Another beautiful morning greeted us. We putzed around the campsite doing chores and preparing to find the "local" McWiFi in Marennes for some publishing. We’d be needing some supplies and some diesel, too, so this was a driving day. Since we’d be crossing to the north of La Seudre to get to Marennes, we thought we’d combine our excursion with a visit to Brouage just a a few miles further north. We left at about 11:30 AM as the skies were beginning to cloud over.

McDonalds was classically easy to find on a roundabout on the outskirts of Marennes. We popped in for two espressos, one sundae de la saison (cherry) for you-know-who, and a publishing of the last four days blog entries. Two were glitchy and timed out but we eventually got them done. Though we were in the "restaurant" this time, it was good to see another punter sitting in the car park using his lap top.

Administration over, we set off for Brouage, an old fortified village now lying in the middle of a marsh. This place is quite exceptional. It is an old town, apparently housing "some 4000 souls" in the 17th century, and is completely surrounded by fortified walls. The wall formation is essentially a square but each corner of the square has protruding structures giving covering fire over the outside of the main walls. There are small turrets scattered at intervals along the walls. It used to be on the coast but, I suspect due to the silting up off the estuary, now stands in a marshy area.

We played tourist wandering around the fortified walls, then returned to the car to drive back to Marennes in search of a supermarket for some food and diesel. Driving into the local Leclerc, there was a foreboding "clack, clack" sound coming from one of our wheels as it rotated. A quick visual inspection, having pulled into a suitably empty part of the car park, revealed a large screw embedded in the right rear tyre. "Bother", or words to that effect! Time to learn how to jack up the relatively new car. This was becoming something of a habit; we’d had a similar incident with a nail embedded in one of our previous car’s tyres two years ago down in the Gers region. Carol went in to do the shopping in the nice, cool, air-conditioned supermarket while I set about the messy and sweaty business of changing the wheel (which didn’t seem yet to have lost any pressure) in the hot, grubby car park.

Messy, sweaty task and nice, cool shopping completed, we discovered that this Leclerc had relatively reasonably priced diesel but, since nobody was in la caisse, we couldn’t actually buy any. We did try. (Same old problem of UK bank/credit cards not being accepted by French automated machinery.) Some things in this technologically advanced society still seem painfully archaic. We drove off to the local Intermarché to try there but, not only did that have no person in la caisse, it didn’t appear to have any fuel in the pumps either; they were all cordoned off. Could the good ol’ French fuel protests finally be causing an effect?

We drove back to our local town, Les Mathes, and managed to find a Shopi supermarket with both some fuel in the pumps and someone in la caisse. Not only did they have diesel but it was also a relatively reasonable price. Relief – we now had a full tank which would be more than enough to get us to our next stop. There’s also a tyre place next door to the Shopi so I should be able to get the puncture fixed. For now, though, we had to get the food home to stop it spoiling.

The skies had continued to darken and thunder arrived while we were having a late lunch outside. The thunder was rolling around gently a little distance away. It got closer and forceful rain and lightening followed shortly thereafter. It looks as though the puncture will have to wait until tomorrow.

At least I didn’t have to change the wheel in pouring rain.

A glorious morning that promised to get hotter said that it was at last time to break out the silk. Crocs get a little warm in warmer weather, too, so it was also time for the Teva sandals. At last; this is what France should feel like.

After sampling the croissants (excellent) from the most local supplier, we set off on our bikes to investigate La Tremblade, a small town, situated in a marshy area with mud flats on the estuary of La Seudre river in the heart of the ostriculteur (oyster farming) business. The oyster fishermen/farmers (whatever they are) make for interesting entertainment. Every day, flotillas of small, unstable-looking flat-bottomed boats go screaming out into the estuary to do whatever they do to their oyster beds. This seems to happen approaching low tide when, I imagine, they can jump off the small, unstable-looking flat-bottomed boats into what remains of the water wearing their waders and do their thing. The flotillas of small, unstable-looking flat-bottomed boats then come screaming back in, some laden with a new crop of oysters.

