Sharing Showers with Frogs

by Nicky Carter

Chapter 2 – Je Ne Comprehend Pas

It was late when the Barfluer docked at Cherbourg, in Northern France. A strong head wind and semi-rough seas slowed our trawl across the English Channel from Poole and it was dark when we arrived.

A short burst of ear-shattering bells trilled out around the decks. Passengers, who had been sipping the cold remains of what looked like coffee from polystyrene cups, leapt to their feet unsteadily and started a stampede. Though it was not to the life jackets or emergency gathering points, but the stairwells leading to the hold.

The young, the old and tired looking truck drivers crashed down the stairs like a herd of raging bulls to their vehicles below. Derek and I followed slowly at a safe, not to be crushed, distance.

The noise in the hold was deafening. A cacophony of vehicle doors slamming, engines revving, ferry machinery whirring and the high-pitched Gallic yells of men in luminous jackets was deafening. Officials, looking officious spread out and stationed themselves at the head of each of the four rows of vehicles. Then, as the huge metal doors of the ferry were winched open, they waved their arms wildly, stepping sideward for the expected dust churning, gravel turning squeal of white van and estate car wheels, which were heading for the booze cruise warehouses of Normandy.

We’d been last vehicle to be loaded onto the ferry in Poole four and half hours’ earlier, but somehow had managed to end up at the head of a row. Derek hoped this didn’t signify we would be first to disembark. He didn’t want the job of leading the way off the ferry. It was dark and the gear stick, on the right hand side, was unfamiliar. He hoped the short, port official with three day’s worth of stubble, was gesturing wildly at the some other poor sod.

He wasn’t. The short guy, with a chin full of stubble, stabbed his finger repeatedly at Derek, threw his hands up in the air, marched up to the bonnet and ranted a while in French.

“ALLEZ, VITE. ALLEZ, VITE, (go, quickly, go, quickly)” he shouted with growing impatience.

Reluctantly Derek released the handbrake and we rolled forward. The van moved momentarily later. Derek experienced night blindness as we emerged from brightly lit hold into the pitch-black night. In his temporarily handicapped state he took care to inching the motor home forward and down the slippery exit ramp into the vast confines of Cherbourg Port.

There wasn’t a nice big sign saying Cherbourg Town This Way or Exit Over Here. Just kilometres of low-level concrete barriers painted red and white, set out like a maze. We didn’t have a clue where to go and there didn’t appear to be a clear defined entry to the complicated roadway system.

Derek finally found a gap in the concrete barriers large enough to squeeze the motor home through. A convoy of 11 motor homes followed blindly behind us. They trundled along merrily unaware we didn’t know where we were going. Round and round the maze we went like a motorized conga.

“Bloody idiot,” Derek spat out. His irritation directed at the ten tonne truck, which was hurtling towards us at break-neck speed. The driver was flashing his headlights and honking his horn. It took a few moments for the scene, which was unfolding before my eyes, made sense.

“RIGHT,” I screamed at Derek, my eyes pinned open with fear.

I assumed the Oh Shit We’re Going to Crash Position – legs and arms curled round my head - as close to the torso as possible - and eyebrows raised so far up my forehead they look like new growth hair. I was ready for impact.

“WE DRIVE ON THE BLOODY RIGHT!” I screamed as the lights merged into one.

Derek swerved the motor home to the right hand side of the road and mumbled a few expletives under his breath as the French-plated truck went speeding by.

“Bloody frogs,” he ranted as the truck passed safely by. Derek wasn’t and isn’t a Francophile. He was tired and frustrated.

He pulled over; hoping one of the motor homes behind would take the lead and deliver us to the safety of the port’s car park.

“Bugger,” he said looking in the wing mirror. They’d all pulled in behind us.

After a few minutes stalemate, Derek turned the ignition key, started the motor home, indicated and pulled out. The procession did the same. They followed us religiously as we swerved round roundabouts, dipped and flashed highlights, turned left and right and finally lined up alongside us when we made it the dimly lit stretch of asphalt that was to be our home for the night.

While Derek put the kettle on, I went outside for a look and a cigarette. Mist from the English Channel hung low over the flat-roofed block of toilets. A green, neon supermarket sign cast an eerie glow as it flashed intermittently. Empty crisp packets and soft drinks cans rolled around in the breeze and I couldn’t help but smile. It was great to be away from Britain, things were SO different.

“Bon jour,” the plump lady in an apron behind the counter greeted us as we entered her small patisserie in the quaint village of Valognes, the first stop on our grand traveling adventure.

We’d parked up in the deserted village square underneath a mature Horse Chestnut tree, laden with conkers the size of tennis balls, and we’d immediately gone in search of ‘real’ French food.

It was early morning, the sky was grey and there was a chill in the air. But not even the murkiest of French mornings could dampen our moods.

The aroma of freshly baked bread and a steady stream of baguette carrying customers led us to the small shop we now found ourselves in. The décor was basic but the baked wares on offer were not. Floor to ceiling shelves were filled with baskets full of cobs, buns, baguettes, boules, brioche, croissants, pain au chocolate and many other odd shaped, sesame seed covered offerings.

The doorbell tinkled as we entered and, as if by magic, the plump lady appeared from behind a worn, brown velvet curtain.

“Bon Jour,” I replied, barely louder than a whisper. It’d been years since I’d spoken any French and I was self-conscious at the rustiness of it. Derek and I had had good intentions of brushing up on our linguistic skills in the 12 months before we starting traveling. But we always managed to find something less mentally demanding to do whenever we opened one of the phrase books.

“What do you want,” the plump lady chirped in super fast French. At least that’s what I thought she’d said. She could have been making a remark about the weather or the state of my hair for all I knew.

