We have been camping in France, with occasional forays into Germany, Austria and Switzerland, for about 40 years. We used to travel with friends complete with school age children, so many of those trips were in the height of the season. We never booked any sites and, apart from one occasion in the Alsace, we never failed to get a pitch on a campsite. That considerate owner let us stay on the hardstanding outside the site and use the facilities.

That changed two years ago in 2023 when Francine and I decided to visit the Basin d’Arcachon. The first four campsites that we tried were full. Happily the fifth site did have a pitch for us, albeit a tight squeeze for Frodo between trees. Basically, avoid coastal sites full of sun worshippers, even when not in the height of the season.

Last year, 2024, was a little different. The weather over much of France was poor and it seems that almost everyone had flooded south to Provence and the Languedoc. The Languedoc is one of our favourite areas and the erstwhile reliable little camping municipal at Loupian was full. We did get in to a lovely aire naturelle at Villemarin. The attraction here is Mèze, which has to be my favourite place to add to Millau for Francine.

The face of camping in Europe has clearly changed with a huge number of the grey brigade swanning around in motorhomes, campers and caravans.

Liking the idea of more seafood in Mèze, this year, fighting with the online reservation system, Francine managed to make a reservation at Loupian between 14th and 17th June. The timing got us there on Saturday in time for the attraction of the Mèze Sunday market. There is a Camping Car Park [CCP] site at Mèze and it is notable that it gets very full on the Saturday night, presumably with avid market goers.

We duly hit the well conceived cycle track beside the Loupian campsite and headed in to Mèze on Sunday morning to make for the market square, to be met by municipal works fencing off about half of the market area in front of the church. The remaining half was crammed with densely packed stalls and the other avid market goers. It was a bit of a disappointment but we still managed some of our usual purchases.

On another day, heading the opposite way on the cycle track towards Bouzigues, we found the track and route much improved, an underpass now totally avoiding the busy main road. Bouzigues is the main oyster farming centre of the Basin de Thau and has an attractive front lined with a variety of restaurants overlooking the lagoon. One of these was called Chez Francine. Even more incredibly, just above Chez Francine was a board advertising an establishment called “Curd Ridel”. Well, it would be rude not to, wouldn’t it?

Maybe the stars had aligned. We enjoyed a very decent lunch including raw oysters, gratineed oysters and Rouille a la Sètoise, which was squid pieces in a tomato and I suspect red pepper sauce. It was all washed down with a very good bottle of Picpoul de Pinet … oh, and a subsequent pichet of vin blanc because, in the sun, the bottle didn’t quite last long enough.

We’ve returned to Millau, one of Francine’s personal favourites, for the first time in more years than I can remember. It’s been a four night stop.

We used to stay at a quite wooded campsite beside the River Dourbie but now we have come to Camping Saint Martin almost in the shadow of the magnificent Millau viaduct. (This picture misses two more pylons to the left.) The campsite reviews mentioned views of the viaduct but I don’t think it’s actually visible from the site itself. What is visible, particularly from Frodo’s viewpoint, is the Cirque Saint Martin, overflown in the late afternoon/evening by some of the astonishingly large Griffon Vultures that call this area home. It’s not a bad place to just sit and watch.

Millau has two market days and we timed our arrival for the Wednesday market. There is a 5km cycle route from our campsite into the centre of Millau which we followed to investigate. Going into Millau is largely downhill so the going was easy. The Wednesday market was a bit lame, in truth, being much reduced in size with most seeming to be more like a rummage sale. Having sat at a bar for a coffee, we tackled the return route, largely uphill, and were very grateful for the bikes’ electric assistance.

With decent market withdrawal symptoms, we repeated our downhill visit for the Friday market, which is really the main event, not that we had remembered beforehand. This was much more extensive and devoted large areas to the French love of food. Now we were encouraged to spend money on some artisan sheep’s cheese, a rotisseried chicken, which we always refer to as a spinning chicken, and some aligot to accompany it for lunch. Aligot is a bit like French mashed potato: smashed potatoes are stirred with a large wooden paddle whilst being heated with cheese and, I think, some crème fraîche. It’s a labour of love which I’ll leave to the experts.

