Saturday 17th
We found a very picturesque gorge near a place called Montmaurin, way off the beaten track - and then we got lost! However, defying logic we went round in a circle and found our way back on route. And soon we saw the snow-capped Pyrenees looming through the haze of the 40C heat of the day.

We camped at the base of the mountains at a site just opened this season. Our pitch was right next to the clear mountain stream, Neste. And braving all, I went for a dip. Boy was it cold. I did four strokes before splashing ashore, much to Pat's amusement. But I felt a lovely glow afterwards.

The lady warden was friendly and chatty and told us all about the old mill that used to operate there - the buildings now being used by various craftsmen.

Sunday 18th
How green are the Pyrenees. The mountains, the passes, and all the variety of trees reminded us of the Alps, only so far on not such a grand scale. From heading south towards Spain, we then veered eastwards heading towards Andorra.

There are no English tourists down here - and hardly any French drivers either. That was probably because everyone was engrossed in some big sporting event on TV, as we found them doing in two bars we entered in one village.

Gear changing, breaking and wheel-turning roads

It was constant gear-changing, breaking and wheel-turning left then right as the roads never once took a straight line, but lay like a long serpent around and over green hills, forested mountain sides and alongside clear fast-running rivers and through dark brooding gorges.

When we came out into broader valleys, we noticed a lot of farming being done still in the old ways - hay harvested by young and old hands, the older women in their long black dresses.

We have yet to find a campsite that is not beside a stream. Same again this night - the sound of water pouring over a small fall accompanied our evening and night. A small picturesque site on the far side of the pass Col de Port on the D618, it cost 36 francs (£4.70). This was one of the cheapest, and we are learning from experience that it is the municipal sites, or those on a farm, that are often the nicest and most reasonably priced.

Monday 19th
We went through Customs three times today - from France into Andorra, from Andorra into Spain, and from Spain back to France. And the only time it was not a mere formality was on entering Spain, where a very unfriendly official insisted on looking inside our mobile home. In fact returning into France, there was no one at the posts!

The road up to Andorra is red on the map and it looks like someone's intestines. Backwards and forwards we twisted, climbing ever higher through scenery that was pure drama - until we came out in the small country high in the mountains that was founded in 784 and has managed to keep its independence ever since.

We stopped for lunch not far over the border at the pass's highest point, 2,400 metres (7,874 ft). It was cooler and cloudier and in the distance thunder rolled. Soon we were engulfed in a storm, huge hail hammering down on our metallic roof.

As we descended into the 188 square mile country proper, through gorges, forests, lakes, pastureland and rivers, our first impressions were of another Switzerland. But that quickly changed on entering urban areas. These were dusty, ramshackle, full of building work, congested and with mangy dogs running about.

Everywhere were huge cigarette advertisements - with no health warnings! This was not surprising as one of the country's principal resources is tobacco-growing. And the principality is not part of the Common Market.

It was decidedly Spanish. The 65,000 inhabitants speak Catalan and the currency is the Spanish peseta. Cigarettes were cheap - as was diesel at about 30p a litre. It was a pity we had only half a tank to spare when filling up!

The country of contrasts was accentuated for us by the changing weather. After dropping down 600 metres, we were out of the hailstorm and back in 30C heat. From the dirty urban sprawl you climbed into clean green mountains, where skiing in winter and mountain-biking in summer is strongly being developed as tourist attractions.

Unless we turned round and exited the way we entered, the only other way out was through Spain. Here again, the countryside was pure Pyrenean beauty. But we needed to be back in France as we had changed no money and we needed to find a campsite.

We headed eastwards and seemed for ever to be descending, the brakes squealing as we twisted and turned our way down to lower lands. The forever descent brought home to us again just how high we had climbed.

Still on the downward track, we found a campsite at a place called Villefranche de Conflens on the edge of the Massif du Cantgou mountain range. There we collapsed after a hard day's driving to steak hache and salad.

Tuesday 20th
Mist shrouded the mountains and stayed with us as we descended to go through the orchards of France, passing acres of plum, apricot, peach and cherry trees and thousands of terraces of grape vines. We also passed many fruit trucks on the way to markets.

The campsite at Banyulls, under the scented pine trees

Pat saw the sea first - we had hit the Mediterranean and headed south towards the Spanish border, ending up in a resort called Banyulls. Except for its fame as a wine-making town, it was a bit of a disappointment. The beach of stones and grit - being levelled all afternoon long by a bulldozer - did not invite sunbathing or swimming. We walked along the harbour pier where under a notice in three languages strictly forbidding swimming or scuba diving were three groups of youngsters being given scuba lessons.

Having camped early at a pleasant site under pine trees, we were on our bikes. So we explored the town, managing to lose our way in the back streets. But we eventually found our exhausted way back to our welcoming mobile home.

Wednesday 21st
Today, the longest day, is France's national day of music. In villages up and down the country, musicians join together to entertain in a festival of their talents.

As we dined at a pleasant campsite in the very warm evening air, we could hear from the village of St Martin de Londres just below us the beat of brass bands playing in the streets. Later there was a beat group, singing and the sounds of an orchestra.

Founded by monks in the 10th century when they built the monastery St Martin in the valley of Londres, the village became in the days of the stagecoach a stopping off place between the Mediterranean and the Cevennes mountains.

