We suffered from irritation rain today so were a bit lazy. Well, Francine wasn’t lazy; she did some laundry before the rain began and managed to get it dry on a washing line strung up under Guillaume’s awning.

During yesterday’s shopping trip we’d picked up a pack of gesiers de canards [duck gizzards]. I know, that may sound unappealing to many but we love ‘em. Without careful treatment gizzards are even tougher than yesterday’s bloody rumsteck was; they need long, slow cooking to turn them into the delicacy that they can become. They are prepared as a confit, essentially simmered slowly in fat, and make a tasty salade tiede [warm salad] when reheated and served over some fresh salad leaves.

The best laid plans of mice and men, etc. With the irritation rain the last thing today felt like was a salad day, either tiede or otherwise. It was time to rethink our catering plans. Good ol’ Francine came up with the idea of using our remaining half of the coco de Paimpol mixed with the gesiers and some saucisse (which we needed to go and buy – we even found Toulouse sausages but given that we’re a mere 50kms from Toulouse that may be less than surprising) to make a cheat’s cassoulet. Brilliant! Half a chance of a cassoulet and I’m in.

It worked out rather well and was probably the highlight of an otherwise nothing sort of day.

After Francine took a morning census of orchids and got to 15, we started the day with a new view for Guillaume. Yesterday afternoon two Austrian campervans pitched up next door, beside us on the furthest lakeside pitch from les sanitaires and wi-fi.  They were essentially quiet enough, save for one evening burst of music which caused Francine to pop over and politely ask them to turn it down. We had, however, broken with our tradition of pitching Guillaume longitudinally down the pitch and, because there was flat ground and he fitted, we’d gone across the pitch, meaning we could sit in front of our awning and look at the lake. The down side is that we tended to notice neighbours more, too.

The Austrian vans were part of a small stream of one-nighters stopping at the site and they left by mid-morning. With an English-sided van pitched in our more usual fashion, we’d be better off in the vacated pitch ourselves, looking through a hedge to the neighbouring night-farmer’s field of cut off sunflower stems. Being unsociable bastards who dislike interlopers, we decided to move. It’s far from the first time this has happened.

We whipped down the awning, disconnected Guillaume from his services and drove him round to the neighbouring pitch on his electric mover. Putting the awning back up was less easy than whipping it down. With the lack of rain much of the ground is cracked and has deep fissures. I was finding that where I needed some of the pegs, there was either a fissure or a stone that bent the peg. I managed to get a minimum fixing but had to leave the side panels off. No matter and we could still “see” the wi-fi.

Reconnecting Guillaume I disturbed a fledgling bird on the ground. It scuttled into the leaves and hedgerow so I don’t think it was ready to fly yet. It certainly didn’t look it. We suspect it must have fallen from a nest, though none were obvious. We could do nothing (including find it again) and hoped it might be found by parents and survive. I wasn’t hopeful, though.

Since barbies are technically banned now, we popped off to a larger supermarket in Castelnaudary for food and bought ourselves a new toy in the form of an electric plancha. There were a few to choose from and we settled on this 1800W job with a combination of ridges and a flat surface. I saw some attractive rumsteck to give it a test run. Before grilling, we cooked all our coco de Paimpol and I dressed half of them up with some onion and tomato goop.

Time to set about the plancha. The instructions are, of course, badly translated from Chinese and gave us some amusement.

a. Install a large baking pan (refer to the base 1-2-3-4 four feet in order), and gear oil plate

Quoi ? Never mind the “refer to the base 1-2-3-4”; “Gear oil”? I think not. Just oil the meat and chuck it on the ridged griddly bit.

The rumsteck may have looked decent in the packet but it most certainly wasn’t. Rumsteck translates as rump steak, as you might imagine, but this, despite still being pink in the middle, was like no other rump steak I’ve ever attempted to chew. Boot leather sprang to mind and the flavour was, well, odd. [… checks to ensure that he didn’t actually use gear oil…] I really must stop buying lumps of beef ‘cos I very rarely enjoy them. I did enjoy the beans, though.

The night farmer next door was at it again, this time chopping up the sunflower stems left after harvesting them. Basically they get ploughed back in.

The plancha box is sizeable, I don’t know where we’ll be storing/transporting it. Hmmm?