“Erm,” I croaked, buying a little time before I had to answer. Her eyes twinkled, a smile spread across her face and I felt her eyes burning into me. Stupid, English tourists I imagined her thinking. I felt embarrassed and wanted to dive into my handbag to retrieve the French phrase book I’d stashed away to confirm the question.

I didn’t though, Derek’s index finger dug into my ribs and I blurted out, “Deux baguette,” pointing at the bread stick with one hand and holding up two fingers with the other, adding a hasty ‘s’il vous plait’ to be polite.

She turned away, sighed and pulled out two baguettes, wrapping a piece of paper round their middle for carrying purposes, and then reeled off the cost. I handed over a 20 Euro note, as I wasn’t exactly sure how much money she’d asked for. She sighed again at the sight of the blue note and disappeared through the moth-ridden curtain. She chose to ignore my outstretched palm when she returned moments later. Instead she placed the small denominations notes and coins in a plate on the counter in a dismissive fashion.

“Merci,” I said ungraciously sweeping the change into my burgeoning purse.

As we left the petit establishment, Derek finally summoned the courage to ‘parlez Francais’ and bade the lady, ‘Au Revoir’. His salutations fell flat. The plump lady has already issued her aria.

Butter, Brie and Pate were picked up from the small supermarket across the road. We headed back to the motor home to rustle up some breakfast and consult the French road map for our next destination.

We consumed one of the baguettes; washed down with copious amounts of coffee and then took a stroll around the sleepy village. Derek clicked and flashed his way around, photographing everything around. Shots of ancient, bullet-riddled churches, iron railings decorated with horse’s heads and quaint cottages with shutters.

There were no grey-haired old men sat on park benches - hands folded and resting on equally old walking sticks, any old madams – sweeping brushes in hand cleaning their doorsteps, or even any unruly teenagers hanging around the stone-built bus shelter. Everyone in the village of Valognes was either at work or keeping warm behind closed doors. We stowed the cameras safely away and drove off to find some life.

“Which way do we go,” Derek asked in hurried tones.

“I don’t know,” I answered authoritatively. We had no place to go or any place to be, so the question for me was redundant.

We finally made up our mind to go to St Lo, a town that for centuries staved off attack from its enemies from its dominant position atop a rocky outcrop. The citadel of St Lo has thick stonewalls, which kept out invaders for centuries, but they crumbled under the brutal force modern-day mortar bombs. An estimated 95 per cent of the town was destroyed in the Battle of Normandy in World War II and earned St Lo the nickname City of Ruins.

Following the war the town was reconstructed with wide boulevards; green open spaces and modern day traffic in mind alongside the fragment of the medieval citadel, which survived the bombings.

“Hmmm,” I had no idea, which way we should go. The intersection was confusing; there were too many traffic lights. We wanted to find somewhere to park up, but the roadside spaces we’d passed were too short for the motor home. I studied the map intently, trying to decide.

“Come on, come on. It’s easy to read a map. Which way do we go?” Derek growled with growing impatience, trying to snatch the map from my knee.

“I don’t know. Oh go straight over,” I snapped keeping my eyes glued to the spot on the page. “Just go straight over.”

There was lots of traffic. I felt a little bit stressed out and Derek didn’t help badgering me about my inept abilities at navigating.

“You sure?” he questioned as the lights turned to green.

“Yeah, I think so.”

I thought wrong. Sturdy looking iron bollards flanked a single-track road, which led to a tall, but narrow, stone arched gateway.

“Oh Shit!”

Oh merde indeed, Derek had already committed us to my ill-advised route and we, followed by several small Renaults, headed towards part of the last remaining gates of the ancient citadel walls.

“There should have been a signpost saying no large vehicles,” I wailed at Derek in desperation.

“There was,” he yelled back.

“Why the hell did you go straight over then?”

“YOU’RE THE NAVIGATOR,” he screamed back.

The motor home looked a lot wider than the entrance. There simply wasn’t enough room to turn the motor home around without hitting at least one of the iron bollards. I didn’t think the Renault drivers behind would comprehend a request, never mind agree, to reversing back down onto the busy cross section to let us find an alternative route.

“Go and have a look,” Derek bellowed at me.

I got out of the motor home, tried to ignore the impatient honking of the Renaults’ horns behind, and trotted up to the brown, stone gateway. I stood in the centre of the entrance, marveled a while at the engineering abilities of medieval man then cocked my head to the left, then the right and shrugged my shoulders. There was plenty of height room at the centre of the arch, the width I wasn’t sure.

“It should fit,” I innocently shouted back at him.

“Yeah but what’s on the other side? Derek bellowed out of the window.

I jogged through the archway and into the cobbled thoroughfare beyond and then trotted back. “It’s narrow but I think we should get through,” I gasped out of breath from the exercise.

“Is that think like before?” he asked sarcastically.

I resumed my position under the archway and directed him forward, inch by agonizingly slow inch. Derek clenched the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white. It took five minutes of careful hand waving and shouts of ‘come on’ ‘slowly’ to get the motor home halfway through the gateway.

Then Derek stopped the motor home, got out and had a look himself. There was only a couple of centimetres space between the roof of our motor home and the edge of the gateway.

“Plenty of room,” he declared getting back into the driving seat. Despite the air of confidence in his voice he continued the short journey at a snail’s pace.

As the last half metre of the motor home emerged unscathed a loud cheer erupted from above. Three-stories high, on a rickety looking scaffolding tower, a group of builders were watching our every move. They gave us a round of applause, whistling loudly. I assumed they were cheering my skills directing and curtsied and bowed for a while. Derek assumed they were grateful we hadn’t knocked down the last remaining gateway of their precious citadel.

After negotiating the twisty, narrow cobbled streets of the oldest part of town we managed to find a parking spot, outside an insurance broker’s.

