I am walking along the promenade in Weymouth, on a hot and sunny morning, taking in all the sites and sounds as usual. I love the seafront at Weymouth, whatever the weather or time of year, with the wide sweep of the bay, the sandy yellow beach, the wonderful view of the cliffs to my left and the disappearing sea on the horizon as I look out, the magnificent shop buildings, hotels, and cafés behind me. I especially love the seafront at Weymouth in the summer when the place is all abuzz with holiday makers and the beach is alive with numerous side-shows and activities, most of which you don’t see at any other time of the year. There are the pedal boats, the crazy golf, the trampolines, the Punch and Judy Show, the donkey rides, the volley-ball courts, the roundabouts, the swing boats … you name it and Weymouth seafront seems to have it at this time of the year.

At the far end of the promenade is one of my favourite things – the sand sculpture exhibition. I don’t know who the artist is, but the exhibition is brilliant. There are usually two or three sand sculptures on display in a purpose-built, weather-shielded area, with the exhibits protected by netting. It is a free exhibition, open to the public, who can donate money to the artist if they wish to by throwing coins into a barrel. It is very popular with the public, who stop along the promenade to view the exhibition as they stroll by. The exhibition has been particularly good this summer because the artist has re-produced a large scale sand-sculpture of Leonardo de Vinci’s painting The Last Supper. It is quite brilliant in my humble opinion.

As I am strolling along the promenade, on my way to have yet another look at the sand sculptures, I see an even larger crowd round the exhibition than normal. When I get there I see why. The sand-sculpture of Leonardo de Vinci’s painting The Last Supper would appear to have been vandalised. Apparently someone got in to the exhibition during the night and destroyed part of the exhibition. The centre of The Last Supper has been smashed down and the figure of Jesus has been replaced with the head of ancient serpent or dragon? Nobody thinks that this is funny. Indeed I hear lots of murmurs of disapproval amongst the crowd that has gathered. There is a prominent notice from the artist explaining that his work has been vandalised by some idiot, apologising for what has happened, and saying that he will restore the sand-sculpture as soon as possible. Looking at this wilful destruction of the beautiful sand sculpture I wonder if the perpetrator did it for ‘a bit of fun’ or if he or she had a more sinister motive given the age-old battle between good and evil, God and the devil, and the biblical representation of Satan as a ‘serpent’ or ‘dragon’ (Genesis 3:14; Revelation 12:9; 20:2)?

As I walk away from the desecrated sand sculpture, and back down the promenade towards the clock tower, I find myself thinking about the importance of having Jesus Christ at the centre of life … and how easily we allow other things to displace him. One of the reasons why I love Leonardo de Vinci’s The Last Supper is because, in a way, it symbolises life for me. The painting shows a long table, with the Twelve Apostles seated along the length of it, and Jesus himself in the centre. For us, life stretches from the moment we are born to the moment we die and the key to life is always to have Jesus at the very centre.

I am still thinking about Jesus, and the place we either give him or don’t give him in our lives, when I spot a ‘new attraction’ amongst the various side-shows on the beach that I have not seen previously. Appropriately it is called ‘Walk on Water … Without Getting Wet!’ It consists of a large water-filled pool containing child-sized, air filled, water-tight ‘bubbles’ that kids can stand in and ‘walk on the water without getting wet’. It looks great fun and I wish they had a much larger pool with ‘adult sized’ bubbles so that I could have a go. I expect that somewhere or other such a thing exists … just not here in Weymouth.

One of my favourite Bible stories is the story of Jesus walking on water. There are accounts of this in three of the Gospels (Matthew 14:22-34; Mark 6:45-53; and John 6:15-21). This story, following the miracle of the feeding of the five thousand, tells how Jesus sent the disciples by ship back to the other side of the Sea of Galilee while he remained behind, alone, to pray. Night fell and the sea arose as the ship became caught in a wind storm. After rowing against the wind most of the night, the disciples saw Jesus walking on the sea. They were frightened, thinking they were seeing a spirit, but when Jesus told them not to be afraid, they were reassured. After Jesus entered the ship, the wind ceased, and they arrived at land. According to Matthew’s account of the story, Peter (at Jesus’ invitation) got out of the boat and actually ‘walked on the water’ towards Jesus himself. In Matthew’s version Peter did o.k. at walking on water, as long as he kept his eyes on Jesus. When he took his eyes off Jesus, however, and looked at the wind and the waves, he became afraid, and began to sink until Jesus reached out and grabbed hold of him.

Christian teaching considers the episode a miracle intended to show both the divinity of Jesus Christ (testified to by the control of Jesus over nature), and the importance of faith on our part (demonstrated by Peter’s success and failure in walking on water). Whatever the truth of this many ‘expositors’ of the Matthew passage forget that Peter actually did far more walking than sinking – he got all the way to Jesus before starting to flounder because Jesus was able to reach out and ‘grab him’ before he sunk. So the story is actually about the strength of faith not the lack of faith! Equally, the story encourages us to see that if we keep our eyes on Jesus we will be enabled to ‘walk on the water of our circumstances’ rather than be overwhelmed by them!

I stop off for a coffee on my way back to our car. It is a beautiful hot and sunny day so I sit outside the coffee shop drinking my coffee. I am at a table next to where two ‘locals’ are sitting. I cannot but help overhear their conversation. ‘Look!’ says the one to his companion, pointing to someone in the crowd walking by, ‘Do you see Jesus over there?’ I find that I have to look in the direction the man is pointing in, and indeed there is someone who looks like the pictures of Jesus we mostly have in our minds – average height, slim build, about 30 something years of age, long hair, beard, sandals? ‘Yes! He does look a bit like Jesus!’ replies the man’s companion. ‘No!’ responds the first man, ‘That’s what we call him … Jesus! He is one of these born again’ Christians. I knew him 10 years ago when he was a right mess … did drugs and all that stuff … always in trouble … angry, violent! But then he ‘found Jesus’ … and you won’t meet a more contented, calmer person in Weymouth today!’

I feel I want to know more about this ‘Jesus’ who has just walked by? I want to run after him and ask him to tell me his story … but by the time I have finished my coffee, gathered my things together, paid my bill, he has disappeared. I am cheered by the story I have overheard, however. Here at least is someone else who has discovered the secret of ‘walking on water without getting wet!’

Jim Binney

I am sitting on the seafront in Weymouth enjoying a cold drink and watching the world go by. Weymouth is our nearest big town – we live only about 5 miles away – and I have been let out on my own for the morning to go to the bank and do some shopping for Julia. Of course I use the opportunity to go into Weymouth early for a ‘Full English’ breakfast before I commence my numerous tasks, and about three hours later … when I have finally finished all that I was sent out to do … it is so hot and sunny that I just have to buy a cold, soft drink and go and sit by the sea.

I love Weymouth in the summer. I love it all year round actually, but especially in the summer when all the grockles arrive. The hordes of holiday makers, coach parties, and day trippers … from ‘far away places’ such as Manchester, Birmingham, London, Liverpool and South Wales … really liven up the place during June, July and August. When we are home for the summer (and not escaping ourselves to France) I love to sit in the town centre or by the seafront and just ‘listen in’ to the numerous conversations (in the various regional accents) and observe the various activities that these visitors get up to. It is always great fun and a constant source of amusement and entertainment for me. I often find myself getting into conversation with these visitors to Weymouth without really trying. When they realise that I am a ‘local’ they are usually full of questions: ‘Where are the best cafés and restaurants?’ ‘What are the best attractions to visit?’ ‘Is a day out to the Channel Islands really worth the expense?’ and so on.

Fascinatingly when they discover that I am a ‘retired’ Baptist Minister (as if Baptist Ministers ever really retire?) they are equally full of questions … and often confessions? Questions about the existence of God, the person of Jesus, and the state of the world, etc. Confessions about not going to church, not being ‘good enough’, not achieving enough in life, and so on. According to the media Christianity is dying in the UK and the Church is only a decade away from extinction. Don’t you believe it for one moment. I know plenty of growing, flourishing churches (of all denominations) and (judging by the questions and confessions put to me) there is a great interest in ‘spiritual things’ by ‘Joe Public’!

Anyway, getting back to me simply ‘sat sitting’ on the seafront in Weymouth the other morning, enjoying my cold drink and watching everyone enjoying the warmth of the sun and all the activities going on, on the beach, I find myself sitting on a seat next to a couple of ‘mature ladies’ obviously down here on holiday from Birmingham. ‘What’s that awful smell?’ says one of the ladies to her friend. For a moment I panic. ‘Is it me?’ I wonder. Have I forgotten to shower this morning? Have I forgotten to use my deodorant or after shave? Am I wearing clean clothes, especially underwear, or (in my rush to get into Weymouth for my ‘Full English Breakfast’) have I simply ‘thrown on’ what I was wearing all day yesterday? ‘Donkeys!’ replies her friend (who has obviously been to Weymouth before), ‘You can smell the donkeys from here!’

