Travels in the Van 2023: Week 10

Wednesday 19th - 22rd April: Roquebrun - Gignac

Instead of the constant campsite hopping we did in Portugal in Spain, there is a semi-conscious change to stay a bit longer and relax into an area, as long as there are enough cycle routes to explore. After four nights at Roquebrun, we head out into the world again. Richard in particular expresses a reluctance to go – the view from the campsite terrace is extraordinary – but there are places to see new views to experience. 

We do one of our en-route rides from Lamalou-Le-Bain. It's warm and sunny on this 23 mile ride which starts with a climb and then a descent through sleepy villages, and for once we find a coffee stop with a cheerful patron on who gives us tiny chocolate eggs with our espressos. 

The ride over, our next pitch is at Gignac, a family run campsite with rave reviews. It's never a bad idea to check out reviews as I've mentioned before, and always a good idea to read the poor ones as well as the five stars, to get a realistic feel for a place. Not that I leave reviews! Best also to pay in advance for one night only and see how it goes. This one is small and flat, near the river Hérault, that has an impressive bar area with sunshades, tables and chairs, and disco lights. There are mostly chalets, and some pitches for vans and campers like ours. The duo at reception are friendly and charming. ‘Service’ bluffs his way through registration until ‘Sheryl’ comes to look over his shoulder. They're upbeat and funny, he is the animation officer (entertainment) and, prompted by Sheryl, says shyly that at 19:30 there is a music game/quiz at the bar, the winner gets a free aperitif. We laugh and joke about whether it will be music we recognise and after Service recognises Liverpool (my place of birth) on my passport and he and Richard clear up football allegiances he says he will find out if it's possible to watch the game on screen later. We pitch near the solitary ‘bloc sanitaire’ and I eventually find the one washing machine that works in amongst the tools and equipment of the plumber who is doing major refurbishment. We settle in, there's aa aroma around the van (vague review bells start ringing) that are not due to the stables down the road, more like the pitch has been built on an ancient dog kennel. I go for a shower and I'm underwhelmed by the temperature, but it will do. I've discovered also that it pays to test the shower cubicles before totally committing to a particular one and removing all one's clothes in a small space. Finding one that's not a dribble is the goal. Advanced shower sleuthing has also taught me to check the disabled shower which often has a temperature adjustment function as opposed to the fixed temperature push-button control. This I discovered on day three here. We're tired after the ride so don’t drift to the bar area, hoping that there are others who will help Service achieve an audience for his quiz. A quick scout around the campsite shows that there are lots of cars. Richard wanders over later to check out the football situation. He and Service ‘enjoy’ watching Man U get hammered by Seville 3-0 (well, Service does) by connecting Service’s PC to the screen. 

The following day there's a busyness about the camp. There seems to be more staff in turquoise aertex shirts than campers, and a couple of golf carts moving around. At 10:30ish a thumpy techno bass line reverberates around the place. This is the second time it's occurred to me that, in establishment that employs youngsters for their enthusiasm, someone feels that they have to play energising music loudly to keep their spirits up. The first time this happened was a year or so ago at the Wye Valley Smokery one Sunday morning. We called in for breakfast and a nose around the upmarket deli. The clientele is elderly mostly, the staff, young – and the loud music excruciating! Motivating for the staff, perhaps, but off-brand for the old codgers like us. 

And here we are again, but no matter, we're off on a bike ride through vineyards and villages with the most gorgeous colour pallette of faded shutter paint, and intricate architectural detail. But on our return, a new feature of this cheery family campsite is a golf cart with a loudhailer informing the handful of visitors, with great enthusiasm, that there is to be another event this evening. I am wracked with guilt at my British curmudgeonliness. We hide, preparing the phrase ‘not our cup of tea’ should we be spotted. I feel for them, the staff who need to entice people to the bar in order to do their jobs well. It's not high season yet by any stretch, the facilities are still in preparation, campervan couples are usually the least sociable of punters – and it's a bit cold and rainy. Their imagined disappointment is almost more than I can bear. There's something creepingly oppressive about this forced cheerfulness, even the strimmer cutting back, the already sparse scrub is jarring. I can't seem to raise a smile from our few direct neighbours either. But taking the rough with the smooth is part of the adventure. 

We complete our last ride in the Gignac area, through quiet towns, high up over a moor into the wet clouds, and then, as if leaving the mood up there, descending to busy, buzzy Saint Guilhem-le-desert, full of life and people. Picking up the history of Languedoc slowly over the last week, I re-listened to a couple of ‘The rest is history’ podcasts, about the Cathars and this region, and get stuck into Labyrinth by Kate Mosse. I'm half convinced by this way of doing things; visiting places first, and then the historical penny dropping. But now I want to return to Beziers and Castres and all the other places that were razed in the Heretic wars from 1209 and survived other waves of bloody, brutal history. 