“Maybe we should have bought something a little smaller,” Derek said to himself as he mounted the pavement to ensure passing motorists didn’t bump into our wide load.

St Lo was viewed from behind a lens. Every building, doorway, cat, dog, drain cover and tramp and even the plain, green stone replacement façade of the Cathedral was captured on camera. Even when we partook of two cafés au lait, braving a cold October wind, at a pavement cafe we had to photograph them for prosperity.

We walked around the town until our feet were sore and our bellies growled only seeking shelter in a handy patisserie when misty drizzle turned into full strength rain. It was late in the afternoon, but the glass fronted display counter was still filled with a mouth-watering array of cakes, croissants and pain au chocolat.

It took us five minutes to decide what to have, as there was so much to choose from. It took another couple of minutes for our purchases to be carefully boxed, wrapped and tied up with ribbon.

Back at the motor home we stored them away safely away and decided, as there was still some of the afternoon left, to head southwards.

The rain had stopped when we reached the seaside resort of Granville on the Atlantic coast and the sun was setting.

The receptionist at the campsite, which was only metres from the beach, looked to be in her mid-thirties, had a bad head cold and was eager to get home. She spied our passports and immediately started chatting in English.

“Park anee where. Ere is your key to your electricity box,” she said, locking our passports away in a drawer. “The gate I am locking now,” she continued pushing us out of the cold, damp office into the equally damp, cold night.

We thought it unusual she didn’t fill in any paper work or ask us how long we were staying, but her car was out of sight though before we could let her know it be only one.

We had the campsite to ourselves. Once we’d plugged into the electric box we stood and admired the view. The setting sun had turned the sky red, purple and orange. Waves pounded into the beach and reeds were bent double from the wind howling in off the ocean. It was too cold to stand outside for long and we retreated inside, turned on the electric heater and watched through the window the last rays of light disappear into the sea.

It had been a long day and although we’d intended cracking open a bottle of wine or two, I was tired. My brain was still trying to catch up on all we’d seen, my feet hurt from all the walking and we had all the time in the world for drinking, I argued to Derek as I sloped off to bed.

It was still dark when I woke the next morning. Derek had closed all the blinds on the motor home. I climbed as quietly and gently as I could over him to get out of bed, but he woke.

“What time is it?” he asked sleepily.

“Six,” I replied squinting at the digital clock we had stuck to a cupboard. It came as a great surprise when he pulled back the covers, reversed down the ladder and squeezed passed me to get to the bathroom.

Derek wasn’t what you would call a morning person. It had been some time since he’d been so awake at such an early hour. He would only get out of bed 15 minutes before he was due at work during the week. On weekends he wouldn’t normally surface until after 10 o’clock.

I got dressed, put on my coat and shoes and went outside to have a smoke and contemplate his early rising. I quite expected him to be back in bed by the time I finished my cigarette, but he wasn’t. He was fully dressed. The kettle was whistling and he was busy making coffee when I came in from the cold.

“Wanna go for a walk on the beach?” he merrily asked handing me a plastic cup of Nescafe.

I didn’t really feel like a walk on the beach. The wind was howling and it was whipping up the sand worse than ever, but we had a few hours to kill before the campsite reception opened and we could retrieve our passports.

Granville is set in a sheltered harbour. The beach sweeps round into a steep cliff on top of which the fortified old town nestles. From a distance the town looked impressive. The roofs of the grey-granite hotels, built to house the first wave of tourists in the 19th century, stood out against the early morning sky and the surf crashing against the cliffs created a translucent mist.

We set off along the beach towards the town centre. It was hard going. My feet kept sinking and grains of sand found their way into my trainers. We stumbled along for five minutes or so, before we climbed up to the paved footpath.

By the time we reached the centre of town we’d worked up an appetite, but after a brief scout around we concluded Granville had closed for the season. The neon lights on the casino weren’t flashing and there weren’t any tables or chairs outside the promenade cafes. It was getting on for nine o’clock, I was cold and in need of a hot refreshment.

“Let’s just head back to the van,” I suggested as we took a well-earned rest on a damp bench. “We can always drive back into town later for a better look around with the cameras.”

We didn’t drive back into town later. We had more pressing matters to attend to. We needed to find a supermarket. The baguette we had left had turned into a solid baton; there was no food in the cupboards or any milk in the fridge.

Derek didn’t trust my skills as a navigator after the debacle of the previous day, so he marked out our route carefully with a pencil. Then, like a remedial class schoolteacher he explained, using words of one syllable, how I was to direct us.

Derek and I never enjoyed food shopping at the best of times, but we went religiously, after work during the week – like thousands of others. Every week we moaned about how crowded the aisles were. While Derek pushed the trolley at a snail’s pace I rushed around the store collecting everything we needed, meeting up with him close to the checkouts.

At Avranches we found a supermarket – Champion – and dumped the motor home opposite in a convenient car park. As usual Derek collected the trolley, but instead of racing around we sauntered. We had all the time in the world and the shop was empty, save for us and a lonely looking teenager stuck behind a till.

We emerged into the bright afternoon sunshine, the trolley’s wheels spinning in all directions. Bottles chinked and tins rattled as we heaved the over-laden cart across the road to load up the motor home. Milk, crisps, nuts, croissants, baguettes, butter, Brie, Pate and countless other high-fat, high cholesterol foods were packed away along with a crate of lager and half a dozen bottles of wine.

We made the mistake of entering a supermarket on an empty stomach and filled the trolley with tasty snack food. It wasn’t anything new. The difference was it was half the price of our usual bill. Derek and I like good food. In order to get it we have to eat out. I’ve tried cooking on many occasions but everything I produce in the kitchen turns out the same – either burnt to a crisp or unidentifiable. So we stuck to what we knew.