We thought we’d stretch our legs and walk to Fanjeaux and back. We began by taking the route out of the back of our campsite. It gives you a bit of a trudge along a road but it’s quiet and there are decent views over the escarpment down to the lower ground below Fanjeaux. The Café des Arts was open, having been closed recently. It would be rude not to freshen up with a beer at one of their outside tables. I found they had Grimbergen Blonde on tap, which is a half way reasonable brew bettering 6% ABV. I’d seen it in supermarkets when I’d been scratching my head wondering what to buy so I was interested to try it. It was very drinkable. I do wish we weren’t so limp when it comes to the alcohol content of beers.

Our route back formed a circular walk, returning along the approach road used to get to the campsite. Then we veered off along a lower track below the farmhouse and beside a second smaller lake and hedgerow. The hedgerow was productive; I was pleased to have another chance to photograph females of the Violet Dropwing (Trithemis annulata).

We relaxed chez Guillaume for a while but neither of us is terribly good at sitting still for too long. Francine spotted something near the lakeside that gladdened her heart: Autumn Ladies Tresses (Spiranthes spiralis), a relatively small wild orchid with a corkscrew spiral twist. One spike was quite advanced but other spikes were just bursting through the soil and yet more seemed to be following as Francine watched.

We weren’t done yet. Our Belgian neighbour spends a while sitting and watching the lake. He calmly called Francine over and a mustelid was poking around one of the tree bases that surround the lake near his pitch. Naturally when I went to join them it had disappeared down the bank onto the shore. It did, of course, fail to reappear. However, a short while later I spotted something essentially dark brown and furry swimming on the surface at our end of the lake. Then it dived and I didn’t see it again. It clearly wasn’t an otter. Given the watery habitat this just has to have been a Mink (Neovison vison). Naturally, a picture was out of the question, so fleeting and few were its appearances.

We’re clearly making up for missing French street markets for four years. Saturday is when Revel holds its market and it’s always an interesting one. We even remembered where to find a parking spot which is just as well ‘cos they can be hard to find.

The market was busy, though Francine drew the line at calling it heaving. The most interesting food stalls had queues and I’m not good at queuing so we wandered around just looking while we waited for things to calm down a little. The square has a fabulous old timbered market hall in the very centre and the surrounding shuttered buildings on all four sides add to the ancient character of the place. The non-food stalls are scattered along a street outside the main square.

It’s Coco de Paimpol season. These are white beans, rather like haricots or cannellinis, in rather tatty, unattractive pods. The French buy them in large quantities and bottle them, I imagine to see them through the winter months. Being a huge fan of pulses, eventually I couldn’t resist joining a short queue and buying a measly kilo. Well, I couldn’t deal with a larger quantity. I found three large artichokes for €3 irresistible too, with the idea of a paella forming in my head, so I grabbed those and added a pepper.

Purchases securely in my rucksack, as we were making our way back to the car Francine spotted a tiny butterfly feeding on some potted flowers. It’s one of those that annoyingly keeps its wings shut. It looked like a blue but I failed to recognize the underside. My book soon solved the problem. I had seen this once before but only in Spain – it’s a Geranium Bronze (Cacyreus marshalli), an import originally from South Africa.

We were close to Sorèze again but this time the weather was good and we made it. It turned out not to be the place Francine had thought it was but, with a very limited choice we did find a personable little restaurant for a bite of lunch. I don’t regard pizza a as a proper meal but shared between two a veggie pizza here was just right. I must say I don’t think I’ve eaten a better pizza but my experience is admittedly limited.

We returned via a tortuous route through Saissac so we could stick our noses into the upper reaches of La Rigole. ‘’T was a little too late in the day, however, and it was mostly shaded. There were a couple of Demoiselles flitting in a small patch of sunlight but not advantageously positioned. I’m getting picky.

We’re continuing the wind theme.

It’s not easy to see the likely weather in all directions from our Fanjeaux campsite. Our morning dawned quite bright and we decided to visit Lac de Lenclas, which is a modestly sized dammed lake nestling into a bend in La Rigole, the engineering marvel of a narrow canal that feeds water into the high point of the Canal du Midi. With both gently flowing water over a gravelly bottom and standing water with emergent vegetation, this has proved a happy hunting ground for odonata many times in the past.