The cafes were all heaving on the main market day so, armed with our purchases we made our assisted uphill return to enjoy lunch beneath the imposing cirque.There is a belvedere up on the cirque offering a panoramic view of that wonderful viaduct. I must say I was tempted to try attacking it on the bike but somehow I never quite got around to it.

There is a small stream flowing just beneath the campsite and I couldn’t resist checking it out for wildlife. I was very happy that I did because in one sunny spot, and being very cooperative was a lovely male Golden-ringed Dragonfly (Cordulegaster boltonii). We have them in the UK but sadly not anywhere near my home which lacks the correct type of habitat.

One morning we stretched our legs along the lane leading into the cirque and, as well as seeing a female Golden-ringed Dragonfly, we were very pleasantly surprised by what I thought was a Purple Emperor (Apatura iris) butterfly. As it sat in the hedgerow, I waited (somewhat) patiently for it to open its wing and hopefully give us a flash of the glorious purple colour, which it eventually did. Then I was informed by those more knowledgeable than I in the world of butterflies, that this was actually a Lesser Purple Emperor (Apatura ilia) which I didn’t even know existed, Nice one.

We were very favourably impressed by our new campsite. It’s actually an ACSI site and very reasonably priced at €16.70 a night. For some reason, this seemed to be the friendliest campsite we’ve come across this trip with an especially charming guardienne. Maybe it’s just the luck of the draw with which other campers happen to be there at the time, or maybe the mood of the guardienne contributes. The campsite has the added advantage of a Leclerc supermarket about 1km down the hill towards Millau,

On Sunday after leaving Le Temple sur Lot, we’ve made a very short hop for us, a mere 90kms, and pitched up at Cahors, also sur Lot. (I asked the nice young man on reception, which we just made in time for the lunchtime closure, and the “t” at the end of “Lot” is pronounced. I wasn’t sure. Now we know) We picked a slow cross-country route but it was more interesting than a main road.

Having arrived on Sunday Cahors was closed. Monday being another public holiday [Whitsun, apparently], Cahors was again closed, other than a Carrefour City, which we took advantage of to buy a bottle of Cahors wine, and, oddly, a hat shop [chapellerie]. Fortunately, Cahors itself didn’t have to be open for us to go oo-ah at its famous 14th century Valentré bridge. Trust the French to surround the bridge not with grass but with vines.

Now we can get into the beers, which have been waiting for nothing much to happen.

The Super-U at Castelmoron had some beers that I just couldn’t resist, with a damselfly on one can and a butterfly on the other. How could I not buy them? These were from the Mira brasserie in France.

I tried the weaker one first. When I say weaker, all things are relative; this was stronger than most of our draught beers at 5.2% ABV. My first taste was a bit of a surprise and pretty much knocked my socks off. This was one of the bitterest bitters that I’ve tasted, very well hopped indeed, apparently with a mix of three different hops. I now know that NEIPA stands for New England India Pale Ale, the India Pale Ale part I am very familiar with but slapping New England in front of it was a surprising development. India Pale Ale has its roots in shipping beer from England to India. At least this was strong enough to qualify, though, which is more than I can say for many of Britain’s current crop of IPAs. As you can see, it’s one of the modern “Hazy IPAs” which I began enjoying in Australia last year.

Next up was the butterfly-adorned “Passion IPA”. How intriguing is that, brewer’s droop notwithstanding at 6.8% ABV. I took a sip. Odd, My taste buds began to suspect that the passion aspect was based upon passion fruit. Indeed it was. The French had taken a leaf out of the Belgians’ book in developing a fruit beer. It wasn’t sweet (unlike an attrocious American attempt that I had tasted many years ago in Californa where blueberry syrup had been added). This was subtle.

Interesting though they both were, I can’t say I’d be rushing back for a repeat taste.

My current beer of choice on this trip, being widely available, is Leffe Blonde. This gets us on to one of my bug bears. Leffe Blonde is available in the UK BUT, and it’s a big BUT, the stuff in England is brewed under license in England. The real Belgian stuff is 6.6% ABV whereas the British imitation is only 6.0% ABV.

Most of the European beers available in the UK are brewed in the UK and spoiled. Kronenbourg 1664 is weaker then the genuine French stuff, St. Miguel is weaker than the real Spanish stuff. Given that we in the UK are crap at brewing lager, it’s a travesty that this happens. One of my alternative beers this trip in France is La Goudale at a respectable 7.2% ABV. Goudale IS available in small bottles at Morrisons supermarket but I confess that I haven’t checked the provenance or strength of that offering.