For the next few days, despite promises to our respective mothers to eat properly, Derek and I ate baguettes, Brie and Pate for breakfast, lunch and dinner with side helpings of peanuts for protein.

By the end of our second week traveling. we deemed it time to dress up and go out to dinner. We booked into a campsite, which had strangely been given a glowing review by one of the guides we had. The site was basic and due to seasonal downpours had become a quagmire. There was no restaurant on site, as the guide had indicated. And it was a couple of kilometres to the nearest village.

I pulled off the high-heeled leather boots I had intended wearing and replaced them with pair sturdy trainers. Then Derek and I set off on foot along the unlit country lane to find the nearest eating establishment.

The nearest was a brightly painted pizza parlour so we walked on by. Shortly afterwards Derek spotted a rusty signpost indicating, in faded paint, the location of a hotel. Undeterred at the distinct probability, judging by the condition of the ancient sign, that the hotel was no longer in existence we investigated.

The three-storey hotel was a picture of faded grandeur. Battered wooden shutters hung precariously at each window swaying in the evening’s breeze. Plaster once painted a vibrant pink, was flaking and bits had crumbled completely off its façade to reveal the brickwork beneath.

An equally ancient a-frame board with a tattered menu attached was set on the pavement outside. We rushed inside to secure a table at what we thought was a typical rural restaurant, where we might meet some local townsfolk on a night out.

The interior matched the exterior. It looked tired and in need of a makeover. The carpet was worn; the paper on the walls faded and ripped in places and there was a distinct smell of damp.

“Bon soir,” the elderly woman said spiritedly. We hadn’t heard or seen her approach and were taken by surprise. She stood, ghost-like in the doorway, blocking our escape.

“Bon soir,” Derek and I replied in unison as she shooed us into the dining room.

It was a drab space devoid of any colour, reminiscent of a school canteen. Tables were lined up in rows with benches either side. The walls were bare, save for the same faded paper of the entrance and there weren’t any other diners.

It did occur to us that it may have been empty because the locals didn’t eat there; that the food may be awful; that the faded décor wasn’t shabby chic, that in fact it was a hovel where only gullible tourists pop in to sample their first meal, succumb to food poisoning and die. But we were too hungry to care.

Our elderly hostess ushered us to a table and waited patiently, arms folded behind her back, while we disgorged our coats. She produced two leather-bound menus as soon as we were seated.

“Ce soir nos specials sont,” she said before we’d had chance to open the menus.

She rhymed off a list of specials but she lost me. I nodded my head knowingly, pretending to understand. I adopted a studious look and tried to convey facially we needed time to consider the options.

“Did you understand that?” Derek asked quietly over the top of his menu when she left the room.

“No,” I admitted. I’d guessed she was telling us the specials. I just hadn’t got a clue what the specials were.

“Oh,” he said dejectedly.

“Donnez moi, erm, e la,” I struggled when the elderly hostess returned. I pointed at our menu choices and she scribbled them down.

“E pour boisson,” she queried.

“Une bouteille de, erm, ugh, vin de la table rouge,” I said proudly.

She cringed at the pronunciation but returned with a bottle of red table wine.

As our starters arrived so did some more guests. The couple looked to be in their late sixties. Both wore tweed suits. His hair was white and thinning on top. Hers was black and coiffed to an inch of its life.

They bade the elderly hostess ‘bon soir’. She returned their greeting. Then they turned and wished us a good evening too. Our mouths were full so we just nodded in return.

As the evening progressed the restaurant filled up. As each new guest arrived the same ritual was observed. New arrivals greeted the hostess, then each and every diner in turn. Seated guests returned the greeting. To be polite we joined in the little ceremony.

“Bon soir Madame.” “Bon soir Monsieur, Madame.” “Bon soir Madame.” “Bon soir Monsieur.” “Bon soir Madame” “Bon soir Mademoiselle.” Reverberated around the walls of the restaurant like an echo.

My main course had gone cold after we had respectfully welcomed a party of ten. By 11 o’clock the restaurant was full and Derek and I were about to order coffees and more wine, but the ceremony started all over again, as guests began leaving. It was at this point I suddenly realised why meals in France takes so long. It’s not so much the eating as the greeting that takes the time.

We slept late the next morning. The campsite was shutting for the season and the sturdy woman who knocked on our door demanded we left before noon. Derek and I rushed around getting dressed and trying to pack the van up before the midday deadline.

While he carefully stowed away the electricity cable I washed out our coffee mugs. I’d just finished when disaster struck, the plastic mixer tap broke. Water didn’t stop flowing. Actually it increased the pressure. The only problem was the nozzle of the tap, used to funnel water along and down into the sink, snapped off in my hand.

“Bugger, bugger, bugger,” I spluttered trying to stem the tidal wave with one hand and reattached the plastic pipe with the other before Derek found out I’d committed an act of wanton vandalism, accidental or not, on his motor home.

The nozzle wouldn’t screw back into place. It just fell noisily into the stainless steel sink after each attempt. I did contemplate getting the super glue out, but Derek strode in and I had to own up.

He took the news more calmly than I’d imagined and even admitted he’d broken the bathroom tap similarly before we’d left Britain. It had been easy to replace, he said.

We set about trying to locate a nearby motor home dealer. The closest we found was in Laval, which looked to be quite a drive south. With nothing else to do we chartered a course and intended taking a couple of days exploring the countryside getting there.

En route we abandoned our plan of a leisurely drive down when it began to rain. We found the dealership by early evening. The gates were still open and we drove straight in before staff could shut up for the night. We parked between two shiny motor homes and then headed off to find the accessories shop to find ‘un robinet’.

There were plenty of taps on display, unfortunately not the model we required. We needed one with pipes for both hot and cold water. The ones on display only had one or the other. While Derek attracted the attention of an assistant, I practiced my French.

