Tour De France not what it seemed

To start with I was very impressed when the policeman who was trying to give me a parking ticket mentioned the Tour De France. I was quite impressed that he knew of our plans; ie that the family France were touring France. However, it was not as it seemed. It transpired that there were a bunch of (perhaps?) drug crazed cyclists riding around France who were about to travel down the road that we wanted to take. This is a very big thing for the locals who turn out in droves to see a bunch of stupidly clad bikers cycle past. Clearly there is very little real entertainment available in rural France. After a massive five-hour build up, with almost every conceivable road closed, it all happens in about 20 seconds. I can think of something else much more pleasurable that has the same time frame, but that is another matter.

The gendarme did not seem to understand that there would be no danger as Bluebell the camper is very slow and I told him that I would be extra careful not to knock and cyclists off their bikes, but he was adamant, we had to find a different route.

It was when I suggested that as they were inconveniencing me, I was going to park where I was in the traffic caused by their closing the road until the road was open again, but one look at his truncheon and his gun, plus the dreaded pen for the parking ticket was sufficient for me to allow him to get away with his impertinence.

This was most inconvenient as we were trying to reach St Guihelm Le Desert in the Herault region, to the west of Montpellier and the silly cycle race appeared to cross our tracks.

Eventually we made it to a place called Gignac, where we made camp with Bluebell. The expression “making camp” should not be confused with the affectations of Mario, the hotel manager at La Fauvelle in Thuir where we had spent a splendid evening and night on Saturday. That he is gay, as is his partner, Andreas, (otherwise there could be trouble) is undeniable and bestows up him an innate sense of style and attention to detail, making our stay there especially refreshing after the privations of our own style of camping.

Have to dig this one up and start again.

I have finally solved the issue with the photograph that did not want to cooperate with me for inclusion in this column, and I show it today. It was taken of the swimming pool disaster at Salvador Dali’s house, and I venture to suggest is one of the main reasons it is still on the market. Some foolish designer has made it wide enough for just one person to swim. How shortsighted of him or her. Surely this cannot be the work of Salvador himself?

A stiff march up the Georges of the Herault this morning is planned, subject to the weather which has been very un-July like, even chilly enough yesterday for that nice lady decorator to reject rather forcefully my suggestion of where to stay. When searching for a camp site, I saw A naturist camp site nearby. I can see no problem with communing with nature and other like-minded people, and can see no reason why temperature should play any part in her rejection.

Later we will break camp (you see how technical I have become) and head back into deepest Provence aiming for Le Baux De Provence.

Another day and another avoidance of any sort of plug for Currencies Direct. You can see that I am taking my vacation seriously.

Chris France