Mimizan is a bit further than we thought, so we stopped at Arcachon (very prettily decorated Victorian buildings and great cycle paths right on the edge of the beach) and Eulalie en Born, just North of Mimizan, where we’re now parked up in beautiful woodland next to a lake.
It’s very nice going slowly. It’s only just beginning to sink in that we don’t actually have to get anywhere (apart from Tarifa for Mike D’s birthday on 10th December, but that’s a long way off). It’s almost scary, how easy and comfortable this is – I keep thinking that it can’t really be allowed, then I realise that it IS – thanks entirely to our fab tenants, who have ALL paid their rent on time. I suppose we should expect that, but actually I feel very touched by it, and so grateful that I had to be dissuaded from emailing them all with a gushing thank you. I might still do it anyway.
France is the most fantastic country for camping-caristes. In England you call us travellers and move us on, but here, almost every village and certainly every town has a designated space where you can park up, dump waste and take on fresh water. Most of them don’t charge, and some even provide electricity. We’ve been buying food from local shops where we can - that must surely be the rationale for providing these places – but what a friendly and welcoming attitude it shows.
People HAVE been lovely to us, especially at the France Passion sites where you can stay for free on farms and vineyards, and where nothing seems too much trouble for the hosts. The last one we stayed on was a marshy field next to a vineyard, and Mike and I must have looked a bit dubious, as the first thing the farmer said to us was “No worry, I ‘ave tracteur.” He went on to tell us that he “lerved speak English”, so we spent an quite stressful five minutes murdering one another’s languages before saying good evening in that peculiarly respectful and civilised way the French have. Sometimes I really do wish I’d been born here. Maybe I would have been elegant and slim, as well as being able to speak French properly. We didn’t need the tractor, by the way, but I like to think it would have been there if we had.
The only miserable git we’ve encountered since we left England was someone we were trying to buy wine from: she actually laughed at us – definitely not with us - when we said we didn’t know the exact year of Bordeaux we wanted, but that was the only time she even cracked a smile. We considered walking out, but at that stage we needed wine more than self-respect (wouldn’t be the first time, I know).
Mike played me a song the other day, Ramblin’ Man, which just about sums up how I feel at the moment, especially the last line. If you haven’t heard it, I recommend it - here’s a link:
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