“Je voudrais une robinet avec froid et chaud, s’il vous plait,” I said quietly to myself. I was sure I would get my point across. Unfortunately the smartly dressed young woman who appeared with Derek didn’t comprehend.

“Pardon,” she said, seductively sweeping her long blonde locks away from her face.

“Erm parlez Anglais?” I asked hopefully.

“Ah non,” she replied.

I pointed at the taps on display and repeated tap, hot and cold several times in French. She gave Derek an empathic smile and me a puzzled look. But I got the point across, or thought I had.

She clip-clopped off as fast as her three-inch heels and slim line skirt would permit. She returned with a frail looking man with a shock of white hair. He didn’t speak any English either but knew a lot about taps. He chatted away enthusiastically.

“Monsieur je ne comprehend pas,” I interrupted him. “Voulez vous repetir mais. . .erm, errr. Derek, find the word for slowly.”

I threw him the phrase book and smiled apologetically at the old man. Derek flicked through the pages, slowly, passing his finger over each and every printed word. The old man tapped his foot and nodded his head. The young woman inspected her elegantly manicured fingernails and I looked around uncomfortably in the silence.

“Perhaps I could ‘elp,” the tweed jacketed man drawled. He was tall, had slicked back hair and a large leather handbag on his shoulder.

“If you could we would be eternally grateful,” I babbled. “We want to buy a tap with hot and cold pipes.”

He translated our request to both the smart young woman and the frail old man. They shrugged their shoulders.

“I am sorry. They do not stock this tap. Perhaps you should try anozer dealer in Le Mans.”

How our handsome translator had managed to glean all that from a simple gesture we weren’t sure. But we thanked him for his help and headed outside to the motor home.

We were just about to pull out of the dealership’s car park when we spotted the frail old man jogging towards us.

“Moment, moment,” he shouted waving one arm in the air and clutching his chest with the other. We waited a few moments for him catch his breath then listened in wonder as he rattled away in his native tongue. He made circling motions with his fingers, pointed left and right and only when he smiled proudly did we realise he’d finished.

“Merci,” I shouted through the open window.

“Bon voyage,” he replied with a little wave.

“You got all of that?” Derek asked.

“Not a word. Well . . . a little. I know it had something to do with Le Mans, a roundabout and a set of traffic lights.”

“The way you were nodding I thought you understood. For God’s sake if you don’t understand you should say so. It’s no good just nodding,” he ranted.

“Did you understand any of it? You were nodding too,” I countered.

“Well no, but I only did French at school.”

“So did I! But no, I’ve got to order the coffees, I’ve got ask the questions,” I exclaimed, warming to my theme. “I’ve got to book us into campsite. I’ve got to do everything. It’s my fault I can’t understand what the old geezer was saying. What about you? Eh, Huh.”

“Are you coming onto a period?” he shouted back.

The chauvinistic question didn’t dignify an answer. I folded my arms, twisted round in my seat, stared out of the window.

I was still fuming when we pulled into the car park of a campsite on the outskirts of the picturesque village of St Suzanne, mid way between Laval and Le Mans.

It was a small municipal run site, situated under shadow of the large medieval castle. The gate to the pitches was locked and the door to reception closed. It was Sunday. A type written sign, pinned to the door said the warden would be on site later in the evening. There was also a telephone number for guests to ring to summon a supervisor.

“Go on then,” Derek said, pushing the mobile towards me. “Give them a ring. You know what to say.”

My mouth went dry and I broke out in a sweat. It was the last thing I wanted to do. It was bad enough subjecting people to my rudimentary French in person. It was an entirely different thing doing it over the phone. I was sure I could work out exactly what to say, given a few weeks. It was the thought of trying to translate the reply, which filled me with trepidation.

“You do it. It’s about time you practiced your French,”

“I don’t know what to say. It would be quicker if you did it. They’ll probably speak English anyway.”

“In that case, you ring.”

Derek didn’t answer, but he put the phone back in his pocket and we walked back towards the motor home. It was ridiculous. We were adults but we behaved like children.

“All right,” Derek said sullenly. “We’ll wait for the warden to turn up.”

We waited for a couple of hours and then the urge to explore got the better of us. The motor home parked was parked in front of the reception and headed into the village.

“Be quiet,” Derek hissed as he stared out of the small slit of the van’s blinds. “The warden’s turned up.”

Monday morning, at nine o’clock, the campsite warden, had indeed, turned up. For half hour the woman, who looked like she was on the wrong side of seventy, with a frizzy bush of orange hair, had been circling our van, her hawk-like eyes scanning every inch of the motor home for signs of life.

Normal people would have bounded out of the door, apologised profusely about the position of our motor home, pushed bundles of money into her outstretched hand and be done with it. But who said we were normal?

We stayed inside. She didn’t just look cross she looked well pissed off. We were parked in her car park, blocking the entrance and she’d had to abandon her car at the side of the road. It is, apparently, not the done thing to free camp outside a registered campsite. The last thing either of us wanted was a tongue lashing from an irate Frenchwoman on camping etiquette. We devised a cunning, yet simple plan – we’d leg it.

We waited until the old woman disappeared into her reception then set about our escape. When the coast was clear Derek drew back the curtain, which separates the cab from our living quarters, eased into the driver’s seat and inserted the ignition key. The motor home’s alarm went off. I dived behind the curtain, Derek froze and the elderly Frenchwoman dashed out of reception.

She stood in front of the building, like a seasoned gunslinger from the Wild West – eyes narrowed to slits, legs apart, hands on hips and fingers twitching ready for action.

Derek fumbled in her steely gaze, but finally managed to get the motor home started. Gravel churned and a cloud of dust rose up as he pressed the accelerator as we made our not so quiet exit.

We didn’t find the motor home dealer in Le Mans. In fact we didn’t try. We did however drive into the centre of Le Mans, famous for the annual 24-hour motor racing marathon.