I find myself sniffing the air … and she is right. It is definitely the donkeys (from the Donkey Rides just along the beach from where we are sitting) and ‘you can smell them from here’! I just have to get up and walk along the promenade to the Donkey Rides to see them for myself. There are half-a-dozen shaggy-looking donkeys, with two or three ‘donkey handlers’ looking after them, and scores of children either already mounted on some of the donkeys or waiting their turn. I look at the notice advertising the donkey rides: ‘Children’s Donkey Rides’ it reads, ‘£3.50 per child’. It has been amended since last I saw it to include: ‘Children only, under 16 and under 7 stone’. I look at some of the ‘larger than life’ children in the queue, stuffing themselves with chips, and burgers, and sweets, and ice cream. They may be ‘under 16’ years of age but there is no way ther are going to make the ‘under 7 stone’ stipulation! We seem to be becoming a nation full of obese children? I wonder if the Donkey Ride has a set of scales hidden away somewhere and if they weigh ‘suspect cases’ before they allow them to mount up on a donkey?

Yes, the donkeys do ‘smell’ … but it is only the normal ‘donkey smell’ that you get from donkeys. Perhaps I have simply got used to it since we have lived  in the country for nearly five years now so I am no longer a ‘grockle’ myself. And, more to the point … I love donkeys! We have two – Mozart and Beethoven – who live in our paddock during the summer. They are gorgeous … so friendly and always up for a nuzzle when Julia and I go and visit them each day … especially if we have a carrot or two hidden away. The Donkey Sanctuary at Sidmouth is also not too far from us, and we love to go and visit this splendid home for ‘retired (and rescued) donkeys’.

And then it was, of course, ‘on a donkey’ that Jesus himself, dramatically rode into Jerusalem that first Palm Sunday, openly entering a city where he was a marked man, thus taking that first step that would lead toward the final confrontation with the hostile powers ranged against him, and to his death on Calvary’s cross (John 12:14). Riding into the city on a donkey (rather than a war horse) signified that Jesus came to bring peace not confrontation. The Christian Gospel is essentially a message of ‘peace’, and especially about how we can find ‘peace with God’ (Romans 5:1).

As I get up from the seat to go and see the donkeys, the two ladies from Birmingham also get up from the seat. The smell of the donkeys is too much for them, They walk away in the opposite direction. They want to get as far away from the donkeys as possible. I, on the other hand, am walking towards the donkeys. I want to see the donkeys. I want to embrace their smell. I would go for a ride on one of the donkeys … if I was under 16 years of age and under 7 stone in weight!

As the Birmingham ladies and myself head in opposite directions, I find myself reflecting upon the fact that this is perhaps yet another illustration of the way in which people react to Jesus and the Gospel? As the Apostle Paul tells us in his Second Letter to the Corinthians, the Good News of all that God has done for us in Jesus Christ is ‘an aroma of death as far as some are concerned, but for others it is an aroma that brings life’ (2 Corinthians 2:16). Some deliberately walk as far away as possible away from the ‘fragrance’ the donkey carried into Jerusalem 2,000 years ago … whilst others inhale it to the full!

Jim Binney

Egged on by Julia I exchange my £1 coin for three wooden balls … and hurl them one after the other at the coconuts in the shy. I realise that I am taking a big risk. After all my boasting about what a good cricketer I was in my youth I could easily end up with ‘egg on my face’? To my amazement the first ball not only hits a coconut full on, but actually knocks it off its perch! How come its not ‘nailed on’ to the coconut holder like at most fairs that I have been to? I am so shocked that I miss with my other two balls … but walk away from the stall with my pride intact and my prize coconut in hand!

It is (as you may have guessed) ‘Fête Season’ down here in West Dorset. During the summer months there is at least one village or church fête taking place somewhere or other as villages and churches seek to raise money for one cause or another. Village or church fêtes are common in the UK. These are usually outdoor shows held on village greens or recreation grounds with a variety of activities. They are organised by an ad hoc committee of volunteers from organisations like religious groups or residents’ associations. Attractions seen at village fêtes include raffles, coconut shies, white elephant stalls, cakes, and home produce such as jams and pickles. Entertainment may include Morris dancing, tug of war, fancy dress and pet shows. In some ways they are the equivalent of a county fair in the USA.

Julia and I love these village/church fêtes although admittedly some really are ‘a fête worse than death’? For us they are a constant source of fun, interest, amusement and humour … as well as being a source of raising money for good causes. Our favourite fête, however, is the Langton Herring annual Fête and Dog Show held usually on the last Saturday in July at a neighbouring village to us here in our small hamlet of Rodden. If you want to picture the scene in your mind’s eye, think of  the village fête episode of the Vicar of Dibley … but without Kylie Minogue!

There are lots of reasons why we love this particular fête, not least because (unlike many of the fêtes around here) it is a joint venture between the village and the church. As a result it brings the community together rather than divide it. It is also usually very innovative and great fun. At the beginning of July the bunting goes up all round the village and the approach roads, and the advertising posters are posted in prominent places. Some years the bunting is your normal flags, but quite often in can be very innovative depending on the particular theme for the fête in any given year. When the theme was ‘wild life’, a year or so ago, the bunting was in the form of ‘monkeys’ of one kind or another hanging up all over the place throughout the village. My favourite ‘innovation’ however was a few years ago, when the recession first hit and the organising committee felt everything was ‘pants’, and so instead of your usual bunting ‘underwear’ of various kinds were hung up all over the village donated by various villagers! Even the Vicar donated a pair of ‘holy’ pants for the cause? The decision raise a few eyebrows but certainly attracted a lot of extra publicity.

After the recent rain it is a gloriously sunny day on the day of this year’s fête, so we drive the mile or so to Langton Herring and find our way to the field which doubles as a car park for the occasion. We take the short walk to the Village Green where the fête itself is being held. The fête started a hour or so before our arrival and we pass mostly disgruntled dog owners who are leaving already because their ‘precious mutt’ failed to win anything at the Dog Show. Those dog owners whose dogs have actually won something never leave early, but rather spend the rest of the afternoon and evening wandering round the fête with their dogs proudly displaying their rosettes, so that everyone can see that they were successful. The Langton Herring Fête is one of the few fêtes that has a proper ‘dog’ show’ running alongside. It attracts people from miles around, even as far away as London, and there are all kinds of classes and groups. If they had a ‘naughtiest dog’ award we would definitely enter Reggie Doggie … he would surely win hands down?

It is interesting listening to the conversations of these defeated dog owners as they trundle back to the car park. ‘The judges must be blind … our Fido was easily the best dog in the show … just because he weed over the judge’s handbag/bit the chief judge/ran off with the prize winning cake from the cake stall, was no reason not to award him first prize, was it?’

There is a central arena, where the various ‘acts’ perform or certain other ‘events’ are judges, and this is surrounded by various stalls of one kind or another. The ‘acts’ usually include things like concert bands, displays by the Morris dancers, majorettes or police dogs or country dancing troupes. This year we had some Line Dancing in which the general public were invited to join resulting in ‘glorious chaos’. There is always plenty to keep the children occupied including ‘Toss the Wellie’ and ‘Splat the Rat’ games. There is a children’s entertainer … it is usually someone called ‘Captain Stupid’ (who lives up to his name) … who adds even more madness and mayhem to the occasion.

The various stalls sell second-hand books and DVDs, plants, bric-a-brac and local produce. As well as the coconut shy there are skittles, throwing the horseshoe, a barbecue, a Pimm’s tent, and a beer tent, etc. We visit every stall and meet numerous people that we know from the surrounding area. Having lived here for nearly five years we are considered to be ‘locals’ (no long ‘grockles’) now! We spend our money buying various things we don’t really need. We spend Julia’s mother’s money (which she has given us to spend as her contribution to the cause) on things she doesn’t really need either. We will probably keep them for a year … and then re-donate them again for someone else to buy next year?

We don’t stay for the band and the dancing in the evening. I would not want to spoil what has been a really fun day for everyone by inflicting my ‘dad dancing’ on them? And in any case, I have my ‘prize coconut’ to show off to Julia’s mother and Reggie Doggie when we get home. It has been years since I won a coconut, or have eaten one for that matter. I think back to my childhood and deep in the recesses of my mind recall drilling a hole in the ‘eyelets’ of the coconut and drinking the ‘milk’ through them … and then breaking the coconut open with a hammer and devouring the succulent flesh. I drill holes through the eyelets of my ‘prize coconut’ with a skewer … but there is no milk … the coconut is dry? I break the coconut open with a hammer … and the flesh is all rotten? Goodness knows how old these coconuts on the fête coconut shy actually were? Perhaps they have been bringing the same coconuts out year after year since the fête started in the year dot? There is nothing for it but to donate my hard won coconut to another worthy cause … our compost heap at the bottom of the garden!

Jim Binney

We have been back from our extended seven week camping holiday in France for just over a week now … and we are still in ‘holiday mood’! Both Julia and I are feeling very relaxed, despite the problems awaiting us on our return home with the phones and the internet … and the mountain of washing that needed to be done as well. Both the phones and the internet are fixed now … restoring all the ‘lost information’ on the computer is taking a little longer … and the washing is all done (although the corresponding mountain of ironing is still in process).

