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.

From Amboise, we’ve decided to make a short hop, just 50 kms, west along La Loire to call in to see the picturesque chateau at Azay-le-Rideau. We were heading for a camping municipal in Azay-le-Rideau itself and the accueil [reception] apparently closed for lunch at 12:00. We got an early start and, with time in hand, called into a supermarket for essential supplies en route.

We arrived at 11:45 and lunch had clearly begun early; the acceuil was already locked. However, a sign invited us to pitch up and just let them know later where we were and how long we wanted to stay. Excellent.

Just as we were about to set up in one decent pitch, a van left a better looking pitch, better in that it had some natural shade from nearby trees but not from overhanging trees. Frodo got settled and looked very happy.

Azay-le-Rideau is actually on the Indre river, which runs into La Loire, and the campsite was right on its banks. With the trees, flat grass and peaceful surroundings we felt we could sit here for ever and couldn’t help by dub it Lazy-le-Rideau.

Having been lazy enough to digest a refreshing beer or two and a bite of lunch, we went off to investigate the banks of the Indre. There were a handful of damselfly species, including Blue-eye (Erythroma linenii) and, I’m sure, White Featherleg (Platycnemis latipes). The broad, flattened hind tibiae are the giveaway. This spot is the northernmost part of the latter’s range so I’m glad to have seen it here.

Another rarely seen star showed up in the form of a Map. I haven’t seen these often so it was good to get another look. The delicate tracery of line markings gives it the common name.

In the evening it was time to capitalize on some of our Amboise market ingredients and make a paella of chicken legs and artichokes. The artichokes were clearly coming to the end of their season and preparing them is a bit of a pain but it was well worth it.

Tomorrow we’ll check out the chateau.

On our June trip to France this year we had suffered from a lack of markets. Francine was determined to make up for this oversight and we began by visiting Amboise market. Amboise holds its street market on two days of the week, namely Friday and Sunday. How terrific, something constructive to do on a Sunday.

We set off wandering back into Amboise. We began to doubt our information ‘cos the place we might have expected the market to be was devoid of activity. Then we spotted a sign pointing up five minutes walk downstream and, lo, there it was.

Looking around French markets, especially one this big, is much more interesting if you actually need something rather than if you are just window shopping – well, stall shopping, maybe, We did need a few things.

We had some chicken legs left that were begging to be made into a paella. The matter was settled when we spotted a stall selling artichokes, or alcachofas as they say in Spain. Stick them in the basket along with an accompanying red pepper.

We were woefully low on cheese, too, but a splendid cheese stall had some irresistible Reblochon Fermière and very interesting looking Bleu des Basques. Pop some of that in, too.

A nice spot of fresh bread for Sunday lunch wouldn’t go amiss, especially when we found a fresh fish stall selling some great looking prawns: prawns, mayo and bread goes down a treat and it’s so nice to get salt water prawns instead of the fresh water tiger prawns I usually see at home.

A lazy Sunday dinner was also on the cards when we found a rotisserie chicken machine. We just love the French rotisseried chickens and at a mere 15 euros for a free range job, you can’t complain. An uncooked one from Waitrose would cost at least that much. Breasts for dinner, legs cold for lunches afterwards.

We sat enjoying our lunch of prawns, bread and mayo whilst admiring an absolutely wonderful, old (1969, we heard) orange VW camper van with matching orange accessories which had pulled into the pitch opposite Frodo. It was in sparkling condition. With no overnight loo, it wouldn’t do for me, personally, but I loved it and couldn’t help but admire it.

Unbeknownst to me, Amboise had been the last home of the great Leonardo da Vinci, or Leonard da Vinci as the French would have it.

Towering imposingly above La Loire river is the impressive Chateau Royal. Leonardo, however, lived in another chateau of somewhat less imposing proportions but still magnificent, called the Chateau de Clos Lucé. Here there was a permanent exhibition devoted to the great man’s works and it was to here that we set off on foot. (Well, it might be effectively a museum but at least it’s a walk and gets your steps up.)

We forked out the necessary dosh and gained admittance. I’ve never heard Leonardo described as a polymath but I think he would richly deserve the appellation.

Here were exhibitions of his various mechanical imaginings including machines to enable man to fly, together with what I imagine would have been the world’s first parachute, presumably for when the flying machines didn’t, as they undoubtedly wouldn’t.

There were more mechanical inventions to do with war, including a wooden “tank” capable of spinning on its own axis, and what looked like the forerunner of the Gatling gun, 400-500 years before its time.

There was a separate exhibition of Leonardo’s anatomical studies, including a dissecting room, which led to the precision with which he painted human figures and notably hands. Allied to this there were, of course, numerous art works including his world renowned “Mona Lisa”, complete with enigmatic smile (it says here).

There was another painting on an easel set before an artist’s palette. This really brought a smile to my face. This looked for all the world as if Leonardo had been striving to find a compliant model capable of raising that world famous enigmatic smile but had run into a few failures. I can only think this painting would be titled Leonardo’s less famous “Up Yours” portrait. The finger, of course, looking as if it’s desperate to perform a DRE, is surely anatomically perfect.

OK, I’ve looked it up. Imagine my surprise to discover that my “Up Yours” portrait is apparently not a woman. What!? You’re kidding! No, it is supposedly St. John the Baptist. This fits with the St. John the Baptist figure, looking decidedly effeminate, in Leonardo’s hugely famous last supper image. Fans of The Da Vinci Code will know exactly what I mean. I’d say gender identity issues are nothing new, It’s just taken us 600 years to start blowing them out of all proportion and pandering to them.

On a lighter note, I did return to the real world on our return wander getting yet more steps in. On a promenade beside the river were two things of interest.

One was inanimate and looked rather like the Kelpies in Falkirk, Scotland, except that these were more modestly sized and clearly giraffes.

My animated interest came when I spotted what looked like an ichneumon wasp on the pathway near a puddle. I’m sure it will not prove possible to get to species but I’m pretty certain this is one of the Mud-dauber Wasps. They have a very long petiole, he said, getting technical. It certainly seemed to be collecting damp material from the side of the puddles on the path.

St. John the Baptiste, eh?