Friday 24th June 1994

The hottest of all our European trips - but this is where we got to, high up in the French Alps

First time for everything. Today I drove the wrong way up a motorway slip road. Pat and I were on our way to catch a Hoverspeed catamaran for France happily bowling down the M11 in our Compass Drifter Merit E when all of a sudden all three lanes were blocked by queues of traffic.

I got out of the motorhome and pulled up the radio aerial, got back in, turned on the radio and fiddled with the tuning. There it was - the traffic news: there had been a lorry fire on the M11 and there was a ten-mile - yes ten miles - tailback. Already cars were reversing up an entrance slip road (one of the few on the M11) just along side us. No way was I going to reverse my cumbersome wagon up. So as an act of desperation, I just turned and drove up, my emergency lights flashing. Actually I was in a queue of reversing cars.

We headed back to the A1, to join up with the notorious M25, many unfortunate miles too far to the west. There was then 15 miles of 5mph crawl that had my left leg aching from all the clutch work. But we made still Folkstone with plenty of time to spare.

It had been a lovely hot sunny day, but suddenly there were huge dark clouds looming over the famous Kent cliffs. As I was racing to fit the headlight beam deflectors for continental driving before the deluge, there was a real mini hurricane that nearly blew me and my tools away. Pat made cups of coffee as lightning cracked across the sky, lighting up the port as though a million photographers were taking flash pictures.

The whole storm did nothing to calm Pat's nervousness about boats and the sea. The wind dropped, but the rain fell as though out of a fireman's hose right on top of you. If you go duty-free shopping, don't forget to take your boarding passes with you. I had to race back from the shop to the van for ours - and someone forgot to turn off the "fireman's hose".

For all that, the crossing was fairly smooth. Pat at last relaxed and I was relieved not to feel seasick, despite the boat-like sway.

We forgot about the hour's difference in France and arrived at midnight to try to locate this nearby campsite we had found in the guide. We had pre-booked it by phone, as this was our first motorhome foray across the Channel, and we had not the faintest inkling how things went on over there. We were that green that we filled up with diesel in Folkestone!

Despite what the map seemed to indicate, this campsite was not on the main road, but in the middle of a tortuous maze of dim villages and dark side roads. By pure luck, we found it. No gates, or anything like that, we just drove on to a piece of grass and quickly settled down for the night.

Saturday 25th

Us!

It was a misty and wet drive to Chartres. We were amused during our lunch stop by a group of French young adults trying to sort out a broken car - a funny little dinky-type vehicle. A stroppy youth with a shaved head arrived with a tractor and trailer. First they tried to push the car up two thin bits of wood on to the trailer. The wood, naturally, broke.

The stroppy youth got angrier and bodily lifted the car, heaving it side ways. Then they dismantled a picnic table bench for wood. While this was going on, our angry young man pushed the car backwards and forwards, reversing its position and shouting at one poor unfortunate girl for trying to help him do goodness knows quite what. Again they tried to push the car up the ramps made from the bench. For some reason the shaved-head lad got angry again, throwing the front of the car around. But eventually it was on the trailer, and the "ramps" fixed back on the bench (that impressed us).

The French road signs confused us somewhat - you have to get used to the fact that when they point obliquely to the left or right, it means go straight on. And when huge letters on the road say take the slip road to the left for a certain town, it doesn't mean you head off to the left. You turn left to go right across the road you were on!

So we had an hour's detour around the countryside after lunch. Pat, too, had her first taste of driving on the French roads, coping magnificently and given my aching legs a much-needed rest. We drove around the narrow streets around the imposing Chartres cathedral, giving me the "St Ives" jitters (those who read my last log will know what I mean!). Then it was on to a very pleasant campsite on the edge of the city.

Sunday 26th

Warm sunny morning as we drove along the roads that went straight as a dye through the flat lands to Orleans and Bourges. Again the French signposts and a poor map defeated us and we several times went off course. To make up for lost time we resorted to the autoroute at vast expense - some £14 to cover 200 kilometres - and bought a new map!

We also bought some peaches at one of those tempting roadside stalls - only the minimum the trader would sell (at 50p a lb) was two kilogram. They'll be coming out of our ears! We were now roughly right in the middle of France and turned east after Clermont Ferrand into the hills, climbing twisting, curving roads up into the forests and, unfortunately, mist and cloud. In the middle of this national park area south of Thiers was a lovely old town (Oliargues) nestled at the bottom of a deep valley. Great, we thought, lovely to camp here. So we followed the camping signs up a hill for one km, two km, three km ... where was it? Not in our lovely valley. However, a long single lane track brought us to this very off-the-beaten-track site right in the middle of woods on a hillside. Very attractive. Very quiet. Cost, much the same as other French sites - £3 each. Miles covered so far: 900. Fuel used: 170 litres; cost: £86. Miles to the gallon: 24 (heavy motorway use).

Monday 27th

It was raining. Had rained most of the night. But by the time we hit a quiet town called Ambert, it was cheering up. Found a supermarket for provisions - including a large tin of the French dish cassoulet (beans, pork and sausage) - followed by a typical French bar for coffee.