We had visited this area once before, about six years ago, and had enjoyed a magnificent plateau de fruits de mer (seafood platter). We were in La Tremblade largely to check out the restaurant at which we had eaten this feast. It was still there but shut on a Monday.

It was getting into lunch time and I needed little persuasion from Carol to pop into one of the several degustation (tasting) shacks belonging to the oyster producers and sample their wares. Following a cursory investigation we returned to the very first shack we’d considered.

Here, they were selling assietes de huit huitres (plates of eight oysters) which could be washed down admirably with a bottle of blanc marines, a dry white wine with a suitable salty tang that complements the oysters very well. There were two choices to be made. The oysters are graded between numbers one to six based on size, one being the largest. Within size, there was also a choice between fine and supérieur. If I understood the French explanation correctly, the latter were "fatter" (how poetic). We chose to sign the death warrant for 16 fines number twos.

Being a producer’s shack, the whole experience was utterly unpretentious, quite basic and entirely delightful; sitting in a shaded veranda, sucking down what turned out to be quite simply the best oysters I have ever tasted anywhere, sipping the occasional glass of cool white wine and overlooking a sunny creek. Heaven!

Invigorated by our oyster feast, we cycled up to the bridge over La Seudre to watch some of the little oyster boats scream in and out, where we could see the bridge over to the Ile d’Oléron in the middle distance, before returning to camp the long way via a cycle track through the wooded coastal area to La Palmyre. An enjoyable ride of 31 miles in all.

That oyster shack apparently does plateau de fruits de mer. Now there’s a thought.

(Yes, I know that spelling’s wrong …)

After catching up on some blogging activity over some coffee, we cycled off to La Palmyre to see the Sunday morning market. It was heaving. The "spinning chicken" (rotisserie) machine was doing a roaring trade; the poissonerie (fishmonger) was doing a roaring trade. It’s a good French market. Fortunately or unfortunately, depending upon one’s viewpoint, we were fully stocked with food so didn’t need to join any of the queues.

When we returned to our campsite after our quick dose of France, there had been developments near us on the site. There are certain types of caravan that you just get uncomfortable feelings about. Anything that is large, twin-axled, of a couple of certain makes, and loaded with people, sets off the alarm bells. Behind us and relatively close was a van, with a shop-blind canopy, that must have exceeded the legal British length limit. Since it had apparently been pulled by nothing larger than a Ford Focus, the intensity of the alarm bells was increased. There was also accompanied by a 5 series Beemer without a tow bar. This screamed "gens de voyage" (itinerants, to be polite). Most French campsites reject such units though, to be fair to this site, they are usually accompanied by white vans rather than cars, and travel in convoy.

They weren’t actually being any trouble and we tried to shrug off our feelings of unease and relax but nature is a funny thing and it clearly wasn’t working. Carol had read about an aire naturelle campsite little more than half a mile away so we cycled off, checked it out, found it blissfully empty (only about four units in an enormous space)  and decided to move. We returned to the original site, paid for our one night, packed up both awning and caravan and were on the road, albeit very briefly, in what must have been a world record time of about 30 minutes.

We were met at the new campsite by an absolutely delightful older lady who seemed to use the occasional German word mixed in with her French. She seemed to notice and apologised, explaining that her husband was German. Once I told her I spoke a little German, she started flipping between the two with gay abandon. We had a most enjoyable if strange conversation.

After a false start and some difficulty with the sun canopy caused by a gusting wind from an adverse direction, we finally got Billy settled into his new home and dinner on the go. There’s nothing like a sausage fest, Toulouse and merguez, after a slightly rushed day. As we were attacking the cheese course and light was fading fast, we started hearing some strange bird noises the like of which we had never heard before. It had to be an owl but which owl?

