceful, calm campsite in one fell swoop. Happily, I’d made an email reservation at a campsite near Marseillan from 21st and we would be moving on in a couple of days. Moving now would have been even more appealing but I didn’t want to complicate my reservation.

The cloistered square of Mirepoix is one of the more appealing sights that we’ve seen in a French town. Once again, Francine was keen to have a look at it without its obstructing market stalls so we set off on the 18kms drive to see it unencumbered.

Not being market day, parking was a little easier. We may have come to the the architecture but on our short stroll from car to town we passed a shop window with an impressive display of medieval computer architecture. Here were several trips down memory lane all gathered together.

Unfortunately, once in the main square, even sans marché it was encumbered by a funfair and stage beneath the impressive wrought-iron-supported market hall roof. It also seems to have a permanent fixture of a merry-go-round that, whilst it could be quite interesting in itself, rather spoils many of the potential views, particularly because it always seems to be covered in netting. One side of the square was relatively clear and will give an idea of the buildings. There’re so many café umbrellas, though that the cloister beneath the upper level can’t really be seen. If only photographers were involved in arranging such stuff.

I just sat in the sun and let Francine wander with her camera. The architecture hadn’t really seemed to hit the spot for her so she let her creative juices flow on a clothes rail with an array of blue dresses which got a more artistic approach.

Once Francine had finished wandering, we picked one of the many cafés and sat with a cup of coffee to watch the world go by, occasionally glancing at the net-covered carousel. Part of the world didn’t go go by but came and sat at the adjoining table in our café. They were a Brit couple who were also soaking up the Mirepoix atmosphere. They were keen to pick our brains, such as they are. It seems they were on a Great Rail Journey holiday and were staying at Carcassonne having arrived there via the TGV. They had been bussed to Mirepoix and weren’t being picked up until 15:00. They were wondering what to do in Mirepoix for 3 hours. Ah, well, once you’ve studied the ancient architecture for 10-15 minutes, drink coffee and have lunch, if you can find a spare table.

When there is a lack of public loos, there is something cyclic about needing to sit and drink coffee or, worse, beer, so that you can use an establishment’s loo with impunity. The very act of drinking means that you shortly need another loo, which is where we came in.

We’d already had one day overshadowed by the news of Queen Elizabeth II passing away. Now we had a second overshadowed by a more personal event. We had been planning a birthday celebration for Francine together with friends who were also holidaying in France in September. Our arrangements were cancelled when they rushed homewards because their teenage (step) grandson was gravely ill with cancer. Devastatingly, he passed away before they could complete their journey.

If there is a God, he or she has one heck off a lot to answer for. Frankly I’m surprised anyone can believe.

Which leads me to this. So ingrained in our society is religion that folks in our higher positions of authority are simply not allowed, at least publicly, not to believe. No sooner had King Charles III become monarch than he was intoning “.. whatever time God gives me …” in his address which, I have to say, he delivered impeccably. He is required to show faith. I believe the same is true for American presidential hopefuls if they are to stand a chance of being elected. They can behave in as ungodly a fashion as possible, like you-know-who of recent times, but must profess to being a believer. At least in our legal system, I think you could choose to swear an oath on Darwin’s “On the Origin of Species” rather than the Bible, if you so wished.