Sunday 23rd April: Gignac

We survive the last night at Gignac and eat out at a lovely friendly restaurant in town, escaping the Saturday night fever of techno beat at the empty campsite bar. We leave in the morning without looking back (and possibly without my set of Van keys!) and are now enjoying a rest day in the woodland setting of the municipal campsite at Sommieres, and the sun is out again, there’s company all around, enjoying the birdsong in peace and quiet amongst the wild flowers. 

It rains all evening, briefly stopping long enough for a walk around town on a very quiet Sunday evening. And long enough for a top to bottom search of the van for the missing keys. I always take them with me when leaving the van. They're always in my handlebar bag on the bike or in my jersey pocket, and in the glove compartment or on the seat waiting to go in the glove compartment when we're back from a ride. I had them in my waterproof jacket inner pocket when we went for a meal, and I'm convinced they're in the van. I surprise myself by letting it go. We've phoned the las campsite and will phone the restaurant in the morning.   

Monday 24th April: Sommières

A new day brings the sunshine and a bike ride, and I go to unlock the bikes while Richard makes the now legendary ham and cheese sandwiches. We only have one set of keys, Richards, and as I reach for them in the cupholder space in the dashboard, where he always keeps his, they seem to be sitting quite high. What was lost now is found. No recriminations. No blame. Just a lovely day for a bike ride.

La Voie Verte is a converted railway line, well used by dog walkers all kind cyclists and lots of rollerbladers, all are greeted with a cheery bonjour, and all reply. We have a chat with the Swiss couple who are camping in a tent next to us about their impressive ride today. I make spag-bol in the van, a first (don't quite know why I am so pleased about that!). The only jarring thing about the evening are the sounds coming from the Arenas next door. It's a bullring. There was a lot of shouting and an occasional moo. Lots of of shouting and jeering and lots of children. This was quite upsetting. I caught a glimpse of the cattle truck round the back of the arena, and the men and boys. old and young, farmers I suppose. It made me sad.

Tuesday 25th April: Sommières - Alès

At the last campsite, the hi-di-hi one, and this one, there has been birdsong all night. I make a mental not to check it out on the Web. We're packing up to leave his morning after Richard has a quick meeting, so I go for a quick walk along the river to the old Mill, I notice that the door to the Bullring is unlocked, and have the courage to step inside. There are no bloodstains on the sand, and really the sounds were not bellows of agony. I see a sign up saying Taureaux Piscines et Mousses, tous les Lundis soir. Bull swimming pool makes no sense to me, so I add that to the list of things to look up. 

We drive and reach a rather up market campsite just outside along the Le Galeizon River at Cendras. We take a pitch in the daisies again, and it dawns on me that the last two campsites have not been strimmed down to bare earth, and are better for it. It's perfect cycling territory and perfect cycling weather. Back at camp, I navigate the washing machine and while that's going take my first dip this year in the gloriously clean and empty swimming pool. I half regret this later, when muscles I've not been using, complain a bit. It felt good at the time.

I've really enjoyed being able to join the Dark Angels tuesday night gathering on zoom, to share inspiring poems and gather my thoughts in some on the spot writing exercises. It's always a joy to see how others respond and share laughter and the occasional tear.

Wednesday 26th April: Alès - Avignon

I didn't sleep well I thought - the birdsong, nice though it is, and aches and pains from the swimming or the ride stopping me getting to sleep - my fitbit says otherwise. A bit of stretching sorts it out, before we do another route in this lovely countryside. It takes us through some tiny villages and lager towns. In La Grand-Combe there are a couple of visual clues and then the Zone Économique Humphry Davy and a sign to a Musee du mineur which tell us we're in the Mining Valley of this part of France. I look it up over a coffee and baguette in the market square, busy o market day. I was looking for a Welsh connection, under the misapprehension that Humphry Davy was Welsh. He's not. He's Cornish. I was brought up believing that the Davy lamps or Welsh miners lamps as they're commonly known were invented by a Welshman - what do you know? Anyway the last coal was brought up from underground here in 1984.

The ride is very varied and we stop in the hope of a beer in the small village of Saint Julien-de-Cassagnas, following the signs for Auberge Chez Pascal, and are very disappointed it's Fermé. The dog comes out to see us though, which is something. Our sandwiches are compensation, as is Rapunzel's tower in the courtyard. 

On the way to Avignon later, I find out that the birds that sing all night are nightingales of course, and that Taureaux Piscines is some bizarre 'sport' of chasing young bulls or cows around an arena into a paddling pool. No harm is done to them or blood spilt, not theirs or that of their tormentors, as their horns are tipped.  Not convinced myself, the men we saw through the fence had long pointy sticks, and I was brought up not to tease animals. Sounds like a rather bizarre Jeux sans Frontiere idea. I've still not uncovered the meaning of Mousses.