One of the reasons why we could get all the washing done so quickly is that the weather here in Dorset is beautiful and sunny. After the welcome ‘downpour’ last week, for a day or so, the sun is out in all its glory … and so is our ‘whirligig’ flying a wonderful collection of assorted tee-shirts, shorts, ‘nicky-nacky-noos’, etc. We like to take our main summer holiday in June-July is because it means we can be home for August … when the sun is usually shining here in Dorset. Weymouth in particular can be a real ‘sun-trap’ for residents and visitors alike at this time of the year.

The sun is not the only thing that is ‘out and about’ in Dorset this week. We have been out in either Dorchester or Weymouth most mornings this week. Haircuts, visits to the optician, clothes shopping for Julia’s mother, and so on, have all required various trips out … and the requisite stops for various coffees, breakfasts, and lunches, of course. And the sun, and ourselves, are also not the only ones ‘out and about’ in Dorchester and Weymouth either. There are ‘grockles’ everywhere!

Now, for the uninitiated, a ‘grockle’ is an informal and often slightly derogatory term for a tourist. It was first popularized because of its use by the characters in the 1964 Michael Winner film The System starring Oliver Reed, Jane Merrow, Barbara Ferris, and Julia Foster. The film is largely set in the Devon resort of Torquay during the summer season. Some have suggested that ‘grockle’ is an old West Country dialect word, but it is more likely that the term originated in a comparison of red-faced tourists (wearing funny clothing and handkerchiefs on their heads) to ‘Grock’, a clown and music-hall performer who was famous in the first half of the 20th century. According to research by a local journalist in the mid-1990s, the word in fact originated from a strip cartoon in the children’s comic Dandy entitled ‘Danny and his Grockle’ (a magical dragon-like creature). A local man (who had had a summer job at a swimming pool as a youngster) is thought to be the originator of the term being applied to tourists. Apparently he had used it as a nickname for a small elderly lady who was a regular customer one season. During banter in the pub among the summer workers, ‘grockle’ then became generalized as a term for summer visitors.

Having lived in Dorset for almost five years now, Julia and I are no longer considered ‘grockles’ ourselves … we are now ‘locals’ because we live here all the year round. For most of the year Dorchester and Weymouth are lovely places top be. We jokingly suggest to others that living almost equidistant between the two, as we do, that we visit Dorchester ‘for culture’ and Weymouth ‘for fun’. In fact we really like both towns in their different ways. In the Easter school holidays, and especially the summer months of July and August, however, we see a big change with the descent of the ‘grockle’ hoards. You can tell them a mile off. Its not just the ‘foreign accents’ … the Welsh, Manchester, Birmingham dialects … or even the ‘pale skin’? Its well … almost everything about them! Take the clothing for example. Whatever the weather … especially at Easter when it can actually be quite cold … the ‘grockle’ is determined to wear their ‘holiday clothes’. This is especially true in Weymouth where you see a ‘grockle’ wearing his ‘off-the-shoulder vest’, outrageously-patterned below the knee shorts, sandals or flip-flops (sometimes with socks as well), carrying his assorted ‘beach ware’ … sun umbrella, beach mat, cool box, beach towel, etc. I have singled out the men here, but the women and the children can be just as bad. There can be snow on the ground in Weymouth and your ‘grockle’ will still be wearing (and carrying) ‘all the gear’!

Julia and I have an expression we use when visiting Dorchester or Weymouth during the holiday season … ‘Grockle Alert!’ We use it not only to point out some of the hilarious clothing they appear in, but to warn one another of the eccentricities of ‘grockle behaviour’ . ‘Grockle driving’ is particularly bad. They never seem to know where anything is … car parks etc., or which streets to turn up or down, and they have no compulsion about stopping in the most awkward places to consult a map (if they have one) or debate with their SatNavs? And if ‘Grockle driving’ is bad, ‘Grockle walking’ is even worse … especially if they are on their way from the car park to the beach. The long-term car parks in Weymouth are on the edge of town, necessitating the ‘Grockle walk’ through the town centre to the beach. Armed with everything one could possible need for a day on the beach (and often a load of things you don’t really need … I mean who needs an electric kettle?) the ‘grockles’ march through the shopping precinct knocking people out of the way with their huge bags of stuff whilst endeavouring to poke people’s eyes out with their sun umbrellas. This is especially true when you find yourself confronted with a ‘family of grockles’ … father, mother, loads of kids, grandparents, assorted other relatives and friends … it is like Hannibal crossing the Alps with his elephants? It is a case of keep clear or be flattened!

And then there is the ‘grockle conversation’ which, as an inveterate ‘people watcher’, I often find absolutely hilarious.  It is not just the ‘yearly observations’ that the regular annual holiday makers make … the people who come to Weymouth or Dorchester every year with out fail, and have been doing so for 20 or 30 years.  ‘Ooooh! Look, Ethel … that new gift shop over there … used to be ladies hairdressers, you know!’ says one. ‘See that Pound Shop … used to be Woolworth’s, you know!’ says another. (Actually the Pound Shop in Weymouth never was a ‘Woolworths’). No, it is often the weird nature of the conversation itself? Let me give you an example. I was in the hairdressers in Dorchester earlier this week waiting to have my hair cut. There were several other people waiting for their turn as well, including a local man, and a couple of ‘grockles’.  The ‘grockle’ husband was wanting a haircut, and his wife was waiting with him to make sure he had enough cut off! (Why do people wait until they are on holiday in order to get a haircut?)

Well the local man had just come back from France (like us) and was extolling the virtues of holidaying in France. The grockles explained that they were ‘from Frimley’ and down here on holiday. ‘We always come to Dorset’ said the husband, ‘you would not get me going to France!’. ‘Admittedly the weather is usually better in France’ he went on ‘and the food is a lot better too!’ ‘And you can sit outside in the sun in the cafés and restaurants in France! And you can sit there for as long as you like with no-one telling you to move on! And they have those big umbrella things to shelter you from the sun! And they have really good wine … and you get far more for your money with the euro being what it is! But we always come down to Dorset for our holidays … you won’t get me going to France!’

Yes, Dorset is full of ‘grockles’ at this time of the year … but actually places like Weymouth and Dorchester need them. Tourism is the big ‘money spinner’ around here and it is tourism – especially during the summer months – that keep many of the local shops solvent for the whole year. So we welcome the ‘grockles’, mindful of the fact that by ‘not neglecting to show hospitality to strangers’ we have perhaps ‘sometimes entertained angels without knowing it’ (Hebrews 13: 1). Being a ‘grockle’ doesn’t mean that you are a ‘bad person’ … just ‘different’ … well, at least for two weeks in the year. I mean, back in posh Frimley, you wouldn’t be seen dead in an ‘off the shoulder vest’, frightfully coloured shorts, sandals with socks, and a silly hat, would you?

 

Jim Binney

 

One of my very favourite films is Singin’ in the Rain, the 1952 American musical comedy film starring Gene Kelly, Donald O’Connor and Debbie Reynolds, a light-hearted depiction of Hollywood in the late 1920s, with the three stars portraying performers caught up in the transition from silent films to ‘talkies’. My favourite part in the film is when Don Lockwood (Gene Kelly) performs his (now famous) song and dance routine in the pouring rain … altogether now: Doo-dloo-doo-doo-doo, doo-dloo-doo-doo-doo-doo, doo-dloo-doo-doo-doo-doo, doo-dloo-doo-doo-doo-doo…

We are on our way to Calais (and the Channel Tunnel), Dorset, and home to Chipps Barton, after nearly seven weeks camping in France … the last month or so in blistering hot sunshine with not a single drop of rain! The elderly Belgian, on the next pitch to ours in our campsite at Aigues Mortes, nearly expired a number of times in the intense heat. He was only there because he and his grown up children and grandchildren, plus family friends, all go on a summer holiday together in France every year. He and his wife prefer somewhere cooler such as Brittany, he tells us, but this year everybody else demanded that they all holidayed somewhere in the south of France … somewhere hot! He tells me that it is raining back in Belgium. ‘How wonderful it must be to be in the rain?’ he adds … longingly.

After our escapade during our journey from Aigues Mortes to Clermont Ferrand, and our encounter with the Tour de France, and Peter and the Gendarme, we are on our way to Moulins on the next stage of our four-day saunter through France back to Calais. We plan to go via the small city of Vichy where the infamous pro-Axis government headed by Marshal Philippe Pétain (1940-44) was based during World War II. Whilst nominally the government of France as a whole, Vichy only fully controlled the zone in southern France not occupied by German military forces but in reality it was reduced to a puppet government by Germany. The Vichy Government reversed many liberal policies and began tight supervision of the economy, with central planning a key feature. Labour unions came under tight government control. There were no elections. The independence of women was reversed, with an emphasis put on motherhood. Conservative Catholics became prominent. The media were tightly controlled, and virulent anti-Semitism, and anti-Bolshevism was stressed. Avid history buffs, Julia and I want to see this city for ourselves.