We'd had fun with the motorcaravan loo developing a mind of its own. The pump which flushes it stopped working. Then later, when no one was near it, it started of its own accord . . . and wouldn't stop! The loo filled rapidly with water. Quickly I switched off the electrics. I couldn't see where the fault lay, so off we went hunting for a caravan dealer to see if they could stop the flush flushing.

Found one eventually near Clermont Ferrand. Just your electric contacts, said the man in the shop, after fishing around under the waste tank. It seemed to work - but I had my doubts. And sure enough, it wouldn't work the next time we went to the loo. I took part of the pump area to pieces and found water where there shouldn't be water. I also found sealant had come away around the loo. WD40 and some new sealant sorted out the flushing.

Found a camp by a large river that night, run entirely by Dutch people. They served up a cheap and very cheerful dinner in their own restaurant, which we had after mounting our bikes for the first time, and exploring the old nearby village of Dallet.

Tuesday 28th

The sun is shining. It's a hot day. We head west into the hills, stopping at an old town. By lunchtime we had found a super campsite right next to a lake, Lac d'Aydat. The pitches were all individual among a forest of pine trees. The facilities were superb. We used our bikes to explore the spread-out site and then on around the lake to a small resort, which had its own beach with pedallos, and nearby men young and old playing boulles. We had a cup of thick French coffee in the bar overlooking the scene.

The campsite at Lac d'Aydat. Tim on his daughter's bike - well, it was light!

We rode back to our cosy mobile home and had our hearty supper of cassoulet, French bread and wine, sitting out in the open air. What a life!

Wednesday 29th

It was such a fabulous campsite, we decided to stay for the day. And it was Pat's birthday and her treat was to "loll about" all day. We sunbathed, lazed around and went looking for a boulangerie for bread on our bikes. We did thirty miles - so it seemed (divide that by ten) - but there was no boulangerie to be found.

Thursday 30th

Went south through rolling hills, mountains (still patches of snow on the top of some), forests and quaint towns. The delight of this area is that it is not that touristy yet. We stocked up provisions in a little store in Murol. Went through le Mont Dore, la Bourbelle, Bort and Riom-es-Montagne where we took a photo of a huge statue of Mary and baby Jesus on a hilltop.

Camped right up in the hills at a place called Le Claux - a very basic site, but at least a basic price: 25 Francs. Still very hot when we arrived, but the evening was definitely cooler, because of the altitude. This is a ski resort in the winter. Total miles done so far: 1,145.

Friday 1st July

What a day of views. We motored up to the fantastic height of 1,600 metres (5,249ft), a mountain called Puy Mary, where we stopped to admire the hills all round for miles into the hazy misty distances. We climbed up a path until we were abreast with a pocket of snow - despite the warmth. We had drinks in the nearby bar, then motored cautiously down the other side, around hairpin bends, with terrifying drops alternating on each side, and into wooded valleys to the town of Aurillac.

After lunch at one of the many roadside picnic spots eating off a stone table sitting on stone chairs, Pat took over the driving, mastering well the tough winding valley road - until we came to a tunnel. Pat has a tendency to claustrophobia. And this was an old, dark, narrow tunnel, where two lorries could not pass. There was a traffic light system to control this - but according to the height guide, we were a car.

Lorries suddenly came pounding towards us, but Pat kept going ... there was only three inches between us and the huge wagons. "I would never have driven through, if I had known," said Pat after she calmly mastered the ordeal.

We went through St Flour and on to Langeac then Puy, again being treated to amazing views, as though we were in an aircraft coming into land and seeing all the countryside spread out below.

Street diner - no, we didn't try to drive up this typical thoroughfare in Puy!

We decided to camp at a site almost in the centre of the delightful old town of Puy, which is built round a series of dramatic rocks that tower into the sky and which are topped either by castles or statues (usually Mary).

We took our bikes to explore the old streets and had a drink in one of the squares. It's been a very hot day and is a sticky night. We covered 100 miles today.

Saturday 2nd

From Puy we headed west on another scorching day (30C, even the French were saying it was unusually hot), making good time, despite a lie-in, to St Algreve, Valance and on into a mountainous region known as the Vercors National Park.

During our picnic lunch we were entertained by a cycle rally up the "Mountain of the Battle" - ie, we sat at ease at our picnic table as these poor men sweated up the never-ending inclines in the sweltering heat. Pat took the wheel ("First time I have driven up a mountain") taking us to 1,300 metres (4,265 feet) and then down again to absolutely dramatic landscapes. At one point where we stopped, we got the real Swiss-type echos ... so I of course, yodelled.

We landed up in a fairly high-up valley through which the Vercors river ran. There we found a basic, but very rural, campsite. We explored on our bikes. I went to look at some tunnels, through which one road ran. It was like entering a huge grotto. A river ran on one side at the start, and in parts you could see the sky above. A cooler night - thankfully.

Sunday 3rd

The road clung to the cliff edge like a limpet, the river roared many feet below and rock walls on each side of us towered for ever above, almost at times cutting out the sky. At other times the winding road was cut into the cliff face, putting a curved ceiling of rock above us. My eyes never left the "roof" in case we hit it with our high top. Then, when those alternatives ran out for the ingenious road-makers, they had made tunnels dark, wet ones, in which I wondered whether we would squeeze past oncoming vehicles.