As we drew closer the sky ahead of us progressively darkened rather alarmingly. The wind had switched direction. We were no longer in the grip of easterly Marin blowing in off the Mediterranean but of the northwesterly Tramontane. Clearly life was becoming unsettled.

I parked and we wandered. There were some Violet Dropwings (Trithemis annulata) zooming along the edge of the lake, not really posing for pictures, but little else. This was not going to hold attention for any length of time.

As we finished our walk around the lake and were returning to the car, with a few spots of rain falling a French lady approached us and muttered something about a village called Les Cassés. We explained that we didn’t know it but ever resourceful Francine found our map and the village on it. It was just a handful of kilometers from the lake. It seems this French lady was out walking for the day and her destination was Les Cassés. She was evidently concerned about the rain. What she actually wanted, we finally figured out, was a lift to Les Cassés ‘cos she wasn’t dressed for inclement weather. Well, OK, we gave her a ride “avec plaisir”. I can’t figure out why anyone would set out on a cross country walk without being equipped for some weather. It does sometimes rain in France you know, madam.

Francine had wanted to head for Sorèze and lunch but given the change of weather we skipped it and bought some Teilles Sètoise from a supermarket instead. A specialty of Sète, these are little pies filled with a seafood mixture in some tomato-based sauce. They make a pleasant effort-free lunch.

We’d also purchased a pintade [guinea fowl] and planned to have the breasts this evening. I foolishly cycled uphill into Fanjeaux to the local alimentation thinking a mushroom sauce would moisten them slightly and add interest. The darn shop was shut so my puffing and panting had all been in vain. Drat! Instead I made a sauce of sautéed shallots, which I did have, with a little rose wine and some of our Polish grainy mustard, and damn good it was too. I shall repeat it.

My new recipe will henceforth be known as Pintade des Brugues (this campsite being Camping des Brugues).

[Another rock reference but a bit twisted this time: a nod to The Scorp’s Wind of Change.]

There are actually two winds that blow from the east/southeast in the Languedoc, the Autan (in either of its two forms) and the Marin. We thought we’d been enjoying the Autan but we’ve been told it’s actually the Marin. Since both blow from the same direction I’m wondering how one tells the difference.

Food shopping being a regular occurrence, scouting around in the local supermarket my eye was taken by some absolutely perfectly sized sardines which would do very nicely over some hand-imported New Forest charcoal on our portable Weber barbecue. Sadly, our trusty little Weber is on its last legs; a modest (so far) hole has rusted through the base so I covered it with a few layers of foil before lighting up. Just in case, I also covered the ground beneath the barbie with more layers of foil and, given the dry conditions, stood by with a watering can just to be on the safe side. Nothing untoward happened and the sardines were every bit as delicious as expected.

Continuing the food theme, we’d been invited up to the farm house, along with a couple of other regulars here from Belgium, for an evening meal with Luc and Nadine. Luc was serving up one of his “surplus” lambs. Lambing takes place in late November/early December. The main product eventually being the ewes milk collected to make Roquefort cheese. This, of course, means that the poor ol’ lambs can’t have the milk. Some of the female lambs are kept to refresh the herd of ewes but the males are destined for the Christmas tables. He keeps a few lambs for personal use, some of which is what was now on his large electric griddle.

Much of southern France bans open flame barbecues in the summer but they’re usually OK here. However, I’ve now learned that only electric and gas barbecues are allowed here in this exceptional year so I’ll have to adjust my cooking choices and, therefore, my purchases. There’s really no other decent way to deal with sardines.

As well as his sheep, Luc raises two or three pigs for personal consumption. These, he shares with his family. I think the “personal” bit gets him around the normal regulation to use an abattoir for slaughtering them. He likes to try his hand producing things gastronomic and supplemented his lamb with some home made chorizo for a bit of variety, and very good it was, too.