Vichy is beautiful, and we can see immediately why Paris lost its avant-garde status in European art and culture during the wartime period. We wander round the central area, where the famous thermal baths are situated, and where one can still see the beautiful buildings, gardens, and covered promenades (where people would walk in order ‘to be seen’ by others). We visit the thermal baths and are asked by teenage twin sisters (who seem to be running the show) if we would like a drink? ‘Un verre de vin rouge, s’il vous plaît’ I reply. The two girls look at me blankly They meant a glass of the special ‘healthy Vichy water’ of course. A French lady standing behind them (with her glass of healthy Vichy water) thinks my request is very funny … and the girls total lack of comprehension even funnier. She does that ‘twirly motion thing’ with her finger pointing to her head … to indicate that some kids are rather slow on the up-take. After about a minute or so the girls suddenly get it … and dissolve in embarrassing girly laughter. Serves me right for trying to crack jokes in French, I suppose.

It is lunch time, and it is Sunday, so we stop off in a charming café we have spotted, with a lovely shaded garden, for a ‘small lunch’. It is wonderful and we spend a very pleasant couple of hours over lunch before resuming our journey to Moulins. I have won the battle over whether to stay overnight in our small popup tent or in a Hotel B&B. The Hotel B&B in Moulins it is then. We have eaten so well at lunchtime that we settle for a bread and cheese for supper, a bottle of wine, and a game of Scrabble. My day ends on a perfect note … when I actually manage to beat Julia for once … and without the use of any seven letter words as well!

The next day we stop off in Moulins  because we want to see another famous triptych that we have read about, which can still be seen in the Cathedral rather than a museum. At the end of the 15th century the French court favoured the Flemish style. At that time the most important painter in France was the Master of Moulins, whose identity has still not been established. He was a court painter in the service of the King and the Duke of Bourbon, and he travelled between the capital and Burgundy. We get a bit lost and just manage to get to the Cathedral by 11.45 a.m. Churches in France seem to close between 12 noon and about 3.30 p.m. and this Cathedral is no exception. The triptych is kept in a separate room … and it has closed early for some reason. The curator is still there, however, and we manage to persuade him to let us have a quick look. The triptych is wonderful. The Virgin and Child are surrounded by a garland of angels, lit from the radiance emanating from the glory against which they are seated, with the most magical effects of light. In the wings, Duke Pierre II of Bourbon, with a rueful countenance, faces his formidable wife (of whom he was said to have been the humble servant rather than the husband). The painter’s gift for characterisation is carried a stage beyond the normal by his habit of repeating the features of his sitters in the faces of their patron saints. His colour is of an astonishing brilliance and his forms of great elegance.

After our visit to the Cathedral we stop at a nearby café for a coffee. It is lunchtime but there are one or two tables left vacant for those, like us, who just want a coffee. Whilst we are there two German couples arrive and ask for a table for four. One of the girls wants to sit in the shade but somehow or other every table they sit at means she is sitting in the sun. They move table four times in all before they find the right table. The poor waitress is forever running around after them with their menus and a bottle of water. It is really very funny … and in fairness the girl who wants to sit in the shade sees the funny side of it. When they finally settle at a table, she looks across to us and gives us the ‘thumbs up’! After our coffee we leave Moulins and head for our next overnight stop at Troyes. We stop off on the way to see another famous site, the Pont-Canal de Briare. It is very impressive.  An aqueduct that carries a canal over the River Loire on its journey to the River Seine. It replaced a river-level crossing from the canal to meet the Briare Canal that was hazardous in times of flood. Between 1896 and 2003 it was the longest navigable aqueduct in the World until the opening of the Magdeburg Water Bridge. We sit by the canal and have a picnic lunch, whilst watching the boats crossing the Pont-Canal, before resuming our journey to Troyes.

The next day we make the long drive from Troyes to Calais. We are stopping at the central Hotel B&B so that we can easily walk into the centre of Calais and enjoy a final dinner at a nice French restaurant before returning to the UK. We find a delightful restaurant called La Boissonniere (recommended by Trip Advisor) that provides an excellent meal for around 19€ each (plus wine). It is both old-world and elegant and has a brilliant chef. The restaurant is owned and run by a mother and daughter … and we enjoy a delightful evening. We determine to come back to Calais just for the day sometime … if only to dine at this wonderful restaurant.

After breakfast the next day we leave early to get to the Channel Tunnel. We have a return ticket but there was trouble at the terminal yesterday with another burning tyre thrown on to the road leading to the terminal. Our reasoning is that if we get there early we might get an earlier shuttle than the 11.20 a.m. we are booked on, and thus avoid any delay. We get to the terminal o.k. although we see a number of migrants attempting to board lorries heading for the UK in the lorry lane to our right, and a number of Ferry workers and Gendarmes engaging in a ‘face-off’ at the approach road to our left. When we get to the check in we are offered (and take) an earlier shuttle that is due to leave at 10.20 a.m. When we get to the boarding lanes, however, we discover than everything is ‘on hold’. We are boarding group ‘D’ and boarding group ‘B’ has not left yet? We are about to leave our car and go and get a coffee … when suddenly there is an announcement telling boarding group ‘D’ to board immediately. We jump back in our car and drive straight through and on to the shuttle.

There is a Belgian car immediately in front of us … with a perfectly ‘horrid’ child leaning out of the back window flying his toy aeroplane? He is clearly a cross between ‘Just William’ and Dennis the Menace’. His parents are obviously having trouble with him because they are driving very erratically as they attempt to negotiate their way through to the train and keep their troublesome son in order at one and the same time. He spots us looking at him and starts to pull rude faces at us. He looks at me … and decides he is going to ‘stare me out’. Big mistake! I win hands down! As we drive on to the train the sudden thought hits us that we will be trapped in the same compartment as him … nightmare! There are usually about four cars to each compartment. Thankfully the attendant manages to squeeze the Belgian car into the compartment ahead of us and we sigh with relief when the steel shutters come down separating us from Dennis the Menace for the whole journey to the UK.

The nice attendant, who has just rescued us from Dennis the Menace, comes to talk to us. She has had a horrendous day. The trains have had trouble all morning with stuff not functioning properly … but now it has suddenly and inexplicably, all started working again. The train leaves ten minutes early and we discover that, in fact, that we are not on the 10.20 a.m. but the 9.20 a.m. that is leaving late? Julia explains to the nice attendant that I have this reputation for just looking at things and they start working? The attendant wants me to stay on the shuttle for the rest of the day!

We arrive back in the UK after a trouble free journey, disembark, remember to drive on the correct side of the road, and drive up the M20 on our way home. The other side of the road is packed with lorries, all at a standstill. There are portable toilets every 100 yards or so. About 15 miles up the M20 we stop for coffee … and by the time we rejoin the motorway, the other side has been closed off by the police completely. Obviously things have suddenly all broken down again. Perhaps I should have stayed on the train all day?

We continue our journey but have to go across country in the end because our side of the motorway is jammed as a result of the police closing the route to the Channel Tunnel nearer London. We make the detour easily enough and even manage to stop for a ‘Full English’ on the way for lunch … my first ‘all day breakfast’ for seven weeks!

We arrive home to discover that the phones are playing up and the internet is not working. We unpack the car and pack all our camping stuff away in our barn. We unpack all our clothes … heaps of them all over our bedroom. Julia starts to wash them … load after load going into the washing machine … whilst I start to try and fix the phones and the internet. Two days later … and the washing is almost done, and the internet is finally working again. What is more … it is raining! In fact it is pouring with rain … the first rain we have seen for five weeks. I go out on to the patio in the pouring rain … I start to dance and sing … after all these weeks of blazing hot sun, the rain is wonderful. It is even more invigorating than ‘Vichy water’. So ‘I’m dancin’ and singin’ in the rain.’ Gene Kelly, eat your heart out!

Jim Binney

It is 4.30 a.m. and we are woken by the sound of the French families packing up and leaving our campsite. The stage whispers (louder than if people spoke normally), the slamming of car doors, the starting up of car engines, the crying of disgruntled children (who feel it is far too early to be ‘up and about’), all serve to wake not only us but probably the entire campsite!

The reason for this early morning activity is that it is the first Saturday morning of the school holidays in France and England (and goodness knows where else). It is the day when countless thousands of people make their way down the French motorways to the south, for their annual family holiday, in search of sea and sun,. Those French people already on our campsite (who have taken their holidays early) are convinced that the motorways today will be crowded in both directions – holiday makers on their way down to the Mediterranean, and ‘escapees’ trying to get back up north before the ‘annual invasion; of the south of France begins. They are therefore endeavouring to make an early start back home. I wonder how on earth they are going to get out of our campsite at such an early hour. Security is strict, and the gates close each night at 11.00 p.m. and don’t open until 7.00 a.m. No doubt the French will have made ‘suitable arrangements’ … and anyway (as we all know) ‘the rules only apply in July and August’ and for the French themselves, the ‘rules’ don’t seem to apply at all, whatever the month?