One benefit of having the lap top is that it is loaded with a bird recognition suite with sound files of their calls, albeit only for British birds. We knew a few owls that it wasn’t so I started with the remaining suspects. Purely by chance, the first one I picked hit gold; we were listening to the young of the long-eared owl. After a while we saw a few ghostly shapes flying from tree to tree whereupon the noises would start again. There were at least two and maybe three young owls around us. Since this is in our category of thrilling, we spent quite a while watching and listening in the near dark.

I awoke a few times during the night and the vocal little devils were still at it.

Having decided to leave on Saturday morning and Saturday being the day of the huge market in Sarlat-la-Canéda, we were away early to try and avoid any disagreeable traffic jams. Sarlat passed with no difficulty and the only other potential bottleneck was Périgueux, about a quarter of the way through the 170 mile journey to Les Mathes near Royan and the Ile d’Oléron. As we approached Périgueux, the sky appeared particularly threatening; not at all what we were hoping for from our strategy of heading west. Not wanting to waste precious diesel driving into more bad weather, we found somewhere to stop and buy yet another Aujourd’hui but predictions for the west still looked good so we stopped questioning our decision and got on with it.

Our journey didn’t use any autoroutes so the 170 miles took about 4.5 hours and, glory of glories, the sky was basically blue with a scattering of white clouds blowing down from the north. The northerly wind produced a lower-than-might-be-expected temperature of about 20°C but, at this point, we were simply happy to be in dry, sunnier weather.

We are on a site that we used once about six years ago. They’ve clearly had plenty of rain, as has France generally, because part of the site is closed off due to being too wet. However, we found a pitch that we liked, got set up and settled down to a late lunch in the sun of good ol’ grilled asparagus with goat cheese.

This is much closer to the coast than we usually like to stay but it is an area with some interest, not just a beachy place. This is oyster farming territory. There are some slight aspects of a kiss-me-quick seaside culture but they can be avoided. It is another area where some effort has been put into good cycle tracks so, after lunch, we used them to go and see the coast at La Palmyre. The brisk northerly wind seemed to be proving ideal for a considerable collection of kite surfers off one of the beaches.

We had a chunk of veal for our evening meal and, given this first realistic opportunity, I had to stir "ze little grey cells" into remembering how to barbecue. The poor cooking grid in the portable Weber had developed some rust from lack of use. Argh! If the weather keeps up I’ll also need some more charbon de bois. Let’s hope I do.

The day was mostly grey but seemed to be dry so we decided to go for a decent bike ride of about 20 miles to visit Castelnaud and for more testing of the saddle/backside combo. The route started with the more difficult uphill leg before turning right for a gentle descent down the valley of the river Céou following it until it flowed into the Dordogne at Castelnaud. Being perverse,the weather decided to spit at us just after we had left Daglan, but it didn’t come to anything and, after sheltering under a tree for 5 minutes waiting for very little, we continued down the valley before reaching the Dordogne overlooked by the château at Castelnaud. (We couldn’t resist a picture for Monsieur Blasdale of a little restaurant called "Petit Paris" in Daglan.)

Castelnaud has a pleasant square which was still pleasant even though filled with a group of French children – they were very small and very well behaved. The main attraction was a boulanger substitute (called a dépôt de pain) from which I bought a baguette, and a boucherie which provided some pâté de campagne à la maison (home made) to go with it. With lunch sorted, we cycled back along the Dordogne, looking very French with a baguette swinging from my handlebars, to Cénac before puffing and panting once more up the hill back to our campsite.

Our timing was perfect; we had been back a mere five minutes when it started raining so lunch was yet again an internal affair. Afterwards, we went into Sarlat-la-Canéda for good ol’ McDonalds, some provisions to tide us over the coming weekend, and a newspaper. McWiFi was much easier to use inside than in the car park and Carol got an ice cream into the bargain while I supped an acceptable-though-not-scintillating espresso.