Thursday at Les Mathes  the weather had thrown irritating rain at us all day long, off and on. At times it felt mostly on. We really should have used it as a travelling day but we hadn’t yet paid the campsite owner so we sat inside Frodo wishing we’d been a bit more astute – the owner was absent all afternoon. We did eventually manage to pay and on Friday we did move on.

After some debate, where we moved on to was Le Temple sur Lot where there was a campsite with enthusiastic reviews. It’s essentially in the middle of nowhere, which generally suits me down to the ground, though it did have one intriguing attraction in what is really a one-horse town.

Starting on slow local roads we eventually completed the 3-hour 270kms journey and managed to arrive whilst reception was closed for lunch. However, whether or not they spotted us I know not, but as we were wandering around scoping out the pitches, reception did open up and booked us in. With there being just one other unit on site, we had no trouble grabbing our – well, Francine’s – first choice of pitch.

We got settled and wandered into town, though I’d hesitate to call it such, to find a Vival which really should not have bothered; it was next door to useless. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more pointless alimentaire in France. There is another option in nearby Castelmoron which we hoped would be better the next day after Frodo had spent a comfortable night serenaded almost constantly in the daylight hours by a vociferous Mistle Thrush.

When the French do cycle tracks, they really do cycle tracks. We followed one such, twisting and turning through the countryside so as to avoid roads pretty much all the time, to Castelmoron. Mercifully we found a Super-U Express, which was an excellent shop, to make sure we had enough supplies for another coming public holiday. There were some intriguing beers which I really couldn’t resist but which will probably be the subject of a slow news day.

After lunch [he said, skilfully avoiding beginning a paragraph with a conjunction] we went to the one-horse town’s main tourist attraction. Le Temple sur Lot is home to the French national waterlily collection. What’s that if not a show-stopper?

The main show-stopper may be the French for waterlily, which was a word completely unknown to us: nénuphar. I doubt that we’ll be dropping that into day to day conversation.

In 1875, Joseph Bory Latour-Marliac began the nursery for the propogation and commercialization of hardy waterlilies. At the World’s Fair in 1889, he displayed his new-fangled plants, which were unveiled along with the Eiffel Tower that year, and which caught the eye of Claude Monet. The rest, as they say, is artistic history.

We cycled into town and then out to the waterlily nursery where, we were gobsmacked to find, not a single bicycle stand that we could lock our cycles to. This is more or less unheard of these days, particularly sur le continent. Carefully avoiding the thorny subject of bikes, we coughed up out entrance fees and went in to go oo-ah at the nénuphars. As well as lilies, the garden sported a bridge which should look familiar to Monet fans.

With all that water around, I thought I might go oo-ah at some dragonflies, too. There were some but nothing that would occasion an ooh-ah. There was, however, the most enchanting small, young tree frog, which I was very surprised to see. We were used to seeing these at our favoured campsite in Fanjeaux but they disappeared after a particularly severe winter. ‘T was nice to see one again.

Les Mathes really is not our natural habitat. The area is packed with fun-fair establishments and campsites with water slides to attract Satan’s Little Disciples. Were it not for the excellent oyster fishery around La Tremblade, we probably would not be here. In season, we really would not want to be here and the many cycle tracks would be rammed. Mercifully, this is off-season.

Yesterday, we cycled to La Tremblade and found a very pleasant seafood eatery which included the best whelks I’ve ever tasted accompanied, amongst many other delicacies, by langoustines that were perfectly cooked – so often not the case.

As far as I was concerned, that was it; having had my plateau de fruits de mer, I could’ve moved on. Francine, however, was keen to revisit the Phare de la Coubre, a lighthouse with 300 steps up to the light platform itself. Why not? We’d first visited it many more years ago than we can remember or, indeed, calculate. That trip predated any modern technical stuff like blogging, so looking it up is not an option. Suffice to say that we were much younger and fitter then and the 300 steps would’ve been less daunting.

Having no alternative agenda, we’d have another bike ride. Off we pedalled and found a route along a track through some woodland. Before reaching the lighthouse Francine yelled “stop”. She’d spotted some orchids, which turned out to be red Helleborines, beside the track. In common with many common names for wild flowers, the description of “red” really is a misnomer. Nonetheless, they were delightful.