I’d worked in motor sport and I’d always been keen to have a quick look at the track. I’d never been to the big event itself thanks to a continual clash in fixtures. Each year I would find myself stuck at a rain soaked UK circuit while colleagues and friends jetted off to the watch the heavy weights of motor sport battle it out in the toughest test of endurance.

In typical fashion while I was in Le Mans, so was the rain. Derek and I took shelter in the tourist information office, which we located inside a modern glass and steel multi-storey shopping centre. The thought of retracing the circuit, which is run on public roads, in the rain didn’t appeal. I didn’t want to catch a chill and, I reasoned, we could always go some other time.

Derek did however want some shots of the historic town centre. So we jogged back to the motor home, put an extra hour on the parking meter and collected our umbrella. Then, arm in arm we mounted the granite steps at the base of the town’s magnificent gothic and Romanesque cathedral.

While Derek took meaningful architectural photographs I cajoled the local kitties into looking cute for the camera. We walked around the cathedral, taking care not to leave large footprints in the carefully manicured lawns around the bases of its magnificent flying buttresses.

The rain didn’t ease up as we carefully walked down the cobbled streets. We tried to inspect the medieval, half-timbered houses, which jutted out on to the street, but only succeeded in getting wet.

We were on the way back to the motor home when I the first stages of a cold manifested itself.

“He, he, her, choooow,” “Uh shit,” I managed to say, covering my nose and mouth with a hand.

“Dewick, could you go in my bag and get a tissue out,” I said, bending over to stop the mucus spreading down my arm.

“Here,” he said, thrusting something white into my hand.

“What, am I supposed to do with that?” I said staring at the Tampon in my hand.

“Well the adverts say they’re absorbent.”

Other than wipe my nose on my sleeve I have no other choice. Derek had slung my handbag over his shoulder and wandered off. Wonderful. I was wet, my face covered in snot and I was coming down with a cold.

In retrospect October is perhaps not the best time to tour northern France in a motor home. The weather is decidedly inclement and though there are many Aires de Service and campsites, the majority of them close for the winter in, you guessed it, October.

Derek and I found it easy to find campsites with the help of the massive collection of guidebooks we’d invested in. However, on arrival, at most we found large forbidding padlocks on the gates. We spent less and less time wandering around hamlets, villages and towns and more and more time hunting for somewhere safe to park for the night. We drove, east, and then west and sometimes it felt like round in circles looking for campsites with ‘ouvert’ on their gates.

When we were preparing for our trip we didn’t plan a route. We didn’t pre-book any campsites or taken into consideration their closing dates. This was perhaps quite a large oversight on our part.

Wild camping or free camping as it’s sometimes called was of course an option. We’d read many articles on the subject. It’s a simple premise - park up in a lay by, back street of a busy town, supermarket or hotel car park, or even on the beach. But, while you save a few Euros on fees, you swap the security a campsite affords. We’d heard nightmarish tales of travelers who had wild-camped. They had been burgled, gassed or forcibly moved on by the police. We wanted adventures admittedly, and to embrace new experiences, just not that kind.

We finally succumbed to planning a route. It wasn’t based on where we wanted to go or what we wanted to see, but on campsites with year round opening dates. We were heading south towards Spain, a Mecca for motor homers seeking some winter sun.

Our proposed route, when we drew it out on our map, was not the straight line we imagined it would be. It was a large Z, but it was the best we could come up with. Derek didn’t want to spend all his time at the wheel of the motor home. If we drove a maximum of three hours a day, we calculated, we would still have enough time, and daylight, to sightsee at the various locations we would find ourselves at.

After all our planning, it was with great frustration, we found ourselves without a campsite one Sunday evening. We’d set off early enough from the Ile d’Oleron, a small island joined to mainland France by a very long toll bridge. We were heading to Cognac, in the Charente region. The campsite where we intended to stay had recently been inspected and received a good review.

Everything boded well. It had received four stars by the inspectors and the directions were simple and easy to follow. We arrived at the gates just after lunchtime. But there was one major problem. There was no campsite. Admittedly there had been one, at some point, but not in recent years. All that remained was a rusty, weatherworn sign - Camping Ferme.

Out of frustration I threw the offending guidebook out of the open window with shouts of ‘bloody useless’ ‘I can’t believe it’. After a few minutes ranting at its inaccuracies I dutifully got out of the motor home to retrieve it from the puddle into which it had sunk.

Peeling apart pages Derek scrapped away the mud and set about trying to find us an alternative campsite, which didn’t shut its gates a) for the season in October and b) before seven o’clock.

“For god’s sake,” he shouted as launched the soggy guidebook into the air in the direction of his window. It sailed in a graceful arc, bounced off the glass and back into his lap with squelch.

The closest site to us, which was open, was back on the Ile d’Oleron. As Derek wiped mud off his jeans we decided to press on southwards. The road was flat and stretched out in front of us ominously. It was only when the fields either side of us changed from furrows of recently ploughed soil to rows of recently trimmed vines did inspiration hit us – France Passion.

Over 800 winegrowers and farmers all over France all motor homers to park up over night on their land. One slight catch, you can’t just turn up and expect to be accommodated. You have to purchase a Welcome Pack. Hurrah. We had. The folder containing the sticker we had to display in our windscreen, map and booklet featuring all participating properties, was somewhere on the motor home. Where, exactly, I wasn’t sure. So while I hunted around Derek drove.

“Got it,” I shouted eventually, carefully pulling the tattered folder from an overhead locker. The motor home skidded to a halt. Guidebooks cascaded out of the open cupboard, like one of the waterfalls they described within their pages. They bounced one after another off my head before landing on the floor.