We too are starting our journey home to Dorset today, as well. After a wonderful six and a half weeks in France it is finally time to begin our slow meander back through France to Calais, the Tunnel, Dorset, and Chipps Barton. We plan to take four days to get to Calais from Aigues Mortes … a kind of ‘holiday within a holiday’ if you know what I mean. There is some debate, between Julia and myself, as to whether we ‘overnight’ on the way back in various campsites along the way … making use of our small ‘pop-up’ tent … or just ‘blow the expense’ and book in at our favourite Hotel B&Bs. Julia is all for continuing ‘camping’ (albeit in our ‘Julia sized’ tent), whereas I am feeling ‘camped out’ and am all for the ‘Hotel B&B option’ with their air-conditioned rooms, large comfy beds, en-suite facilities, and ‘bacon and eggs’ for breakfast. There is, however, no debate about where we are staying on our first night on the way back! We are heading for Clermont Ferrand and Vichy. Although  it remains hot and sunny in Aigues Mortes, Meteo-France (the most reliable weather forecast) tell us that storms are to be expected in that area on Saturday evening. Not the weather to overnight in a small pop-up tent then. So Hotel B&B it is.

We settle on Clermont Ferrand as our destination, pack the rest of our stuff neatly into our car (much to the amazement of our fellow campers), say our ‘Goodbyes’ … and we are off! Our Belgian friends tell us to ignore French pessimism over ‘packed motorways’.  ‘Yes, the south-bound side of the motorways will be busy!’ they tell us, ‘but the north-bound side will be o.k.’ ‘It is the first weekend in August you need to avoid!’ they tell us, ‘When the lot coming down this weekend, will be returning home, and another lot will be coming down to replace them!’ Fortunately we will be back in the UK by then!

Nevertheless we decide to avoid the motorways as much as possible. It is not just the possibility of heavy northbound traffic. We also want to avoid one motorway that will take us slap-bang through the centre of Lyons (always a horrendous journey), and the other motorway that will necessitate us crossing the Millau Viaduct (where the now famous Belgian, Baldwyn Smit, reversed his large Mercedes van into the front of our car and put us off the road for three weeks back in 2011). Julia has a plan (she always has a plan) and has got together with Kate (our new SatNav), and our battered road map of France, and between them mapped out a cross-country route from Aigues Mortes to Clermont Ferrand, over the Cevennes mountains and via (to us at the time) the nondescript little village of Balsieges, near Mende. The route is somewhat complicated as it takes us literally ‘up-hill and down dale’ but we have ‘Kate’ to guide us the whole way. So … no problem then! Kate tells us that it should take us about four and a half hours (plus stops for coffee and lunch of course).

The whole journey is a delight. We encounter no heavy traffic and make really good time … that is until we reach (the previously unknown, and little thought about) village of Balsieges? True, we did pass a yellow notice 28 kilometres before Balsieges which said something about a ‘traffic barrier’ somewhere ahead. Probably some kind of road works we think to ourselves. But just a few kilometres short of Balsieges we pass a very posh ‘Team Sky’ car coming in the opposite direction … and ‘alarm bells’ begin to ring! The ‘Tour de France’ is on … the vachement Tour de France … and we haven’t checked where today’s stage is going to be?

Now, for the uninformed the ‘Tour de France’ is a hugely important cycle race around France that takes place every July. It is made up of various teams of professional cyclists who compete against each other over various daily stages – some are ‘time trials’ but most involve a combination of steep climbs and sprint finishes. The Tour de France is hugely popular and attracts huge crowds along its route. In truth you see very little of the cyclists as a spectator. We have been ourselves, in previous years, and the cyclists flash by you in a moment. The ‘build up’, however, is great fun with the various vans and lorries of the sponsors preceding the actual race by an hour or two distributing ‘freebies’ to the waiting crowds. Today’s stage is from Rodez to Mende … and it runs right through Balsieges? The trouble is we know that the Gendarmes close all the access roads for miles around during each stage of the race!

We keep going in the vain hope that the road will be open … or at least have remained open long enough for us to ‘slip through’ ahead of the race on our way to Clermont Ferrand. As we drive into Balsieges we see people parking their cars, and running (with their chairs and cool-boxes full of food) in order to get the best places to see the race. As we come to the roundabout just before the road leading into Balsieges – the road we need to cross in order to continue our journey – we see the Gendarmes pulling barriers across the road. We are five minutes too late to get through! We see the Gendarmes stopping all the cars in front of us and telling them to go round the roundabout and back the way we have all just come.

There is another British car a couple of cars in front of us. The driver is arguing with the female Gendarme who is redirecting us all. The French drivers meekly accept the situation and do what they are told. This British driver is arguing the toss with the female Gendarme! I wouldn’t argue with any Gendarme. They are very impressive at the best of times. They all look very big, very fit, very healthy. The look tough. They wear these really trendy uniforms with their trousers tucked into the boots, army style, and they carry lethal looking combat sticks … and guns! No, I would definitely not ‘argue the toss’ with a Gendarme … especially this particular female Gendarme … who looks as though she could easily ‘eat you for dinner’ if she so chose!

Arguing does the British driver no good at all and eventually he too has to drive round the roundabout and head back up the same road we just driven for miles along. When we reach the female Gendarme she is obviously none too pleased to see yet another British car. She looks at us with complete disdain. We speak to her politely in French (rather than shout at her in English) and enquire if it possible to get through as we are not wanting to stop to see the Tour de France, we just want to get to Clermont Ferrand. ‘No! You can’t get through!’ she tells us. ‘You will have to wait for three hours for the race to come through Balsieges’ she tells us ‘and then another two hours for us to clear the roads!’ ‘Where is the nearest place where we can get through?’ Julia asks her. ‘Bagnols-les-Bains’ she replies … and waves us on impatiently!

We haven’t got a clue where Bagnols-les-Bains is (except that we suspect it will be miles away), so we turn into a side road leading up to the back of Balsieges in order to stop the car and consult Kate and the road map. We find the other British car parked there as well. They are looking more lost than we are. We guess that the female Gendarme ‘chose’ not to tell them how to resolve their problem because she didn’t like being ‘argued’ with by irate Brits? Julia goes over to them to see if we can be of any help, and to pass on the ‘information’ about Bagnols-les-Bains. The driver is having an argument with his wife about what to do next. She is obviously trying very hard to ‘talk sense’ to her husband … but can’t ‘get a word in edgeways’? ‘But Pete …’ she says (as her husband raves on) … ‘Pete, just listen a moment’. It is all to no avail. Pete has really got it on him!

‘Hello, Pete!’ says Julia, through their open side window, ‘Can I be of help?’. They don’t have a SatNav, or even a road map … just a so-called ‘Smart Phone’ whose maps are not very smart? Julia shares the female Gendarme’s advice about continuing our journey north via the small town of Bagnols-les-Bains, and shows Pete where it is on the road map. Pete makes various notes of where various villages and towns on our road map are but is determined to ignore the female Gendarme’s advice. He intends to go south via the Tarn Gorge, rather than further north via Bagnols-les-Bains. Julia tries to tell him that that is a daft idea because this stage of the Tour de France is actually destined to take the riders through the Tarn Gorge (we have now looked it up on the internet on our iPad to find out the exact route of this particular stage). Pete will have none of it, however. Julia is no more successful at talking sense to him than his wife was? And so we part company. Pete goes south towards the Tarn Gorge … and we head north to Bagnols-les-Bains.

It is an interesting drive. Julia does incredibly well, driving through steep hills and mountains, and eventually we find our way through to Clermont Ferrand. The ‘diversion’ adds an hour or so to our total journey but we get through. We find our hotel and finally relax. Later that evening we are sitting in our hotel room … a cold beer for Julia, and a chilled glass of wine for me, after a nice meal … when Julia’s mobile phone rings? ‘Its Pete here’ the voice on the phone says, ‘what did you say the name of that town was?’

Jim Binney

It is Friday evening, and the Belgian Pied Piper of the Camargue is standing by our camping pitch scratching his head in disbelief. When he came by earlier this morning everything was as he expected it to be. There was our wonderful, large, bright blue, family sized, Fistral 4 tent in all its glory, with me sitting outside in my bright red, really comfy, chair … but now, in the evening, although I am still sitting in my bright red, really comfy chair, our wonderful, large, bright blue, family sized, Fistral 4 tent, has been replaced by a much smaller, bright blue, pop-up tent! ‘Sacre bleu!’ the Belgian Pied Piper of the Camargue exclaims. ‘What ‘as ‘appened?’ ‘Honey’, I reply, ‘I shrunk the tent!’ He hasn’t got a clue what I am on about? Obviously not a ‘film buff’ then!

What has happened, of course, is that whilst the Belgian Pied Piper of the Camargue has been out for the day, Julia and I have spent the day slowly breaking camp, dismantling our big tent, packing away our cooker, and tables etc., and loading our car ready for an early get away on Saturday morning … the beginning of our leisurely four day jaunt back up through France to Calais, the tunnel, and back home to Chipps Barton. Because this has been our final main campsite, of the three we have stayed in during this year’s extended ‘Tour de France’, we wanted to clean everything thoroughly and pack it all away in the car sensibly, before commencing our journey home. We are thinking that this might actually be the very last time we will use our wonderful big tent. God-willing, Julia will be returning to the Baptist Ministry full-time in the next few months, and we will not be able to take as much time as we have over the last four years for lengthy camping holidays in France. Our Fistral 4 is still in excellent condition and we would like to pass it on (possibly with various other pieces of camping equipment) to someone … maybe a family … who would be able to make good use of it.