Once at the lighthouse, Francine coughed up her admission fee and clambered up to the observation point. There’s an etiquette involved on the spiral staircase – those going up give way to those descending, pulling in to a handy window recess to let them pass. There’s a man to brief you an how to do it.

There is apparently another quite local lighthouse, Phare de Cordouan, pipping this one with 301 steps so Francine felt a bit cheated.

The sky had begun the day overcast and never cleared, remaining grey all day. Indeed, on our way back to Frodo via La Palmyre, just to ring the changes, a few drops of rain fell but happily it came to nothing.

Tomorrow the forecast isn’t any better.

Yesterday was getting a bit long – no, still 24hrs – so I’m taking a leaf out of the cricketing manual and resuming after tea break.

There are quite a few privet hedges on site in full flower and Frodo’s pitch is surrounded by them. Privet has an intoxicating aroma and it is a wonderful attractor of insects.I was quite excited to see a Hawk-moth arrive and flit around feeding on the privet flowers. While I kept track of it, Francine fetched my camera and I was even more excited when I realized that it was not our “normal” Hummingbird Hawk-moth (Macroglossum stellatarum), but a Broad-bordered Bee Hawk-moth (Hemaris fuciformis). It’s only the second time I’ve encountered one, the other occasion being in Rosnay, France. The wings are quite spectacular.

We were also entertained by a family of Robins. A youngster with a speckled (as opposed to red) breast was hopping around by the privet looking painfully cute. There was still a vestige of the gape showing around its beak. Every now and then an adult would turn up and feed it.

Wildlife interlude over, we decided to cycle the modest 5kms into La Palmyre for a look see. I unloaded the bikes from the carrier and, not too surprisingly, discovered that my front tyre was once again flat. Time to break out the brand new spare, correctly sized (I hoped) and correctly valved inner tube.

I took the wheel apart to find a tyre once again covered in lurid green goo. As feared, my patch had partially come unstuck, presumably when it stretched to take up the slack in the larger tyre. I chucked it away and fitted the new tube, leaving me with one spare. The only point of note was that this Schrader valve was noticeably shorter than those on bike inner tubes at home. Nonetheless, it worked and I soon had a fully inflated front wheel replaced in the bike.

We went to visit a scintillating La Palmyre. Very little was happening but then, it is off-season. It was now 17:00 and even the bar was less appealing for a drink than returning to Frodo.

And [lose another 100 pts] so to today. Today dawned overcast but was supposedly the best, weatherwise, of the remaining days this week; it was forecast to brighten up. So, this would likely be our best chance to go in search of a Plateau de Fruits de Mer. We knew where we wanted to go: La Tremblade, where the oyster boats come in.

My front tyre had remained beautifully inflated and we cycled the 12kms or so to La Tremblade. It took us a while to locate the precise place but we were soon cycling along a dead straight channel lined with shacks, in varying states of repair, and moored boats reached by wooden jetties on stilts.

Examining the menus on offer, we chose one with an appealing plateau and with some customers – always a good sign: La Cabane Bouron. The waiter was a jolly chap who made sure that we understood everything on the menu before taking our order. We were both soon making a complete mess with half a crab, prawns, langoustines, whelks, winkles, clams, oysters and tiny brown shrimp. I must say that the house-cooked whelks were the best I’ve ever tasted (I’m sure I detected baie rose having been used in the cooking broth) and the langoustine, which frequently get slightly overcooked and go pappy, were also excellent.

Before we cycled the return 12kms, I complimented the waiter whilst paying; he seemed pleased and passed my thoughts on to the chef.

Safely back at Frodo, there’s a chance that I may finally be over all the problems caused by last year’s bicycle difficulties in Spain.

We had spent our final evening in Arçais over a very convivial BBQ with our friend. Convivial it may have been but it also felt a little dangerous since one of the tripod legs of the BBQ was prone to collapse. I managed to navigate the issue and produce food – not for the first time yours truly had been volunteered as BBQ chef.

For one reason and another Frodo had become a bit of a potted plant in Arçais but, after six nights, it was time to move on. We had paid up before attending our BBQ.