As enjoyable though the evening was, the Wind of Change blew strongly as the evening finished on a more sombre note. News had been filtering through during the day that all was far from well at Balmoral so it came as little surprise when we learned that our much loved Queen Elizabeth II had passed away. I think the French, having lopped the heads off their royal family many years ago, find (most of) our love of the monarchy a little strange. We should remember, though, that we are not alone and that there are fully six EU countries also still with royal families: Belgium, Denmark, Luxembourg, Spain, Sweden and, of course, Holland. The Dutch are particular lovers of their royalty and we’ve been over to celebrate their “Queen’s Day”. We did sample some of their basically unpleasant orange liqueur but we drew the line at dressing in orange. So maybe we aren’t so strange after all.

The Queen is dead, long live the King.

Now, If I could only do something about our blasted National Anthem which sounds as though it were written by a 9-year old schoolboy.

[Very Led Zeppelin.]

Last night we’d watched an entertaining electric storm beyond the lake towards the Pyrenees. It seemed to be approaching but it didn’t get to us. This morning life was considerably calmer.

Wednesday is market day in Bram so off we went. There seemed to be a bit more atmosphere these days in Bram, maybe because of a couple of street cafes. We bought a fine magret de canard from a duck producer together with a slab of pate to go with a baguette for lunch. I fancied some olives, too, but the queue was too long.

There’s a grassy meadow dotted with shrubs on a high point overlooking Laurac. In the past this has been a happy hunting ground for all manner of insects. After the market we went to have a peek but this desiccated year we found pas un chat [which is apparently the French equivalent of “not a sausage”]. I’m going to have to turn into a regular tourist at this rate.

Wednesday is also the night our photographic club meets. This being the first meeting of the new season, Francine, as one of the programme secretaries, was keen to show a presence so used our campsite’s relatively new wi-fi set up to Zoom in. The meetings start at 19:30 which is 20:30 French time. The technology seemed to be working until an act of sabotage occurred. The neighbouring farmer decided the time was right to begin harvesting his sunflower crop. The field in question abuts Guillaume’s end of the campsite. Zoom communication got drowned out by the noisy clatter of a combine harvester busily munching sunflowers about 30m away. The harvester was considerably louder than Francine’s voice.

Well, it made a change from thunder and lightning. It was worth a try.

A clear blue morning dawned much calmer with little in the way of any of the local winds. We decided to try the shorter of farmer Luc’s walks which he puts up markers for, though towards the end of the season they can get tough to follow. Fortunately we’ve done it several times before and know the turns. It’s about 4 miles with a dip down into the neighbouring valley then up to the village of Fenouillet-du-Razés. The operative word there is “up” and with hardly a breath of wind it was in honesty a bit hot; perhaps not the best choice of days for the walk. Francine  was making it harder by carrying her camera and managed to snag a mating pair of Lang’s Short-tailed Blues (Leptotes pirithous), which were the most interesting of a poor selection of wildlife seen. The walk loops back along a ridge to re-enter the rear of Luc’s farm. We have had trouble with grass and seeds on previous occasions but this is such a desiccated year that hardly anything is now growing. That aspect of the walk was easier.

Farmer Luc would, I suspect have had a very tough time this year with the lack of rain were it not for his dammed lake. The farm fields are main used to grow feed to support his 300 dairy ewes whose milk is used in the production of Roquefort cheese. The lake is used to irrigate the fields and is one of the main attractions that keep us returning to this campsite, as well as the friendly owners, of course.

When we first began visiting, as well as making a delightful location in which to camp, the lake supported a vast array of wildlife including water birds on the lake, frogs and snakes in the lake, birds, red squirrels and tree frogs in the trees around the lake, and all manner of insect and reptile life in the campsite beside the lake. Farming activity added to the interest. My greatest interest was the impressive collection of odonata species, dragonflies and damselflies, which bred in the lake. I counted 18 species many of which were in impressive numbers. I have seen dozens of pairs of damselflies ovipositing in the floating vegetation.

Then Luc let a Koi carp farmer use the lake. Grass Carp were introduced to eat the vegetation and literally thousands of Koi were raised. From a wildlife point of view this combination spelled disaster; Koi will eat anything and everything and all floating vegetation vanished courtesy of the Grass Carp. Odonata species dropped and numbers plummeted, water fowl disappeared and the lake changed character utterly; once a wildlife haven, it began to look dead.