Returning with our booty and newspaper, it was decision time: we’d been here almost a week, put up with three days stuck inside the van followed by three days of acceptable but not good weather and were wondering what to do next. The weather maps in Aujourd’hui showed continuing unsettled weather in the south, indeed, over most of France, but things looked better over on the west coast for the coming four to five days. So, we eventually kicked ourselves into the counter-intuitive decision to go west and slightly north tomorrow. It’s very difficult to break the instinct to travel south.

This might also give us the chance to meet friends and former colleagues, Mike and Linda Eaton, who have a house in the Marais de Poitevin at Arçais. They are apparently about to arrive for a week or so. The marais, a canal-drained marsh area inland from La Rochelle, is one of our favourite stops.

The evening brightened up and became sunny but a fresh wind was blowing and, though we had a drink outside, we still didn’t want to eat outside. We did manage to get the sun canopy down without sailing off with the hot-air balloons, though. 🙂

Fingers crossed for the move.

Being one of the fortified bastide towns, Domme stands high on a bluff overlooking the Dordogne. Our campsite is halfway up a similar hill. On a previous trip we had been very French and cycled up the long drag to Domme. (A true Frenchman really isn’t cycling unless going uphill.) Having done it once, we weren’t relishing a repeat performance but were unenthusiastic about driving the mere three miles. Enter our friendly Dutch neighbours armed with a detailed walking map of the area. It showed a back route linking our hill with the Domme hill without descending all the way into the intervening valley. Bravo!

Today was market day so off we set and a very pleasant route it turned out to be, too. Naturally, there was some up and down involved and we cycled triumphantly through the 13th century gate into Domme before dismounting for the very steep streets within the town walls. Both the town and the market exist for tourism now but it is well worth a look, nonetheless. There were yet more pyramid orchids at the belvedere overlooking the Dordogne and, today’s first ornithological spot, some sand martins whirling about nesting in the cliffs.

Had there been any asparagus on the market we would have bought some to grill for lunch but, alas, asparagus was there none. Both the market and permanent shops sell a lot of the Perigord specialities associated with raising ducks and geese for the fois gras, things like confit de canard (preserved duck legs), confit de gesiers (preserved gizzards) and bottled cassoulet au graisse d’oie (haricot beans and meat flavoured with goose fat); all delicious and all fattening. We resisted buying anything but a baguette for lunch.

Swallows were whirling around above the central square, in the middle of which stands an old wooden-framed hall which I took to be the old market hall. The swallows were flying in and out of the old hall between the supporting timbers. Sitting atop some of the beams were their mud nests with small swallow heads peering out waiting to be fed – painfully cute.

A very strange morning greeted us – blue sky. There was a very misty lining down below us in the valley but we were in sun. This unusual meteorological behaviour continued. The mist burnt off and a few clouds rolled in but we appeared to be in for a rare treat, a dry day.

In the hope that I would eventually need it, yesterday I had lashed out on a new saddle to replace the one on my bicycle, one that was intact and should not soak up rain like a sponge only to squirt it back down the inside of my thighs when I clambered aboard. After a swift shopping trip to replenish vital wine and food stocks, I fitted it, and very splendid it looked, too.

We were eager to get out having been cooped up for the last three days. However, before that, we considered a new pitch for Billy, rejected it (too small), and opted to reposition him to get a better view on the pitch he currently occupied. We started manhandling Billy, Carol gamely following my instructions. Shortly, having observed our efforts, another English couple came over to lend additional muscle. We got the van where we wanted it but no amount of muscle was going to shove it up the levelling ramp. Yet another English couple joined in but it was definitely a car job. I hooked up and finally, success; having roped half the campsite in to our crazy repositioning scheme, we were very happy with Billy’s new outlook.