We planned a shopping trip at the Super-U in nearby Magné. Since it is a large supermarché, as well as finding supplies for a few days, I was keen to see if it had some replacements for my incorrect, problem bicycle inner tube. Once I found the bicycle section, I also found an array of inner tubes [chambre à air] covering an array of wheel diameters and tyres sizes. Joy upon joy, not only was there a “700/38C” tube but these were also available with a Schrader valve, which the French seem to refer to as grande valve, the Presta valve being a petite valve. So, it seems that it’s the Spanish who don’t “do” Schrader valve tubes for 700 [a.k.a. 28”] wheels.

France: 1 – Spain: 0

We bought two of the Shrader variant, one to replace my too narrow [now repaired but for how long?] tube and also one of the Presta variant for Francine since her bike uses Presta but she was carrying one of the Spanish incorrect size spares. For good measure we threw in a new pack of puncture repair patches which all seem to be self-adhesive these days. Goodbye rubber cement with chalk to stop it sticking to the inside of the tyre casing. Let’s hope I don’t have to find out if the adhesive works.

We were off to the area on the west coast around Les Mathes where, many years ago we had enjoyed a very comprehensive Bateau de Fruits de Mer at the fishing port of La Tremblade. See, the French can make puns – it was a plateau but served in a boat. Since a Plateau de Fruits de Mer is as rare as hen’s teeth in the UK, we were keen to try and repeat the experience.

Our short journey of just 120kms took us past a couple of interesting sights. First up was the old Rochfort-Martrou Transporter Bridge [Pont Transpordeur], built between 1898 and 1900, over the Charente river. The road section raises to allow the passage of ships beneath. It is now a listed construction. Beside it these days is the more modern road bridge that we have come to expect. The old construction looks magnificent, though, and is still the way for bicycles to cross the river.

Further along the road towards Les Mathes is an area where every pylon through a marshy region is adorned by a large Storks nest. At this time of year the large Stork nests are themselves adorned by large Stork chicks which can occasionally be seen exercising their wings preparing to fledge. They are an intriguing sight.

The Arçais campsite over our last weekend had become very busy, it having been a long weekend spanning a French public holiday. We thought the rush should now be over but were a little concerned since we were heading for a 30-pitch aire naturelle.

All was well, though, there were plenty of free spaces.

There is a decent proper boucherie in Damvix – there’s really very little but a basic co-op in Arçais so we decided to take a longer route along the side of the Sèvre Niortaise river into Damvix for some culinary supplies.

Going through the campsite gates I noticed my front tyre was again soft; not flat but noticeably soft. “Bother”, said Pooh, frustratedly. Once again I spun around and returned to Frodo.

The tyre was not completely flat but down to about 15psi. Normal running pressure is about 50psi. Using the compressor, I blew it back up, watched to see if air was leaking at an alarming rate (it wasn’t) and set off again, heart in mouth praying that I wouldn’t have to walk back pushing a disabled bike. I did have the compressor with me in case that helped me but if the patch let go, it probably wouldn’t.

My tyre seemed to hold up all the way to Damvix, a journey of about 10kms so, if I still had a leak, hopefully it’s a slow one.

We raided the boucherie, which suddenly got quite busy, for what looked like some rib-eye steak as well as a selection of sausages that might be suitable for a BBQ chez notre amie. Opposite the bar which looked inviting for a drink, was a van selling oysters. A dozen #4s were a mere €4.50. Well, it had to be done. Once again a dozen turned out to be 13. I attempted to explain “a baker’s dozen” to the bemused French oyster lady. Tricky subject: “douzaine de boulangere”?

After our refreshing drink enabling us to return with a still inflated front tyre, our oysters would do us nicely for lunch with Frodo’s trusty oyster shucker. I must say that this batch of smaller #4s were considerably easier, for me anyway, to shuck than the larger #2s we bought at Piriac-sur-mer. My hands and wrists were grateful. These were delicious, considerably less salty than those from Piriac, too.

We’ve been languishing in Arçais for a few days catching up with our friend that we last saw at a remembrance gathering for her husband last year. We’ve had a good time catching up.