Happily the fish farmer is no more and we were hopeful that the lake would recover and regain something of its former wildlife glory. Here we are for the first time in four years but it is late in the season and the jury is still out. The lake is lower than we’ve seen it because Luc has had to use much of its water. There is, though, still no vegetation to be seen in the water. The lake has many large fish in it but there are no small fry to be seen. With little or no plant life, this makes us wonder is the bigger fish have eaten all the small fish. Save for a Grey Heron hunting on the side of the lake, there are still no water birds resident, though a small flight of ducks did visit. There is nothing for dabbling ducks to dabble at, though.

There used to be thousands of frogs, the chorus of which at night used lull us to sleep but has driven some campers away. On an earlier September visit, we literally couldn’t move a foot in grass beside the lake without disturbing a froglet or two. It was teeming. Now there is almost nothing. We have seen one or two frogs plop into the water but the nights are quiet. A handful of frogs did have a singing match one lunchtime but it is the exception rather than the rule.

With little for it to prey on, I haven’t seen a snake in the water. In the past we’ve seen one take a modestly sized fish and large tadpoles.

I have seen ones and twos of 7 species of odonata but none in great numbers. The most numerous appears to be one of my personal favourites, a relatively recent immigrant to France from Africa, the delightfully gaudy pink Violet Dropwing (Trithemis annulata). There are still Willow Emeralds (Chalcolestes viridis), which oviposit in overhanging rather than floating vegetation but their numbers are not what they used to be.

This is an exceptional year. It doesn’t look wonderful but I reserve judgement; I need a June visit, really.

Monday is market day in Mirepoix 20kms away. It’s one of the more comprehensive markets around as well as being one of the more attractive towns. We popped off to look for a parking spot and found one, which looked a bit like the last one.

The market was heaving. Since the isolations of Covid-19, “heaving” comes somewhat further down the crowd scale but it was certainly crowded. Our market visits are usually more out of interest and entertainment than shopping for large amounts of supplies. Today was no exception and we picked up a couple of courgettes and a splendid large red pepper (from Spain; Spanish red peppers are SO much better than our more uniform Dutch ones) to complete our veggie collection for a ratatouille. From a lady who appeared to have had smile bypass surgery, we also picked up lunch in the form of two stuffed peppers; Dutch red peppers this time.  The smile-free stuffed peppers were vegetarian, I hasten to add. I can only hope that this vegetarian nonsense doesn’t become a habit.

Oddly, what I didn’t spot on the market was a fish stall but there surely must’ve been one. Be that as it may, we moved the short distance to the nearby Super U where fuel was more expensive than the autoroute Total offering. It does have a decent fish counter, though, which had an irresistible looking tranche of white tuna. White tuna is not something we see much in the UK, if at all, but the large slices they cut in France are good eating and generally enough for two. I bought it. Many years ago a fish vendor in France had suggested that we slather the tuna in mustard before slapping it on a BBQ. This mustard coating helps prevent the fish from drying out.

Problem: France is out of mustard. What!? It seems that all those wonderful varieties of Maille mustard are no longer made in France but in Canada where there has been a catastrophic mustard harvest failure. Mon Dieu !  The mustard shelves in France are bare. Well, here they were all but bare. We did find a mustard, supposedly forte, originating in Poland. Where is Poland getting its mustard seeds from, I wonder? Regardless, a pot of Polish mustard jumped into our basket along with the tuna it was to cover.

Most people, I suspect, have heard of the Mistral, a wind that blows down the Rhone valley in Provence, can do so for days and can reputedly drive people insane. Languedoc also comes with named winds; the names don’t make them any more pleasant but they do make them recognizable to those who know the names. Today Fanjeaux seemed to be in the grip of the Autan, a wind blowing more or less from the Mediterranean in the east. To be more accurate it was in the grip of one of the Autans. L’Autan is really two winds since it comes in two flavours, L’Autan Blanc and L’Autan Noir. What we had was L’Autan Blanc, a wind of good weather with clear skies and temperatures up in the high 20sC. The weather was great for a barbecue but the wind was potentially awkward; I didn’t want a spark setting fire to Luc’s tinder-dry farm so I stood by with watering can just in case. The weather was less than ideal for standing inside making a ratatouille but I persevered.

The Polish mustard worked well enough and we enjoyed our tranche of thon blanc accompanied by L’Autan Blanc and ratatouille.

