21/2003 - Prunes in the Mud
1st April 2004 - Poitiers
(and none of this is an April Fool's day joke!)
Chere ami(e)s!
Nous sommes en France encore une fois! Well, here we are in France for the first time in three months actually. Those of you who have been with us, as 'twere, throughout our ramblings (of all kinds!) may remember that when we went down into Spain from France in December, we took the tremendously scenic, but immensely twisty-turny, coastal route. This time we came through the big southern Pyrenees pass on the autoroute, heading off west after Perpignan. We could see there was still masses of snow across the mountains and there were plenty of cars around with skis strapped to the roof racks.
We zipped along the D117 along towards Quillan. We'd followed part of this route on the way down and it was even better coming back, with Spring beginning, flowers and blossom out, the sky much lighter and even sunshine to speed us on our way. Whereas when we came down, there was rain and dark, thundery clouds and the Chateau de Queribus, one of the Cathar fortresses high on its hill, looked gloomy and forbidding, on this return it was much more visible. (Remember we got a rainbow following us along? This was where it was.) It would take more than a few rays of sunshine to turn it into a fairy castle though - it still looked mighty formidable, but then that was the point wasn't it, and it's no surprise that this was the site of the Cathar's last stand. The Cathars were that much-persecuted sect in the 12th and 13th centuries which proclaimed against the worldly power and materialism of the established Church, and tried to return to a simpler form of Christianity. [No extra charge for the information service, but the Team Historian isn't averse to being slipped a small tip!]
Actually, this would be a great stretch to linger longer (and we plan to do so on another trip - when it's warmer of course). There are attractive small towns/villages along the valley (and that's even before exploring further back off the 'main' road), some stunning scenery and - the wine bibber's delight - at least of score of vineyards where you can go and sample their plonk. It's also where three or four of the best Cathar castles are to be found. The valley is edged by hills that look for all the world like huge, lazing reptiles with spiny backs, stretched out on either side of the vine-laden valley. And if you've a penchant for adventure sport, then there seems to be plenty of opportunity for white-water rafting on the gushing waters of the Aude river which tumbles along the valley at various points. (Is this beginning to sound like a Tourist Board ad?!) Then just before the road reaches Quillan, it tapers dramatically and twists into the incredibly narrow Defile (Gorge) de Pierre-Lys, which had us breathing in to make ourselves thinner, ducking to avoid the overhangs from the rock walls and leaning heavily to the left to redistribute the weight away from the plunge into the foaming torrents!
Altogether, highly recommended if you don't know the area already. Oh, and by the way, even if you're not a driver, the train line weaves along that route down to Perpignan, so you can still get the pleasure and drama of the scenery.
At Quillan we branched off the route we'd taken on the way down, and suddenly found ourselves climbing steeply, wriggling and wiggling round some interestingly sharp bends and then not only into the cloud-line at about 1000 metres, but sleet was lashing against the windscreen! Mmm, chilloir! And thus to Foix, with its three dramatic hilltop towers of the Chateau des Comtes, for an overnight stop. Here the ducks from the lake near which we were parked had donned their thermals by the next morning, when we woke to snow on the nearby hills!
We had to do an emergency rearrangement of the clothes boxes in the over-cab storage zone to bring the winter woollies back within reach and re-stow the lighter teeshirts in the 'Not In Season', less accessible area. 'Oh no, is this what we've got to look forward to as we head further north?', we wondered, shivering.
Actually, it was both worse and not worse over the next couple of days. Not worse, in that it did warm up a few degrees and we moved out of the snowy belt. Worse in that we discovered that they'd had quite a lot of rain over the previous couple of weeks - and rain means? Altogether now: mud! And mud means? Opportunities for getting stuck in same? Of course! And do you think we took up those opportunities? You bet we did!
The first episode wasn't too bad at all. Just practising really. We stopped overnight just outside a charming medieval village called Caudecoste, close to Agen (having deliberately taken a route that went, gratuitously, via the little town of Condom. It had to be done!). Where we stayed was just a small, partially wooded field actually, outside someone's house. When he said we could park up on the grass if we thought it wasn't too soft, we naturally went right ahead and did so. Then when we went to drive up onto the chocks to level the Lorry up, the front wheels just dug a couple of holes in the grass and spun playfully, sinking deeper as they did so. Plastic grip mats were useless, digging bigger trenches and packing the holes with wood and stones started to look hopeful and more of this with a quick heave on the tow-rope attached to Monsieur's 4-wheel drive did the trick. By this time another big wagon had parked up on a gravel pathway and we just tucked ourselves in behind them, nose to tail. Phew!