I’ve also had to catch up with a hangover from last year’s trip to Spain when, for what seem like complex reasons, I’d ended up with the wrong inner tube in my bike’s front wheel. It’s wrong on two counts. Firstly, the valve is wrong – it’s one of those horrible Presta (high pressure) valves instead of a car-type Schrader valve (unavailable in Spain for my size of wheel). Secondly, the tube is narrower than the tyre really requires but it seems to expand to fill the tyre well enough. Oh, my incorrect inner tube is supposedly also one filled with goo designed to plug small punctures.

My bike hasn’t been used much over winter but the Marais Poitevin is decidedly cycling country so we’ve been out pedalling.

This morning I clambered back on my trusty steed to discover a flat front tyre. “Bother”, said Pooh, politely. I spun about, returned to the welcoming back-end of Frodo and dug out my puncture repair stuff. I removed the front wheel from an upended bike and set about removing both tyre and inner tube.

‘T was a messy business; the tyre casing was filled with lurid green goo which had leaked out of the punctured tube. Naturally, the outside of the tube itself was also covered in green goo. It seems that the goo had failed to plug what looked like a pretty small pin-prick of a puncture. What it did do was act as a great indicator of where the puncture actually was – spot the bubble of green goo.

I cleaned up the inside of the tyre and the outside of the tube, though I was concerned that remnants of the goo might stop a patch adhering to the tube. Nonetheless I had no option but for go for it.

It did seem to work but I had another concern: being technically too narrow for the tyre, the tube would have to expand considerably to take up the slack. I wondered if the rubber patch could cope with such expansion and remain fixed.

The proof of the pudding was in the riding and we went back out for another pedal. With not a little relief, both I and the bike seemed to survive.

When we get back home I really must get the correct inner tube for my front wheel, both valve type and thickness, along with a spare or two. I’m also considering getting different tyres since the ones I have are a “sloppy” fit to the rims – no tyre levers needed. Once deflated they more or less fall off the rim and tend to blow off in random places around the rim while you are trying to inflate them.

Last year at about this time we were at Arçais for our friend’s celebration of life, a friend who had sadly passed away from Covid early in 2024. Now being on the west coast of France in the vicinity, it seemed a good idea to call in and visit the family home again. Besides, there are a couple of campsites in France that feel a bit like home to us and the one at Arçais is one such.

Before leaving our serpentine site in the late morning, we walked along the coastal promenade in the opposite direction. Here, there were a couple of items of interest. First, there were concrete coastal defence bunkers, one of which was being restored. I’m familiar with the Atlantic Wall developed by one A. Hitler in WWII but I was completely surprised to learn that some of these defences dated from the Napoleonic war around 1810. Others were from around 1900, the only timely reference to which that I could find was the Franco-Prussian war. (Don’t quote me, though.)

More interesting to me and certainly much more photogenic was one of a series of fishing shacks scattered along this coast which would lower large, square nets into the water when the tide was at a suitable height to catch fish, possibly the flat fish that bury themselves in the sandy bottom.

Having had enough of being blown about by the onshore wind, we retired to Frodo to hit the road and make for Arçais about 195kms distant, where our friends lived.

Most of the journey was plain sailing on an autoroute and we made it to nearby Magné by about 13:30 to refuel and fill the fridge with a few days worth of food at a Super-U.

Restocked, we headed the last 10kms or so to Arçais where we reacquainted ourselves with Dom, le guardian, selected a pitch (the same one we’d had last year) and got Frodo settled.

With the sun shining, we sauntered along one of the marais poitevin’s many canals to our friend’s house, hoping that she’d be in. I saw not a single dragonfly – two damselflies but not one dragonfly. In the past, this stretch of water had been richly populated. I’d noticed a seriously reduced population last year but now it seemed non-existent. Our friend, who was in, reinforced our impression by noting that she hadn’t seen any, either.

The catastrophic drop off in dragonfly population has me very confused. This marsh is called the Venice Verte, “Green Venice”, because the water used to be covered in green duck weed. That was when the local sewage system apparently discharged into the various canals. At that time, the area was richly populated by dragonflies. We understand that a “proper” sewage system was relatively recently installed and the waterways consequently cleaned up. The green duck weed has totally disappeared and there is now nothing green about green Venice. Neither is there a strong population of any dragonflies. Now, I’d have thought that cleaning up the water would have improved the situation for wildlife but the opposite seems to have been the case. The insect population has crashed. Consequently, the birdlife which relies on insects for food has also taken a noticeable hit. It’s bizarre.