We’d used up our morning (and everyone else’s) messing with Billy’s aspect but now were able to sit down to lunch en plein air, a rare treat indeed, though not so rare as dinner outside, or even barbecuing, both of which have yet to happen. Then it was off on the bikes for a badly needed excursion and to try out the compatibility of the new saddle with the old backside. We went down through Cénac, crossed the bridge over the Dordogne, turned left and cycled along the river to visit the very pleasant tourist traps of La Roque-Gageac and Beynac, both very picturesque villages on the north bank of the Dordogne. We soon discovered that the Dordogne was in such flood that all navigation had been banned. The several businesses that run river trips or hire canoes for tourists must be hurting because of the inclement weather. I, on the other hand, was not hurting because my new saddle felt much better than the old one; I should have replaced it earlier.

There’s an absolute killer of a hill up to our campsite but we both managed to cycle up it on our return. Sitting down sipping the last well-earned beer, a bird flew through the campsite and alighted on the branch of a nearby tree. I’d glimpsed what looked like pink, white and black colouration, and assumed it was a jay. Oddly, I had binoculars to hand, having just been identifying a smaller bird as a female black redstart, and was thrilled to see that it was not a jay but one of nature’s oddest avian creations, a hoopoe. It wasn’t obliging enough to hang around for a portrait so you’ll have to consult the reference books to see what this oddity looks like. Good grief, I’ve turned into a twitcher! 😉

Half way through cooking dinner, we were once again attacked by a small swarm of hot air balloons. No bizarre hot air fruit or poultry, this time, but one did have a kingfisher emblazoned upon it.

First blood to McDonalds – ours! Yesterday afternoon, we tromped up into Sarlat-la-Canéda and found the advertised McDonalds easily. (It was advertised in Cénac.) Parking as close as we could but avoiding going in to buy a tea (they can’t make tea in France), Carol fired up the lap top which soon found no fewer than four wireless networks, three protected and good ol’ McDonalds open to the world.

We connected. Signal strength didn’t seem too bad but the speed was poor and our connection was dropped repeatedly, usually half way through publishing. After reconnecting three times or so, we finally got the last three posts published (June 1st thru 3rd). We struggled valiantly against further droppings to read email and correct WLW’s screwed up photograph links from "A Hole in the Sky" – the Chambord château. The new version appeared to be correct, but don’t tell me if it isn’t – publishing is hard enough. McWiFi worked eventually but, this time, it wasn’t a pleasant experience. Maybe the French tea would have been less frustrating. Still, we do appreciate McDonalds efforts, don’t we?

I may have had some support success from Microsoft, too. Before we left I told them that their Windows Live Writer product kept changing the publish date on saved off-line posts to the current date. It isn’t doing it now and I have a satisfaction survey in my email (too painful for wireless) so maybe they listened and fixed it. Just the odd broken photo links left, then? Just occasionally, it decides to stick two <img> tags within the same <a> tag. Very odd.

Carol found what appears to be a fourth orchid lurking about the campsite. Unfortunately, there’s nothing resembling this one in our book so it may be one that doesn’t occur in the UK and we haven’t been able to identify it. Just to complete the collection, it is pictured left.

We’ve also just had a couple of sightings of golden orioles, both male and female. We’d heard their wonderfully flutey whistle once or twice on the rare occasions when rain hasn’t been beating violently on the caravan roof. However, they are very secretive birds and usually stay well hidden in thick foliage. It’s a real treat to see such a spectacular bird. Once seen, never forgotten.

This evening’s thunderstorm dealt us a glancing blow and wandered off into the distance whereupon George (you-know-whose grill) came out ready for our duck breast from Cénac market. It seemed that the thunder had merely made way for the evening’s cloudburst, though, since, about 10 minutes later, the skies blackened and we were soon being deluged again.

This is the Périgord region centre of the fois gras industry. The by products, dead ducks and geese, are the best anywhere. Our duck breast was superb, especially accompanied by some Waldorf salad à la maison made using the walnuts presented to us by the friendly campsite owner at Huisseau-sur-Cosson.

A second night within occasional sight of Domme passed quietly. Consciousness returned, encouraged by a dawn chorus, at about 7:00 AM. The rain returned, drowning out the dawn chorus, at about 7:40 AM. So much for yesterday’s Aujourd’hui.