No sooner had the weighty texts hit the ground, than the motor home started moving again, backwards and at great speed. While I’d managed to stay standing for the emergency stop, this time I didn’t and pitched forwards landing awkwardly on the pile of strewn books.

By the time I had scrambled to my feet and into the cab, Derek had shut off the engine, and was halfway out of the door.

“Where you going,”

“There!” he said pointing to an imposing Chateau, framed by a set of tall, stone gate posts.

The yellow sandstone building had witch-hat roofed turrets either end, duck-egg blue shutters framed, a long gravel drive way and the name Chateau Brienue. A small hand painted signpost indicated there was a reception and Derek was off to investigate.

I stayed in the motor home and gazed out of the window at the beautiful building and its grounds. The flowerbeds were well tended to, there wasn’t a single weed to be seen peeking through the gravel on the drive. Off to the left there was an orchard where a neat line of caravans was parked. Oh bliss, I thought to myself. We’d stumbled on a Passion participant quite by accident.

Moments later Derek reappeared, accompanied by a lanky, worried looking, denim clad teenager. He looked at the motor home blankly and then returned his gaze to Derek, who was smiling manically. The teenager looked perplexed.

Derek started making odd gestures. First pointing at the motor home, then jabbing his chest and pointing to the chateau. I understood his rudimentary sign language but I don’t think the teenager did. He just gazed at Derek in wide-eyed wonder.

“Come and give me a hand,” Derek said as he pulled open the passenger door.

“I don’t think he understands.”

“Not surprised,” I chirped as I slid out of my seat and walked over to the teenager.

“Bon soir monsieur. Comment allez vous?,” I began, torturing the Gallic language. “ Je suis Anglais. Avez vous un place vrai por une nuit?”

“I’m okay, thank you,” he replied in perfect English. I turned and smirked at Derek. “We ‘ave no rooms.”

It turned out Chateau Brienue didn’t participate in France Passion. The caravans I’d spotted, Pierre the lanky teenager told me, were in fact staff accommodation. It was getting late and out of sheer desperation we begged to let us park up round the back of his chateau.

“Ah non, my papa ee do not like erm, tourists.”

“We could hide the motor home in among the caravans,” Derek suggested.

“Non monsieur they are for the vineyard staff,” he said. He kicked the gravel at his feet for a moment, and then beckoned us closer.

“Park next to the chickens,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper. “My papa iz not ere. . .but you must be gone in zee morning. .early.”

We shook his hand gratefully and raced back to the motor home before he could change his mind. Pierre directed us round to the rear of the Chateau before going back to what French teenagers do when their parents are out for the evening.

The chickens ran free range but their coops were located inside a huge stone built barn. Derek backed the motor home into the building, careful not to squash any Bantams.

A couple of hours later we were awoken from our dreamless slumber by a blood curdling screaming. The first thought that fleeted through my fuddled brain was Papa had arrived home, learned of his son’s good Samaritan act and was in the process of squeezing the life out of him for allowing tourists onto his precious land.

Fortunately no murderous acts were being committed, simply the chateau’s cockerel was signaling the rise of the sun. When it became apparent the black flightless bird, which was strutting around the motor home wasn’t going to relent his morning wake up call, Derek and I got dressed.

Derek opened the blinds and got the motor home ready for off while I brewed a coffee. The view out of the window was magnificent. Dew on the vines sparkled in the early morning sun and we felt privileged.

We had wanted to purchase a bottle of Chateau Brienue’s finest table red, but remembered Pierre’s warning to be gone early so we drove off as quietly as we could over the gravel.

There was a light covering of snow on the ground when we reached Lourdes, in the Pyrenees, once small cluster of farms and home to a 14-year-old girl named Bernadette Soubirous who claimed to have seen the Virgin Mary.

Nearly 150 years on, Lourdes is a thriving tourist attraction, but the majority of visitors who pass through each year, don’t come for the scenery. They come to bath in the apparent healing springs of Grotto de Massabielle, the location Bernadette reported seeing the holiest of mothers.

Despite the town’s diminutive size we found there were a fair number of campsites, but despite the bold claims of year round opening times, we found only one where the gates were open.

It was little more than a muddy field, which looked to be under a constant threat of being buried by hundreds of tons of rock which protruded out from the overhanging cliff. There were no facilities bar a shoddily built shower block, dilapidated from years of neglect, tucked away in the corner.

An elderly grey-haired lady, wielding a pair of large pruning shears, greeted us at the gate. At first we thought we’d taken a wrong turn, were trespassing on her smallholding and she was preparing to wreak her own kind of bloody justice.

She pulled off her gardening gloves and smiled. It was not a practiced smile given to tourists’ day in, day out every day of the year. Her eyes twinkled, her skin visibly glowed and there was a look of genuine delight.

She directed us to the least boggy area of the field, indicated where the electricity hook up was to be found, pointed to the rambling group of farm buildings across the narrow lane and toddled off to do more gardening.

We took a few moments to settle in, boiled the kettle for a brew only to discover we were minus the essential ingredients – coffee, sugar and milk. Derek won the battle of ‘do we take the bikes’ versus ‘walk’ for our venture into town to purchase the necessary supplies and I pedalled off in his wake.

The scenery was breathtaking. Snow covered the tops of the mountain peaks and contrasted with the greenery of the forests of mature pines high above the town. Municipal brick buildings looked in fine repair and there was no shortage of retail establishments to replenish our empty food cupboard.

Patisseries, bolongeries, delicatessens and the ubiquitous McDonalds lined the main thoroughfare. A few locals went about their business, many with a French stick under their arm and the atmosphere was tranquil.

As the afternoon was early we decided to investigate Bernadette’s rocky chat room and were fortunately enough to spy a small inconspicuous brown signpost pointing the direction.