So, although we are not leaving until Saturday, we take most of Friday to clean the tent and pack it away properly, and load the car with all our ‘stuff’. We plan to sleep in our ‘between main campsites’ pop-up tent on Friday night, and then all we have to do on Saturday morning is pack away the pop-up tent, stow the small single burner cooker and the few other things we need available for our last night, in our car … and then we are off!

It has been an excellent holiday for us all round, and these final two weeks in the Camargue have been particularly good. The weather has been hot and sunny (perhaps almost too hot at times) but we have had a really enjoyable time, met lots of new and interesting people, and visited some wonderful places. This last week has been especially good. We began it with a trip to the beautiful city of Nîmes, located between the Mediterranean Sea and the Cévennes mountains. The estimated population of Nîmes today is around 175,500. It has a rich history, dating back to the Roman Empire when the city was home to around 50,000-60,000 people (many of them Roman veterans). It is the Roman history of Nîmes we particularly want to explore.

Because of the heat down here in the Camargue, we get up early and take a packed breakfast with us. We stop off in the Aire de Vergeze – the same Aire where we helped the ‘Chechen rebel’ (I recounted the story in an earlier blog, you will recall) – to eat our breakfast. We are joking with each other, as we pull in to the Aire, that it would not surprise us to find the Russian Secret Service waiting for us when we get there? As we park our car, in a shady spot under some trees, we notice a large camper van full of young men – there must be a half dozen at least. ‘Is this a drop-off point for Chechen rebels?’ we ask ourselves. ‘I expect the police will arrive in a moment?’ Julia wonders out loud, as the camper van drives off. No sooner has she spoken than a car load of Gendarmes, plus other Gendarmes on motor bikes, come roaring in to the Aire. They are escorting another van that they have ‘picked up’ on the motorway. They stop right by our car and makes the occupants of the van all get out. They then start to empty the said van of all its contents. They are obviously looking for something or someone. We beat a hasty retreat before we get arrested as well … and we have finished our breakfast anyway!

Nîmes is beautiful. So clean, and well looked after, with wonderful buildings, and gardens, and fountains. It is easily the most beautiful city we have visited during this extended camping holiday. We cannot possibly see all that Nîmes has to offer, so we are limiting our exploration to its Roman history. Several famous monuments are in Nîmes, such as the Ampitheatre, the Maison Carrée Temple, and the Tour Magne. Because of this, Nîmes is often referred to as the French Rome. The site of an ancient spring, thought to have religious and mystical properties, Nîmes became a Roman colony sometime before 28 BC, although it was Augustus who made the city the capital of the Narbonne province, and gave it all its glory. An aqueduct was built to bring water from the hills to the north (part of which was the spectacular Pont du Gard that we visited during our first week here). There are fountains everywhere and we are reminded of the words of Jesus in which he described himself as the ‘source of living water’ which would become a ‘fountain of living water welling up from within’ all who (in every age) would believe on him (John 7:37,38).

We spend most of the day in Nîmes. We visit the amazing Roman Amphitheatre, that dates from the end of the 2^nd century AD, and is one of the best preserved in the world. The main arena is set up with chairs and a huge stage (which spoils the internal view somewhat) ready for some kind of ‘rock concert’ later in the week. We thoroughly explore the site, however, and climb right up to the top tiers, where we are amazed to find that ‘health and safety’ just doesn’t apply. There are no safety barriers. People are sitting with their legs dangling over the edges of what must be all of a 70 foot drop to the ground? There is nothing to stop small children running off the edge? But then (as we have often remarked) ‘This is France!’ There are lots of ‘rules’ … but none of them seem to apply?  We visit the Maison Carrée, one of the best preserved temples to be found anywhere in the territory of the former Roman Empire, where we watch an excellent short film about the early history of Nîmes (told in story form), and even climb up to the Tour Magne, and to the very top of the tower itself. The views are quite amazing.

As we descend back down to the city, through the wonderful gardens that lead up to the Tour Magne, we hear the sound of bagpipes being played. ‘Oh no!’ we both say out loud, ‘It’s the Belgian Pied Piper of the Camargue … he’s followed us to Nîmes!’ We turn the corner … and there is a Scotsman playing a hurdy-gurdy! (O.k., I am lying about the hurdy-gurdy player being a Scot). There is no one … except us … within 100 yards of him! We beat a hasty retreat … as everyone else has obviously done!

We return to our campsite after a truly memorable day. After dinner, we take our dirty crockery up to the ‘wash up’ area to wash them. We pass a group of young people playing with a football. We know them – two of them belong to a nice French family staying in one of the cabins just up from our pitch. They are batting the ball to each other, volley-ball style, and sometimes heading it to each other. We have to pass right through the middle of them and, as we do, I call out to one of the lads, ‘On me ‘ead, son, on me ‘ead!’. The lad looks at me blankly. I explain to him (in French) that I am teaching him some English? His sister gets it straight away. ‘Sur la tête!’ she shouts to him, ‘Sur la tête!’And then (mimicking me exactly) cries out to the lad with the ball, ‘On me ‘ead, son, on me ‘ead!’. ‘Arry would be proud of me!

Our final week passes too quickly … but we manage to fit in a wonderful boat trip around the nearby canals and rivers of the Camargue, including an opportunity to see once again the famous semi-wild black bulls and white horses, together with their ‘Gardiens’ (the cowboys and cowgirls) of the Camargue. We also enjoy a wonderful fish dinner on one of the floating restaurants at Le Grau du Roi, a final swim in the Mediterranean, and a night market at Port Camargue. We have so many wonderful memories to take home with us.

Later on Friday evening we go for a final stroll around the campsite. The kids are heading a football to each other. They are playing their new favourite game … they call it ‘On me ‘ead, son!’ They throw the ball in my direction … I jump and nod the ball (Alan Shearer style) powerfully into the top corner of the imaginary net! ‘Yes! You’ve still got it … even at pushing 72!’ I tell myself.  When we get back to our pitch we discover that the Belgian Pied Piper of the Camargue has recovered from the shock of seeing our large blue Fistral 4 tent shrink to much smaller blue pop-up tent. He has his bagpipes with him and he is doing the rounds, taking requests. He comes over to us. ‘Is there anything you would especially like me to play for you?’ ‘Do you know Silent Night?’ I reply … with as straight a face as possible.

Jim Binney

We are on our way back to our campsite along the road from Aigues Mortes. We have travelled this road umpteen times since we arrived here about 10 days ago. Just off this road there are two houses built in the typical old Camargue fashion, south facing with the backs of the houses shaped rather like the stern of an upside down boat. They are built in this way to resist the Mistral, the powerful wind that blows in from the north, and can sometimes reach 220 kph I am led to believe. Every time we drive past these two houses Julia points them out to me. ‘Have you noticed those typical old Camargue houses?’ she says. If she has told me once, she has told me half a dozen times. I don’t think that it is because she has forgotten that she has already told me this … I think it is because she doesn’t think I listen to her enough?

Anyway, this time, as we approach these two houses I think that I will ‘beat her to the punch’. ‘I know what you are going to say next!’ I tell her. ‘Oh look!’ she says in response, ‘There is an egret standing on the back of a horse!’ I look where she is pointing, and there is indeed an egret standing on the back of one of the white Camargue horses in the field by the houses! ‘You weren’t expecting me to say that, were you?’ says Julia. And she is quite right … I wasn’t. And so begins a few days of unexpected events … the kind of things that can only happen when you go camping in France … tales of the unexpected we might call them!

The week had begun well! After seven days of putting up with crappy showers in the shower block … the kind of showers that only dribble water, that are usually luke warm at the best, that suddenly inexplicably turn really hot or really cold for a couple of seconds, that have knobs that (in typical French fashion) turn anti-clockwise rather than clockwise to turn on or increase the water temperature … I unexpectedly find the perfect shower! Everything works absolutely perfectly … hot water, great pressure, enough pegs to hang your stuff on! You go 20 yards down the path by our pitch to the first shower block, you then go round the back of the shower block to the showers in a lovely sunlit quadrangle, and the shower is the third one on the left! Every day this week I have managed to get to the shower early, have my shower, and then stay in there … resisting little children who come knocking at the shower door, and adults (pleading my ignorance of the French language) … until Julia comes for her shower!

Equally unexpected has been some of the wonderful places we have been to this week. The lovely university town of Montpellier with its magnificent architecture, and the beautiful coastal resorts of Le Grau du Roi and La Grande Motte. True we had some trouble finding our way in to the centre of Montpellier – apparently finding your way in to the centre is notoriously difficult – even Kate (our new SatNav) struggled. But this was compensated for by the unexpected joy of finally emerging from the underground car park to find ourselves right in the magnificent Place de la Comedie. The warmth of the Mediterranean when we went for a swim; the hilarious ‘ice cream wars’ (as we dubbed them) with countless numbers of ice cream salespeople all vying for the same customers on the beach; the buzz of Le Grau du Roi of an evening and the fact that we were able to buy a great seafood dinner (with wine) for under 50€ for the two of us, were all very unexpected. Another unexpected happening was that right next to our restaurant the ‘boat jousting’ was taking place. Think of mediaeval knights jousting … and you have something similar but with boats rather than horses. The boats row past each others, crewed by about 20 rowers, and with a man on a platform in the stern armed with wooden shield and lance. The objective was to knock your opponent off his platform. It was great fun. What was unexpected, however, was that when someone got knocked into the water, the rescue boat didn’t bother to pick him up … just the wooden shield and lance? Obviously they were more valuable.