Shortly afterwards, a third smart Swift van arrived (we were worthy of a promotional photo!) and bagged the last bit of hardstanding on the path - so if anyone else had turned up hoping for refuge, we'd have had a bit of a job squeezing them in away from the soft ground.
We mention this third Camping Car as Dot and Den, its occupants, turned out to be a very jolly pair, who hospitably invited us in for a drink later on after we'd got chatting and found out that we'd all done the Selling Up thing. Turns out they're just on their way back to the UK to do some Sorting Out prior to embarking on a new phase of their adventure. Hope to catch up with them again in future. We reckoned we'd probably been waving to each other - as Camping Car-istes tend to do - as we passed on various roads in Spain over the past few months, having discovered we'd been in some of the same places.
(Jerry, Jeni's brother, constantly taunts us with how Sad this clocking up the en-route salutes is. We carry on regardless of his taunts, naturellement. As a Sadder aside to it, apparently many caravan-istes lament the passing of such camaraderie which used to be common among them too, according to a letter we read in the Caravan Club magazine last year! Clearly, we Motorhomers are a different and friendlier breed. Oh, Dave is reminded of the tight lipped reply to the lamentation, printed the following month, which said that Caravanners had become more responsible and kept both hands on the steering wheel at all times, for safety reasons. Ah, so they've all got automatics, then?! We would just like to add that we are not innately prejudiced against Caravanners as such - indeed some of our very good friends on this list are of that persuasion. Like the daffy ones with a pack of even daffier dogs; like those lovely people with the cute little Eriba van with fully colour co-ordinated awning and like that great pair with the to-die-for folding French caravan - you know who you are! Come to think of it, none of them are very 'average' Caravanners if you know what we mean!)
So, where were we? Yes, waving goodbye to Dot and Den, and heading just beyond Agen to the Prune Museum. Yes, having missed the sausage museum, Jeni was determined that we would take in the Musee de Pruneau, not least because she wanted to stock up on those amazing Agen prunes which bear no resemblance to any boiled and flogged tinned prune you may ever have been forced to eat in a budget seaside boarding house. No, these are the Pinnacle of Prunery, the Doyennes of Delight of the prune world. And what's more, you can buy them covered in chocolate in little gift boxes. Heaven! The Patriarch Cedric, Jeni's Dad, loves his prunes too, so he was top of the present list for this one.
Madame Pruneau was clearly hoodwinked by Jeni's reasonable proficiency in the language and passable accent, because we got the full spiel in beautifully articulated, but almost full throttle French (despite entreaties for her to 'parlez un peu plus lentement, s'il vous plait', speak a little more slowly, please). Truth to tell, it was mainly a retail prune experience, since we didn't feel assertive enough to ask for the full tour of the establishment and historical video (which Jeni thinks she'd have struggled with, leave alone poor perplexed Dave), and we think you probably needed to be a pre-arranged group to take part in the 'Prune Production through the Ages' re-enactment. But since we had full and free sampling access to plates of sumptuous prunes, including the chocolate coated ones, our motivation to pop round to the History Hut wasn't as strong as it might have been! Madame and her colleagues were very keen on Camping Car-istes - in fact, she said, you'd be welcome to park your van here and stay overnight, as she popped a couple of freebies in our bag of purchases. (A little digestif of Armagnac - with prunes in it, of course!)
It's noticeable travelling through the country how the French are so proud of their agricultural / gastronomic products and are so good at promoting them. As lots of you know, in almost every region in France as you travel - and it's such a huge place - you're invited in to taste, to try, to buy (of course) direct from the farms, vineyards and other producers. It can, though, lead to some crises of conscience for the vegetarian traveller. As we were beset on all sides by farms producing foie gras, Jeni became increasingly hysterical about the poor geese on the other side of the barn doors, and Dave was getting a bit anxious that she'd don the balaclava and try to effect some daring ram-raid rescues. It was only when he pointed out that 'Liberate the Foie Gras Fifteen' would quickly turn into 'Save the Foie Gras Five Thousand', and that geese in the Lorry would become noisy, smelly and downright dangerous, that she agreed to stay put. Especially when Dave went on to reassure her that, by way of contrast, in this region all the prunes led full and happy lives out in the meadows.
