words by Williams

Wednesday May 17

We’re in the Loire valley with its vineyards and chateaux, so we’re determined to see something other than motorways and tollbooths. We’re heading for an Aire de Mon Village - a kind of upgrade on an ‘ordinary’ Camping-Car Park stopover - in the small town of Ligueil south of Tours.

But first we’re taking a bit of a detour. Cal’s researched the Chateau de Villandry, which promises a tour of the grand house and spectacular formal gardens.

Me and Maisie Wazey are on the verge of falling out. She’s prone to sending us up rat-runs because as yet there’s no way of telling her that actually we’re a bit bigger than your average small city car.

She does it to me later in the day, but for now, she’s behaving as we head alongside the Loire to Villandry via a quick dart on the motorway.

The chateau and gardens certainly live up to their billing and, as we’re finding is not untypical in France, there’s a dedicated parking space for motor homes.

It’s early in the season, so the car park’s not that busy and, apart from a busload of Germans blocking the route from the main entrance to house itself, the house tour is hassle-free. Highlight for me was the tricky windy stairs up to the top of the keep. The views of the garden below are amazing.

We break the trip into two, with the house first, a croque monsieur second and the gardens third. As we’re going round, we think of Cal’s dad, George, who loves his chaotic garden, which is crammed with flowers and veg. There are six formal layouts here, representing different facets of love. The borders are planted with salad leaves and vegetables and the colours are as spectacular as any flowers. 

We buy George some seeds so he can have a little piece of Villandry back home in Telford. Maybe we can get him to reorder his garden, at least in a way which means he’s less likely to trip over something and do himself a damage.

As we arrive in Ligueil I’m convinced Maisie Wazey is trying to do me damage, too. Turns out the tiny roads she’s directing us down ARE the actual way to the Aire. I think if I could actually argue with her, she’d be like the woman at the car hire counter talking to Steve Martin’s character in Planes Trains and Automobiles. I’ve no doubt it wouldn’t go well. 

We arrive, and, hey-ho, we’re even successful at negotiating our way into the site via the clever talking post doobry.

The other thing that hates me is the Hozelock-style push connector that links the fresh water tap to the hose. Hozelock-style is an obvious hint that the connector’s not engineered to that specification. It leaks and sprays me all the time we’re replenishing the on-board water supply. Very funny. Ha-bloody-ha.

We spend the early evening at Le Bistrot, which looks like the only functioning pub in town. It seems the way of things that people just say ‘bonjour’ as they pass as we sit outside with a bottle of local wine.

We round off the evening by buying one of those pizzas that say pizza’s not really a French speciality. I manage a slice and a couple of potato croquettes. Cal is disgusted. “You ordered it,” she says. It’s what you do isn’t it? You buy food sight-unseen all the time and trust that it’s going to be edible. You can’t be right all the time, eh?

Thursday May 18

Maisie’s at it again on the way to our next stop at the Flower Campings site at L’Abri-Côtier near Saint Nazaire sur Charente, close to La Rochelle.

As we get closer, she’s sending us up the rat-runs again. I’m getting used to stopping to let anything wider than something quite slim go past.

Actually, it’s pretty good practice for when we actually arrive at the site. There are advantages to having tall hedges around tight pitches. I’m sure. There’s a lot of them at L’Abri Cotier. It means that as you arrive or leave you become the entertainment for whoever’s around. 

We successfully negotiate reversing onto our pitch, but only because the pitch opposite is empty.

It at least affords us the luxury of watching a young couple arrive there and waltz their way around a pitch which has the added obstacle of a random tree at the edge. They do a grand job, despite our advice. We applaud, which in hindsight might seem ironic. It’s not meant to be. This is a fraternity.

A tiny niggle is that the electric hookup is shared among four pitches, which means you have to go across someone else’s pitch to connect. First world problems, I suppose.

We’re in, we’re settled and, as we watched Remi and Linguini on DVD last night because we’re in France, our evening meal is ratatouille with steak.

Friday May 19

It’s a roasting hot day, the sun is thrashing it down and I’m still refusing to wear the flamboyant Damgan market hat. Cal’s insisting on wearing flip-flops and a strappy top. This is not going to end well, I fear.

Reason is, we’ve decided to walk into Port des Barques, a village on the edge of the Charente estuary with views, we’re told, to the Ile de Madame and Fort Boyard, once home to a TV reality challenge show snarkily hosted by Leslie Grantham.

It’s a mere 3.5km there. Google maps says it’s about 41 minutes. Cal’s wearing flip-flops. No way it’s 41 minutes under a blazing sun - albeit in a bit of a breeze.

We arrive at the brasserie L’embarcadère panting like like John Mills and Co in Ice Cold In Alex thirsting for cold beer. The hostess is lovely. We chat Franglais. We drink beer. All’s good.

The mouth of the estuary isn’t going to make any brochures. The water looks muddy like a blocked drain. People are scooting about in yachts, though, so it can’t be too bad.

Now, fortified and weakened in equal measure by alcohol, we walk 3.5km back in the hot sun. Cal’s in flip-flops. It would not be gentlemanly to abandon her, I tell myself, only half convinced.

Apart from anything else, she’s mozzie-bait and the first bites always swell up something horrible. She’s itchy, and scratchy, and hot, and… actually surprisingly cheerful. It’s me that’s turned slightly niggly.