The friendliness of our neighbours on this campsite has also been unexpected … not simply the friendliness but the warmth of the friendliness … and the unexpected hilarity of some of the things that have happened. We return from one of our ‘trips’ … we have to unfailingly follow Julia’s planned itinerary … to discover that the French family who we lent our spare electric cable to had packed up and left? There was no sign of our cable anywhere by our pitch? ‘I hope they haven’t taken it with them!’ I say to Julia. ‘I hope they didn’t cut off just the length they needed?’ Julia replies. We both roar  with laughter at the thought of finding our electric cable … with only eight inches of cable left on it? Thankfully we do find it … intact … by the French family’s now vacated pitch.

For Julia and myself one of the most unexpected things in life is the way God suddenly reveals himself to people. I think of C S Lewis’ testimony in his lovely book, Surprised by Joy of how he found God for himself whilst on a visit to Whipsnade Zoo. At the start of the journey, he tells us, he didn’t believe in God, but by the end of the journey, he did! Gerard Hughes God of Surprises is another great book of spiritual guidance. A lovely, wise and lucid book of deep humanity, it is above all a useful book – a book to be used by those who find it hard to forgive themselves: the stumblers and agnostics who hardly dare believe that God can be at work within them.

Today we are going on a mini-tour around the Camargue. We plan to visit the Museum of the Camargue (where we have been before three years ago), an Abbey, and a Nature Reserve. We have forgotten, of course, that today is Bastille Day … a very important day for the French and a national holiday. So … when we get to the Museum, the Abbey, the Nature Reserve … they are all closed of course! The French do not see the irony of celebrating the day when the Bastille Prison was opened (and the prisoners freed) by having a day when everything people want to visit (on a national holiday) is closed! We should have expected this of course. At least the cafés are open so we can get a coffee!

The most unexpected event, however, happened yesterday afternoon. It was about 3.00 p.m. and we were all ‘spark out’ … lying around on an assortment of airbeds, deckchairs, blankets etc. It has been so hot here that the only thing any of us can do between 2.00 p.m. and 4.30 p.m. is find some shade … and sleep. Well, there we all are … sleeping … when suddenly we are interrupted by the horrendous sound of the bagpipes being played! As far as I know Julia and I (and another couple) are the only Brits on the campsite. It is largely the French themselves (and the Belgians) that come here. In fact even the staff here don’t really speak any English. I think I am dreaming! It’s a nightmare! I wake unexpectedly to hear ‘Flower of Scotland’, ‘A Scottish Soldier’, ‘Amazing Grace’ all being played on the bagpipes very loudly. I wonder at first if it something to do with the children’s activities over by the main meeting area … but no, it is a man playing the bagpipes! We are all awake now! The French and the Belgians come running over to us as if it is all our fault! ‘The McGregors are coming!’ our Belgian neighbour tells us! I try and explain that we are English (not Scottish) and that one of the reasons we leave the UK each summer and come to France is to escape the sound of bagpipes! I tell them that if we English had been allowed to vote in the recent ‘Independence for Scotland’ referendum, Scotland would have been given independence … primarily because of the noise of bagpipes! We tackle the man playing the bagpipes. He thinks we all like the sound of the bagpipes because he is now marching around the campsite playing as loudly as he can!  Julia attempts the gentle approach. ‘Was that ‘Flower of Scotland’ you were playing?’ she asks him. ‘No!’ he replies, ‘It was Primrose of Belgium!’ (at least we think that was how his French translated). It turns out that he is Belgian … nothing whatsoever to do with Scotland. The Piper carries on marching around and playing loudly. Our fellow campers are groaning (and putting their fingers in their ears). The dogs are all howling! We decide to go out for the rest of the day … and jump in our car and drive off. As we leave we see the children … following the Pied Piper … (no doubt inspired by James Bond) they are throwing things at him!

We arrive back at our campsite late in the evening. All is quiet. We go to bed, tired after our great evening in Le Grau du Roi. I am woken at 7.30 a.m. by the sound of the bagpipes being played! Its o.k., I am just dreaming! I get up anyway and go for my shower. I go the 20 yards down the path by our pitch to the first shower block, and round the back of the shower block to the showers in the lovely sunlit quadrangle. I walk towards the third shower on the left! ‘Stop!’ says the huge French lady who cleans the showers every day. ‘I am just about to clean these showers … you cannot use the only really good shower on the whole campsite!’ Here is something else that is quite unexpected. Why, on earth, is this woman cleaning the showers at a time when most of us actually want to go and use the showers? ‘Go round the corner’ she says, ‘use the crappy showers …the showers that only dribble water, that are luke warm at the best, that suddenly inexplicably turn really hot or really cold for no good reason, the showers that have knobs that turn in the wrong direction in order to punish you! Go and use the crappy showers like everybody else!

Jim Binney

For some reason all the children on our campsite have started saying ‘Hello’ to me? The boy in the chalet across from our pitch, the children belonging to a Belgian couple just down from our pitch, the group of 14 or so pre-teens camping along the way (part of a youth group from Grenoble) are all the latest examples of this ‘phenomena’. I was on the way down to the shower block yesterday morning when one of the Youth Leaders from the group from Grenoble called me over. ‘The kids have a question for you?’ he said. ‘What is your name?’ I am asked. ‘James’ I reply (I don’t want to resurrect the ‘Jules et Jim’ confusion of other campsites). My answer creates a hubbub of chatter amongst them. I see them looking at my scar … I think I hear the name ‘Bond’ mentioned … it would seem that the rumour from the swimming pool about me being a member of the SAS who was wounded in the course of being on Her Majesty’s Secret Service has been preferred to me having heart trouble and zip fasteners? Is this all really happening or am I actually turning into Walter Mitty?

Of course superheroes’ main objective in life is to help people. So being helpful is a concept that I have tried to take into everyday life with me. This is especially so when it comes to being a member of the ‘camping village’. It all really began at the campsite in Bayonne a couple of years ago – the campsite run by ‘Herr Flick’ (regular readers of our holiday blogs will understand) – when we found ourselves allotted a pitch several metres from the nearest electric point? Our electric cable, although very long itself, was simply just not long enough to bridge the gap between said electric point and our tent. Herr Flick was very sorry (well not that sorry actually) but there was absolutely nothing that could be done about it. Fortunately for us, just across from our pitch was a very nice British family – Simon and Charlotte (and their two children, Jasmine and Charlie) – who had a spare extension cable which they were not using and (since the time we were due to stay on this campsite coincided exactly) they were able to lend it to us for the duration of our stay. We were able to repay this kindness a couple of days later when Simon discovered that they had left their sun umbrella at home and we were able to lend them one of ours (we always seem to carry two with us for some reason).

This kind of ‘communal helpfulness’ amongst fellow campers is one the reasons we like camping so much. Camping seems to bring out the best in people and over the week (or two) in one campsite together a communal spirit is developed. We make it a point of trying to be helpful to our neighbours (without being annoyingly so) when we set up camp anywhere. We take as our inspiration the actions of Jesus himself whom (we are told in the Bible) ‘went around doing good’ (Acts 10:38). ‘Being helpful’ however can sometimes backfire, although it also often creates humour, and teaches us good lessons.

When we were at the campsite in Lourmarin, Julia went out of her way to help ‘Svetlana Putin’ the young Russian girl who was cycling round France. I wrote about her in a previous blog you may recall. Julia was so concerned that Svetlana wasn’t coping too well that she ended up fussing over her like a ‘mother hen’. Svetlana was very appreciative, however, and gave us several bars of chocolate in return (she couldn’t fit them in with all the stuff she was attempting to carry on her bicycle anyway). We are still enjoying them a couple of weeks later. Unfortunately Julia somehow managed to lose her reading glasses in the process. Fortunately she had a spare pair with her but these were her very favourites. We cannot find them anywhere. Perhaps they are on their way to Russia?

Here in our current campsite in the Camargue we tried to help a young girl from a  Vietnamese-French background. She was camping with some girlfriends and had somehow managed to lose her mobile phone and was in a panic about it. She managed to create a bit of an atmosphere of distrust suggesting that it had actually been stolen? Julia managed to calm her down a bit and restore some sanity to the situation. We met her a couple of days later in the swimming pool … complete with mobile phone which (needless to say) she had actually left lying around under a pile of clothes in their tent? At the end of the week she (and a friend) sought us out. They had done some washing only to discover they didn’t have a washing line … did we have one that they could borrow. Julia lent her one of ours … a cute contraption that looks a bit like a yoyo which you can wind out to the length you want. We were surprised when they returned it again shortly after. Was it no good? We know the sun is really hot here but could their washing have dried that quickly? ‘No’ the girl replies ‘it was great!’ and then says something that we only get the gist of … something about cutting off what was needed? We think no more about it and put the washing line back in its storage pouch. Today, when we have done our own washing, I go to set up the said washing line. When I wind the cord out … there is only eight inches of cord left? Fortunately we always carry various washing lines with us!