‘T was a beautiful morning but we were on a mission to get on the road by 08:30 for the 485kms drive to Fanjeaux. Rosnay had been about half way not in terms of distance but in terms of driving time; all but about 40kms of today would be on autoroutes. Travelling on a Sunday is usually easier and less stressful because there are less trucks on the road. Taking breaks on a Sunday can be less easy for those towing caravans because the lay-byes, aires and services can be full of the trucks that aren’t on the road.

We bumbled along the minor roads for about 35kms out of La Brenne to the autoroute. “Beep”, went the toll tag in a reassuring fashion.

We cruised along the autoroute with a break for comfort followed two hours later for another break for comfort and fuel.

Something strange has happened to fuel prices in France. Years ago Total stations, one of the home team, were noticeably more expensive than others. Now Total is markedly cheaper than others and by quite a margin: there’s a differential of about 20c a litre for gazole [diesel]. Astonishingly, Total on the autoroutes now even seems cheaper than the opposition off the autoroutes.  I have no idea why but Total stations are now certainly worth seeking out whereas I’ve been used to avoiding them.

“Beep” went the toll tag at about 15:00 as we clambered off the autoroute at Bram with just 5kms left to run. To complete the picture there had been a few other beeps around a couple of towns en route where toll roads become free to act as a bypass.

Our first shock came as we turned to drive through the tiny village of Villesiscle just after the toll booths. I was faced with an oddly painted road. Given the prevalence of sometimes reasonable cycle lanes it didn’t look terribly strange until scale was taken into account. There was a single narrow car lane in the centre of the road bordered by a sizeable cycle lane on either side. A road sign as I approached clearly wanted me to drive down the centre of the road diving to the right when faced by oncoming traffic. With luck said oncoming traffic would also dive to their right. Having passed, we would both then dive back into the middle of the road again to continue towards the next potential head-on collision. It might best be described as suicide alley; It reminded me of playing chicken.

Complications apparently set in when cycles are actually present, which happily most of the time they aren’t. There were two different panels showing motorists how to behave in a couple of situations. One [left] had you slamming on the brakes to tuck in behind a cycle as you dived right. This one actually makes the lane look almost wide enough for two cars. The other [right] had you putting the pedal to the metal to get in front of the cycle, hopefully before slamming headlong into the opposing car, before diving to the right. This one is a much more accurate depiction of the lane width. Given the French motorists’ love of being in front [moi d’abord], it looked a bit optimistic.

We managed to avoid either head-on collisions or flattening cyclists in Villesiscle and continued to Fanjeaux to be met by our second shock.

Our friendly dairy sheep farm is on a hill with views of the Pyrenees to the south and of the Cathar villlage of Fanjeaux to the north. Here, looking north towards Fanjeaux, is a picture I took in 2011 of son Cedric harvesting one of the fields. On the opposite hillside is a neighbouring farm. There are cattle just about visible in the far left of the facing field. It is a pleasing sight to the eye and looks quite pastoral.

What were we faced with on our arrival today as we drove in to get reacquainted with our farming friends? Acres of unsightly solar panels where once there had been cattle and grass. I’ve approximated the angle of shot and repeated it. Note that there is another massive array of solar panels to the right of this picture. The extent of the visual disaster is clear. There’s no longer any livestock and nothing remotely pastoral.

Luc and Nadine were out, this being a Sunday, but Luc’s parents and son greeted us and sent us down to le camping to get installed. We found a lovely lakeside pitch with some level ground so broke with our tradition of pitching lengthwise – it’s much easier to adjust level front to back than side to side – and pitched Guillaume sideways across the pitch with the awning facing the lake.

The awning was an interesting puzzle. It’s a design that we are familiar with having had the same before but a size smaller; current Guillaume is a little shorter than previous Guillaume. The smaller size clearly comes with the same length poles, though, since they needed to be on their shortest adjustment to fit, which gave us fun finagling them into position. We got it done, though. Second time may prove easier, if we can remember.

Luc and Nadine arrived later to share a glass of vino and say hello. They are, of course, less than complimentary about the field of solar panels ruining their view and were particularly unhappy with the noise made by the pile driver used to install the damn things. Given the extent of the installation, I can’t imagine how long it took.

Just how many ways are there for your neighbours to screw you? [Yes, I know: countless.]