So on to our next stop, near La Rochefaucauld, another field-by-a-house owned by a transplanted English family. There were three areas of semi-hardstanding at intervals down this field, the top - leading straight off the drive - being occupied by an interesting self-converted motorhome that looked like it was made of a huge metal storage container on the back of a pick-up truck. The proprieter assured us that if we went down the slight slope to the middle patch of gravel we'd be fine - Dave was decidedly unsure about the state of the ground after all the rain, but eventually we allowed ourselves to be persuaded. It's only with hindsight that Jeni realises that she actually did hear the owner's sotto voce 'aside' correctly - ' and if the worst comes to the worst, I can get a tractor to pull you out ... '. So on the Lorry goes, Dave sensibly working out the best way of facing, so the front-wheel drive will have best chance of getting us back up the incline. La la la ... delightful farmland ... masses of birds ... la la la ... very tranquil ... la la la ... beautiful views ... witter witter.
But frankly, you're not interested are you? What you're waiting for is next morning, isn't it? Go on, be honest! Well yes, we did get stuck in the blooming mud - properly this time. VeeJay wouldn't reverse up the slippery slope, as planned, so we tried backing round and driving up forwards. Splatter, whizz of wheels, roar of engine, liberal spraying of grass and mud, holes in grass get deeper, Lorry sinks ominously. S**t! By this stage of course the home-made demountable has long since glided, unbesmirched, off its higher, firmer ground and Mr and Mrs And-We'll-Charge-You-10-Euros-for-the-Privilege have gone off on a 3 to 4 hour shopping trip in Angouleme. Leaving us and flocks of twittering birds out in the glorious French countryside.
We tried all the tricks - got a spade from their shed to scoop gravel into the bunkers the wheels had dug, tried wood, grip mats, chocks - we even found some metal grid in an outhouse. But we just dug in deeper it seemed. Dave was seriously hacked off with himself 'I should have known better'. Jeni, curiously enough, was the more sanguine on this occasion and, Pollyanna-like, suggested just making the best of it, settling down with a book and a cup of coffee and relaxing until the owners got back and could be dispatched to find a tractor. OK. OK. That seemed like all we could do. So we did. For ten minutes, that is, until a friend of Mr and Mrs AWCYTEFTP (whose caravan is parked up at the top by their house) turned up, looking at our obvious predicament and shaking his head. He thought they'd have warned us about the soft ground since, he revealed candidly, they'd had three Camping Cars stuck in the last week - one right up to its axles in mud! Thanks for that!
Anyroadup, this hero-of-the-first-order and Dave did a duet, adopting a similar methodology to our earlier attempts and re-doubling the efforts with spades, metal grid, shingle and chocks. Jeni, behind the wheel, gets shouted orders 'Back six inches' (and we all know the joke about women being told what six inches is ...) 'Brakes!!', 'Go, now!' etc. Gradually VeeJay was coaxed up the slippery slope, the best method seeming to involve slamming the chocks behind the front wheels and rolling the Lorry back onto them. This, in effect, gave a bit of a downhill run, UP the undulation (still with us?!) and moved us a few inches more each time. Meanwhile, Dave and our nameless hero (OK, he did tell us, but what with all the excitement and our aging condition his name's temporarily shuffled itself into a mental void) put their shoulders to the back of VeeJay each time Jeni lurched her off the blocks and gained a bit more ground. There was one moment where, in a frenzy of acceleration, she raced forward at least a foot with the inevitable unfortunate result for Dave. Well, he was pretty muddy by then anyway!
Needless to say, 3 hours later, having travelled a good twenty meters under our own steam, who should turn up as we approach the top of the slope? You've guessed it - Mr and Mrs AWCYTEFTP! 'We didn't expect to still see you here. Got a bit stuck have we?!' he quips, gazing at our mud splattered appearances. Jeni, seeing the steam emanating from Dave's ears, tactfully scoots past him and approaches our hosts with a smile. 'Any chance of a tow?' she asks, desperately hoping to ward off a fist fight. So, tow rope akimbo, smoking wheels, shoulders to the back wall, a bit more flying mud and we eventually reach firm ground, thank our hosts politely, and go on our merry way. 'That's one site report that we'll be sending in to the Caravan Club' mutters Dave darkly as he scoops mud from behind his ears and adjusts his glasses! All in a day's Fruitbatting, eh?!
After that little episode, having lost a good part of the travelling day, we decided just to go up as far as Poitiers where we knew we could stop without sinking in the mud AND have a laundry-fest to clean up. It would also be a good staging post on the way to Normandy where we intended to inflict ourselves on some friends we'd made down in Orgiva. Poor Sheila and Steve, what had they done to deserve that?! But that's for next time ...
A bientot,
Dave et Jeni
xx