Over this whole camping tour de France we have been able to help English people with their French and French people with their English. We have translated menus, explained where the good places to go are, directed people to the best supermarkets, fixed computers, helped people ‘get on line’, mended chairs, helped to erect tents and take them down again (those ‘pop up tents’ can be a real menace) … and on one occasion we even ‘baby sat’ a bull dog! We have also received a lot of help from others when we too have needed it … and made some good new friends in the process.

Today I came across a French family who had just arrived. They were setting up their tent – father, mother and two small children. One of the guys from the staff here was there as well. There are lots of ‘Ooh la la-ing’ accompanied by Gallic shrugs. I take a guess what the problem is … and butt in. ‘Do you have a problem with your electricity?’ I ask. ‘Yes’ the staff member explains ‘their electric cable is five meters too short … and we do not have any extension leads?’ ‘Don’t worry!’ I say, ‘I have a spare extension lead with me!’ Simon and Charlotte would be very proud of me!

I am on my way back from doing the washing up. I have a loaded bowl and I am moving slowly. One thing super heroes like me have learned whilst here in the blazing hot Camargue is that the heat quickly saps your strength … so it is best to move slowly. A new family have arrived and pitched their tent just by the wash up area. Their son (in his late teens/early 20s I guess) sees this super hero moving very slowly … and comes bounding over to me. ‘Is your load very heavy?’ he asks in a genuinely concerned way, ‘Let me carry it for you … I like to be helpful!’

Jim Binney

I just love camping … or to be more accurate, I love campsites! And by ‘campsites’ I mean campsites in France in particular. I am not too keen on camping in the UK … it is usually far too cold if you camp in a tent rather than a caravan or campervan with good insulation and a heater. Camping in France, however, and especially the south of France (by which I mean south of Limoges) which more-or-less guarantees having sunshine and warmth, brings with it the joys (and occasional woes) of the French campsite.

We have been camping in France for several years now, often spending several weeks over here. French campsites are normally very good with nice pitches, a good mix of sunshine and shade, good toilet and shower facilities, a small shop where you can buy essentials such as French bread, bar and restaurant facilities, and during July and August … free activities for the children, and nightly ‘entertainment’ for the whole family. I love the mix of nationalities that one gets on a French campsite – Dutch, Belgian, German, Swiss, Italian, Spanish, Brits … and the French of course. From April through to the end of June (and again in September) it is mostly the elderly retired in the campsites, but during July and August there is a complete range of ages from babies to grandparents.

I love the French campsites because they are a constant sources of interest to me. We have met some amazing people over the years, heard great stories, and made wonderful friends. I have learned a lot along the way. Our time spent on these campsites have been a wonderful source of stories for someone like me who is an inveterate ‘people watcher’. When I first started writing ‘blogs’ from our campsite they immediately became very popular and, although I no longer produce a daily blog from whatever campsite we are on, I always have loads of requests prior to going on yet another camping holiday to continue blogging. It seems people love the stories. I am sometimes asked if the various stories are ‘true’ or do I just ‘make them up’? The absolute truth is … that they are always based on true events. I may embellish a story somewhat from time to time, but essentially every story is true. These ‘crazy things’ that seem to always happen to us do actually happen. Truth really is ‘stranger … and often more amusing … than fiction!

For example, whilst we were staying in our last campsite in Lourmarin, Julia I were at the ‘wash up’ area (next to the entrance/exit to the campsite) washing up our breakfast things one morning, when a Dutch caravan was in the process of leaving the site to return home. As it drove out of the site it was followed by a rather large woman running behind it shouting, ‘Stop! Stop!’. ‘Have they forgotten something?’ Julia asked me. ‘No!’ I replied ‘Its his wife!  He has deliberately left her behind!’ A German guy at the next sink to us (who obviously understood English) exploded with laughter! I have already recounted the hilarious events of the ‘cabaret’ the other night here in Campsite Fleur de Camargue. Campsite connoisseurs will be pleased to know that the following evening’s ‘disco’ was much better and great fun to watch … although I chose not to amaze the crowded dance area with my brilliant ‘dad dancing’? Last night we had a film about life in the Camargue … but hardly anybody bothered to turn up to that? Probably it was deliberately designed so that the majority of the camp staff could have a ‘night off’! Keeping us lot in order is a very demanding task!

It is not just being on the campsite itself that is such a source of adventure, interest, learning and humour. The whole ‘camping experience’ contributes to this. Julia and I both love history and one of the things we do whilst on holiday here in France is to visit the various historical sites that France is full of. Oftentimes the historical and the hysterical combine, however. The other day we drove just down the road to the small town of Aigues Morte. We have been here before – about three years ago – and determined then to come back to look around it in more detail. Aigues Mortes is a beautiful little walled town packed with lovely houses, shops and restaurants. It has a fascinating history and we spent a marvellous couple of hours ‘walking the walls’ of Aigues Mortes and learning about its history. A day or so later we are off on another historical quest – this time to visit the amazing Roman aqueduct at Pont du Gard.

We leave early for the visit to Pont du Gard and stop for a picnic breakfast on the way. As we are sitting in an Aire eating our breakfast we are approached by a man whose car has broken down. He and his wife and child stopped overnight in the Aire and unfortunately left their cool box running and their car battery is drained. He asks us if we are German and we tell him that we are English. He tells us that he is not French (although we are speaking French) but Russo-Chechen (or something like that)? ‘You are Russian!’ Julia says (trying to make sense of what he is saying). ‘No! No!’ the man replies ‘Chechen! Chechen!’ … and makes the sign of a man holding an automatic rifle!. It turns out that he was one of the rebels who had to flee Chechen during the troubles with Russia and is now in France? We use our battery leads to get his car going again and he and his family are very grateful!

They say that ‘one good turn deserves another’ but it doesn’t always work out that way. We arrive at a small town just down the river from Pont du Gard to discover sign posts directing us to two alternative car parks on either side of the river? We are confused … so we stop for a coffee. The coffee is not very good … and when we ask to pay we are charged 5€ plus? The lady behind the counter tries to tell us that we have had double shots of coffee … whereas we wonder if the coffee actually had any coffee in it at all! Anyway Julia sorts her out and we get our coffee for less. We decide on the left-hand bank car park for the Pont du Gard and drive the mile or so there. It is a huge world-heritage site and the only access is via the automated car park. It costs 18€ for the two of us plus our car – cheaper than we expected – so we drive in, only to discover that we on the wrong side of the river (it is a long walk to the aqueduct) and (what is far worse) Julia has left her favourite hat in the ‘costa-lot-of-dosh’ café! Disaster all round!

We negotiate a deal with the really nice French staff at the Information Point. We can pay here on the left hand side of the river, and then transfer to the right hand side of the river … at no additional cost. They will phone across the river and sort it for us! This has two benefits for us. Firstly, we won’t have the long walk to the aqueduct, and secondly, we can stop off at the ‘costa-lot-of-dosh’ café on the way and hopefully retrieve Julia’s favourite hat! I am feeling rather tired – the day has already been far too adventurous for me – so Julia gives me the choice of remaining in the car, or coming with her back into the café to try and retrieve her hat? We walk into the café … where the same lady Julia had the argument with is standing behind the counter … wearing Julia’s hat! ‘Did I leave my hat here, earlier?’ Julia asks her. Madam looks Julia straight in the face and replies, ‘No!’ … ‘By the way, do you like my new hat!’

I wake from yet another ‘Walter Mitty moment’ to find Julia getting back into our car. She has her favourite hat with her. The now ‘nice’ lady in the café had found it after we left and had kept it in the hope that Julia would realise that she had left it behind and return for it!

The aqueduct at Pont du Gard is terrific. It is a marvellous feat of engineering and quite remarkable that it still stands today. Built by the Romans in the 1^st century (to carry fresh water to Nimes), and despite being 2,000 years old, the aqueduct remains in remarkably good condition. We spend three or four hours exploring the whole site and taking lots and lots of photographs. The whole site is tremendous and there is a huge museum attached which tells the whole story of the building of the aqueduct and so much more besides. There are lots of tourists including hundreds of Japanese. They are either wearing a wonderful collection of head gear to shield their heads from the sun – including a unique type of ‘Victorian bonnet’ with a hole in the top (worn by both women and men) – or sheltering from the blazing sun under umbrellas. I pass a young Japanese couple taking a photo of themselves, against the background of the aqueduct, using a selfie-stick. There is an old French man watching them, waiting for them to move on so he can take a photo of the bridge with his really old non-digital camera. I see the look of total disbelief and dismissal on his face. He seemingly has no comprehension (or sympathy) for modern inventions such as digital cameras and selfie-sticks.

On the way out of the site we pass another huge group of people on their way in! There must be at least 80 in the party. I think they are Americans by the look of it. Pont du Gard is most certainly on the ‘American Tourist Trail’. It looks like a group of contestants in a ‘silly hats’ competitions. There is the strangest collection of hats I think I have ever seen in one place! They have even managed to outdo the Japanese. I suggest that Julia goes and joins them … her favourite hat would win hands down!

Jim Binney