The bikes were dumped, chained to a sturdy looking cast iron railing and we ventured forth. Turning down the side street indicated by the sign our breath was taken away. The 140 or so years since Bernadette’s visions had certainly paid off for more than a few entrepreneurial shopkeepers.

Marketing their wares to the millions of tourists each year was big business and consequently the sloping cobbled street down to the Grotto has turned grotesque.

Neon lights fashioned into Crucifix flashed in brilliant reds and blues casting a garish hue over the multitude of souvenir shops, each one stuffed full of the same tasteless products. Alongside Rosary beads and bibles there were alarm clocks, thimbles, toasters and sunglasses all adorned with a small plastic Virgin Mary. There was even what looked like a Virgin Mary Barbie doll and a range of flick knives.

Such is the popularity of Lourdes with pilgrims and miracle seekers a special wheelchair lane has been added to this crowded thoroughfare to ease congestion and incidents of wheelchair rage. As we tried to make headway through the many bargain seeking pedestrians it was evident this lane was either not large enough to accommodate the hundreds of seated visitors or the nuns pushing them kept dashing off to investigate a tasteful item in a shop window across the street.

It was chaos with chairs three abreast on the pavement, overtaking cars, parked up on the side of the road and even freewheeling down to the grotto.

Then there were the nuns. Clusters of different orders waddled along, rosary beads swinging in unison. Sisters were here and doing it for themselves.

“They must be from an Italian nunnery,” Derek commented pointing out a serene looking crowd of nuns outside a bar.

However these were no ordinary nuns. These were Gucci wearing, Whisky guzzling, cigarette smoking nuns. Fendi handbags slung over their shoulders, hair perfectly coiffed, sunglasses bearing the designers gold logo and wearing slightly more figure revealing habits.

Even a contingent of French nuns looked dowdy in comparison to the Italian’s perfectly turned out appearances. They appeared to be above the tasteless commercialism of the place though. Well that is until they passed a perfumery then like excited school girls their habits were raised up and they dashed into to the heady mists of the odour-filled shop leaving the wheelchairs they were pushing to find their own way to the grotto.

The crowds thinned out a little as we neared the site of the grotto. Three churches have been built to praise the Lord for the limestone videophone Bernadette discovered. To conserve space maybe they have been erected on top of each other.

The grotto was more of a niche, the result of thousands of years of water seeping through the porous rock. However undeterred by the size of the crevice pilgrims and tourists queued orderly to pass through and into the ten foot incline. Derek and I followed suit.

The jagged rock inside was worn smooth from years of hands caressing the blessed stone. Floral bouquets, offerings from thankful visitors, were neatly laid out behind the red rope barriers. The fast-flowing underground stream had also been cordoned off with a contemporary looking sheet of Plexiglas so no over-excited pilgrim could leap into its supposed healing waters.

“This place is just a big religious con,” I said after a few moments. “Come get cured, sorry can’t guarantee it, but here’s an expensive candle, say another prayer just to be sure.”

Derek paled at my outburst, edged further along the wooden bench away from me, and said, “You’ll be struck down by lightning you know, you, you blasphemer.”

“Yeah, yeah, bring it on.”

Cloud cover was low and a rain shower looked imminent so we set off to collect the bikes. The first clap of thunder rolled out around the valley as we made it back to the motor home.

Lightning flashed all evening and the electric tripped out continually. When it was my turn to venture outside and check the fuse box, I ignored Derek’s smirking told you so look and declared it was time we had an early night. I would, I said; check the fuse box in the morning when the storm had passed. And after I’d said a few bedtime prayers I thought.

The storm didn’t pass the next morning. Rain poured down and the motor home began listing - the tyres on the driver’s side were sinking into the soft grassy earth. It was time to go.

We were wet, muddy and cold by the time we got the motor home to the entrance of the field and onto gravel. Before we could drive off we needed to settle the bill. We hadn’t seen the gardening lady since our arrival, so we headed off in the direction of the rambling farm buildings across the lane.

The windows were shuttered. The courtyard was cobbled and incredibly slippery. The only sign of life were the toothy snarls of a flea-bitten mongrel. We inched round the growling beast, keeping out of muzzle range as it strained at its tether, and ran quickly up three stone steps to the only visible door.

We knocked firmly three times and finally it opened. A decrepit bald, wrinkled old man, who we took to be the pruning lady’s husband, peered out from inside. He ushered us in quickly, pulling the scarf round his neck tighter. When the door was firmly shut and bolted he led us into the heart of his home, the kitchen,

It was charmingly rustic. Stone flags on the floor and a roaring log fire in the hearth. He gestured we sit at the enormous wooden table in the centre of the room with a flick of his hand.

He didn’t return to the threadbare armchair, pulled up close to a television, which was set to a news channel, but sat down stiffly at the head of the table and rapped loudly on the wooden surface.

A shadow of a woman appeared in the doorway. The light in the kitchen wasn’t very bright and it was difficult to determine her age. At first I thought she had a full head of black flowing hair, but when she moved further into the room I realised it was in fact a headscarf. A few stray hairs gave away her true colouring, white.

The old man shouted a few words and she scurried off, as fast as her elderly legs could carry her. She banged and clattered around the room. All the while Derek, I and the old man sat in stony silence. I had tried to broach the subject of paying our bill, but my feeble muttering was hushed with a wave of a liver spotted hand in front of whiskery lips.

Only when the elderly maid delivered a tray of refreshments did the old man deem to speak to us. He directed his conversation at Derek, who looked over at me for help. I smiled sweetly and kept my mouth firmly shut, only opening it to sip the piping hot coffee.

“Je … ne.. Comprehend pas,” Derek struggled. “Je Swiss Anglias.”

“Pas de probleme, pas de probleme,” the old man repeated, waving his hand dismissively. The little problem of a language barrier wasn’t going to stop him.