We were heading north through a fantastic gorge through which the Vercors river ran, heading for Grenoble, the French city nestled in a plain surrounded by mountains. The sign-posting there was nonexistent and, had I not just followed south-east on our electronic compass in the cab, we would never have found our way out. As it was we went through all sorts of back by-ways, through industrial areas and villages, but eventually headed for the French Alps proper.

Height sign - we didn't collect our diploma . . . we were not on our bikes

Climbing, we head up the Alps

We diverted up a multi-hairpin road taking us to the 2,000 metre (6,561 feet) high l'Alpe d'Huez and its Olympic village. There we walked around the very Swiss-looking ski resort, took a chair lift ride and I had the thrill of a dry bob-sleigh ride (Pat chickened out).

From there we headed higher into the Alps, the engine heating up as we topped the Col du Galibier, a fantastic altitude of 2,646 metres (8,681 feet), where we passed through snow. We were cool at last!

We started to descend, ending up at another ski resort, Valloire, where we camped right next to a roaring mountain stream. This was our coolest night for many a night.

Monday 4th

Time for a snowball fight - even if we were in t-shirts and shorts

It was down hill all the way, descending from the Alps into still hilly country, then north, starting our long journey home.

We called in at a Fiat dealer to ask about one of the warning lamps that would not go out. Radiator needs water, he informed me as though I was an idiot, completely contradicting what the manual said. We went off and stopped in a shady spot for coffee and the engine to cool, before removing the cap. The water level was, believe it or not, fine. The lamp still glows but the engine seems to be running fine.

Towns we went through were St Michel de Mauriene, la Chambre, Aiguebelle, St Pierre, Chatelard, Cusy, Rumilly, Frangy and Nantua.

We camped at an unmanned site in a very small village called La Chapelle next to what looks like a canal. Very quiet. Only one other couple on the site. It was sticky, hot and lightning flashed around the hills - we had the fan on all night.

Tuesday 5th

We packed up early, determined to get miles under our belt. Before we left, the local campsite official, a lady and briefcase, appeared. So this was how you paid at an unmanned site.

We were soon speeding along the straight rural roads as the land became flatter. Speed was curtailed once we hit the main roads, with much more traffic, but nothing compared to the English roads. We covered 280 miles, going through Besancon and Vesoul, skirted Epinal and Nancy and went through the Lorraine National Park to Verdun, where we camped.

After mending a puncture on my bike, we were soon exploring the interesting town and having an evening snack before collapsing for the night.

Wednesday 6th

The Town of Peace - Verdun

Verdun is now known as the Town of Peace. Over a million died in and around there in the First World War. We learnt of its bloody history in the Underground Citadel - a maze of 30 miles of tunnels where during the war 6,000 men found refuge from the bombing. It is now a museum where you board a mini-train which takes you through some of the cold passage ways and see the cook-house, canteen, living quarters and primitive hospital. There was commentary, music and holograms of actors playing various scenes from those days.

After that it was back into the warmth and on our way to Charleville Mezieres, Cambrai and Arras, passing many memorials and graveyards of the war dead. We looked for a campsite near Arras, veering off into a run-down village. We asked at what looked like a WI meeting in the village street for directions, which when followed brought us to what looked like a gipsy site. Not for us we decided, before heading off past the gathering of mothers in the street again, to another much smarter village and much smarter campsite.

Thursday 7th

You wouldn't think you could lose a 9th high, 8ft wide, 17ft long motorhome on a car ferry would you? We did, or rather it lost us. We carefully took note of where we parked, the deck, the stairwell number - everything. When it was time for vehicle passengers to rejoin their cars, we knew where to go ... but the motorhome was not there. We hadn't made a mistake, had we?

We rushed around the deck, squeezing past people and wing mirrors - but couldn't see our distinctive white bus. I rushed down to other decks, but no, nothing looked familiar.

Eventually, feeling an idiot, I told a young ferry worker I had lost our vehicle. What sort of vehicle? Well, err, this rather large motorcaravan. He sort of shrugged his shoulders, but said a lorry had broken down behind one of the ramps. He pointed to a wall. Great help, I thought.

The lorry is behind that wall? I asked. It's a ramp, he said. It will be lifted up soon.

I think we are behind this wall, I told a bemused Pat when we met up. Sure enough, the 'wall' was eventually raised - and suddenly we knew where we were and there was our motorhome. It wasn't lost over the side and we had transport home! Pity someone hadn't explained to us the ferry intricacies earlier.

It was a straightforward, if boring, run home, taking our total mileage to 2,700. With all the straight roads in France and dual carriageways in England, we had driven fairly fast, increasing fuel consumption - we did about 24 miles to the gallon.

Weatherwise, that holiday really spoiled us. Whatever month in the year we chose over the next seven years and next seven trips, we never found the same sun and heat. But adventures aplenty we had.

Next - From cave-dwellers to elbow bridges

These articles were originally posted to the Motorhome List. They appear here, with the addition of the photos, with the kind permission of the author, Tim Sinclair.