Waterproofs and umbrellas at the ready, we popped into Cénac, the local small town, to visit their market and get some breakfast. Breakfast called for something slightly indulgent to cheer us up. Unlike the weather, a couple of pain au raisin did not let us down; they were superb. From the market, we picked up some asparagus to grill for lunch and a duck breast for dinner, too.

A new Aujourd’hui showed that good ol’ Météo France had changed its mind about today’s forecast. Now, our little umbrella (black, this time, for more contrast against the light ground) was wedged firmly between a variety of bad news: couvert (solid grey yuk), bruines ou pluies (drizzle or rain) and orages (storms). Fine choice! Actually, we’d happily have taken the couvert, given the chance. Anything that didn’t involve rain. Regrettably, the reality seemed to be more a mixture of bruines ou pluies.

This is getting tiresome, now. Last year we had the most "unsettled" weather that we’d ever had in France in the 25 years that we’ve been coming. It wasn’t so bad, however, that it kept us inside for days. This year has got it capped. "Unsettled" is a strange term to apply to bad weather. This was very settled – into almost constant rain. I have never seen weather anything like this in France.

On a lighter note, Carol was wandering around the more wooded part of the campsite and discovered an absolute treasure trove of orchids. We are familiar with the pyramid orchid which grows at home on the Cotswolds. Here, we have a couple of beauties which, according to our books, do grow in England but which we have never seen. There were one or two examples of the bee orchid, a relatively small but perfectly formed individual bloom orchid. There were also many large spikes of the bizarrely shaped lizard orchid.

Our first night within occasional sight of Domme (when not obscured by murk)  passed without disturbance; no drumming on the roof. Consciousness returned gradually at about 7:30 AM. The rain returned gradually at about 7:45 AM. Good Lord, what an uncanny sense of timing. Had it been lurking around just waiting for us to wake up?

A friendly Dutch man in a pitch close by (yes, there are other idiots here besides us) was passing as I was outside during a rare and brief intermission. He said that we shouldn’t have brought the bad weather with us. Pointing at some seriously muddy puddles, I remarked that it looked as if there had been several days of rain before we arrived. "It’s been terrible," he confessed, "we’ve had little else for the 5 days that we’ve been here".

We needed supplies so eventually I gave up waiting for another intermission, stripped and donned my swimming trunks (old boy scout camping trick to keep clothing dry in adverse weather). Braving the elements and caring little for the sensibilities of any neighbours, I went to remove two sopping wet bicycles from the roof of one sopping wet car. These could then be stored in the shelter of the sopping wet sun-canopy attached to our sopping wet caravan while we visited the local shops. Should the weather ever allow me to mount my bicycle again, the rain soaked up by my in-need-of-replacement sopping wet saddle will be squeezed out, issue forth, and run down the inside of both legs. Most enjoyable – not!

Today’s copy of the Aujourd’hui newspaper, suggests that it may stop raining tomorrow, perhaps eventually giving the sun a chance to peek through the still persistent clouds. (I’ll believe it when I see it.) It may not be great but at this point we’ll take anything resembling dry that we can get. On the right is today’s weather forecast, just to help with the French education. The symbols are pretty self-explanatory. I added the white umbrella to show which humongous great cloud we are under. Oh well, this was predicted.

Another Brit couple turned up with a moderately obscene motor van (twin rear axle, but not nearly as obscene as the large Winnebago jobs). They’d come up from Carcassone, the number one "must see" place in France, in my opinion, and report that the weather there has been the same. They are "full timers"; having sold their house, they now live in the motor home. That saves a whole bunch of council tax. They’d given up trying to get onto a pitch ‘cos the weight of the vehicle was just churning up the mud.

5:15 PM update: the drumming on Billy’s roof has ceased and a strange diffuse glow has emerged.

6:00 PM update: time for a pastis!

6:15 PM update: two locals have just wandered by collecting escargots. The rain brings them out. 🙂