Now a somewhat quieter place along a D road, we too found it a lovely staging post, having driven up from the coast. Along the way, we had stopped for an hour or so on a beautiful almost-deserted four-mile stretch of sand where we did the 'holiday thing'. We sunbathed, paddled (Pat) and swam (Tim).

How different to the Pyrenees the land became as we neared the mountains - arid, dry and rocky, dotted with scrub and olive and almond trees. But the rugged loneliness has a charm all of its own, and makes the old villages such welcoming sights.

St Martin de Londres is one of those hillside communities where you couldn't get a car up the narrow streets. To reach many of the front doors you had to scale a flight of old stone stairs, bounded on each side by pots of geraniums.

When I bumped over the cobbles on my bike later that evening, in every other doorway the old women sat and nattered, while down at the noisy bars the young congregated. After looking at three campsites along the way, we are really glad to find just outside the village a Camping and Caravanning Club of France one, 20 francs cheaper to boot.

Thursday 22nd
Woke up to a very warm Mediterranean morning, the sound of thousands of chirping crickets and something of a mystery. An elderly German couple had parked next door to us the evening before and fiddled on with all sorts in their smart BMW estate car, unloading a table, chairs and food. A sleeping bag was draped over a door to air. But no tent appeared and there was no caravan.

On my last trip to the loo before going to bed, the whole campsite and their car were in darkness. Were they sleeping inside or in sleeping bags somewhere in the open air? We awoke to see them clearing up their breakfast things and packing up. The next thing they had driven off, taking with them the mystery of whether these two oldies were 'living it rough'.

We took to the Cevennes mountains, climbing in twists and turns to 1,400 metres (4,600 ft). At a pass top village called Portes, we ate our lunch under an 11th century ruined castle that was being restored.

The rock and scrub terrain gradually turned greener as we slowly progressed northwards, eventually following the river Allier to a lakside town called Langogne. Here we immediately missed the Mediterranean warmth as a cold north wind blew over the green grass of our campsite.

As usual, we had looked for our favoured municipal site and found a cheap but well kept one next to the river. It was full of smart caravans and cars - and a washing machine in use next to one, a vacuum cleaner not being used next to another, cooking appliances outside many others and chickens running around our neighbouring caravan! Had we entered a gipsy site? However there were other ordinary campers in tents and motorhomes, so we were happy to stay.

Our evening meal was couscous. Never heard of it? Neither had we until we saw the box in the supermarket. Not knowing how the traditional French meal was meant to come out, we managed to decipher the instructions to cook the semolina into a dry fluffy dish, pour on the poultry and beef casserole and make the hot spicy sauce that was then poured on. We both enjoyed the fruits of our labours!

Friday 23rd
We awoke on our 'gipsy site' to find something of a subtle war going on between the council and the 'travellers'. Workmen were busy raking up cut grass around their pitches and under the clothes lines where women were trying to hang out clothes.

If there is one place you would chose not build a town, it is Thiers. It has spread from the 14th century onwards over the side of a mountain above a gorge of the river Durolle, timbered houses and buildings propped up over rocks and gullies, roads winding around them all in an incredible maze.

Doesn't look much - wait till you get into the streets!

If there is one place you would chose not to explore in a motorhome, it is Thiers. So Pat would tell you. She was driving, when I said, go up there. We climbed up a street at least one-in-four that became narrower and narrower.

Then there was this elderly man on a second floor balcony near what could be described as a crossroad of alleys, gesticulating wildly like an excited French policeman directing traffic. And like a French policeman, you could not make out whether he meant you to turn left, or right, to stop or carry on.

Pat pulled into the widest of the alleys with a look as much as to say, you got us into this mess, you can get us out. I managed, just, and we continued our vehicle-dodging tour around slightly wider streets.

Some ten miles out of Vichy we found a very typical French village - around which we cycled - with a lovely municipal green field campsite dotted with trees and, yes, next to a river. It was the cheapest site so far, 28 francs. What was good was that you paid for what you wanted and we did not need to use their showers or need electricity. We found you paid at bigger sites for all sorts of extras - such as swimming pools, crazy golf, snack bars, tennis courts and all - which we never used.

The sun was shining, and the thermometer had risen from the chilly 10C of the morning to a pleasant 22C in the evening sun.

Saturday 24th June
<> You've guessed it - the town of Decize, at the end of the promenade of trees] The town of Decize is built on a hill on an island in the Loire. We stopped for lunch there at the end of a lovely half-mile promenade of massive plane trees, which finished at the tip of what could be described as a peninsula, if it was the sea and not the Loire surrounding it.

A large canoe event began just as we finished our bread and cheese and we strolled along to watch some of the races.

Getting out of the town proved baffling. According to the map we should be on the right side of the river. But the river twisted and turned, split and even met another large river. Forever crossing bridges, we ended up going what seemed the completely wrong way to find it was the right way.

After a haul of some 50 speedy miles up the fairly busy (for France anyway) N7, we branched off to a nice country town called St Fargeau, where we stopped to admire the rose-pink chateau right in the centre. Huge round towers, unfortunately surrounded by renovators' scaffolding, stood at each corner of the pentagon shaped castle. We peeped inside at the very elegant interior courtyard.

The next town on, Bleneau, we stopped to camp at an even cheaper, but perfectly adequate, site - 22.50 francs (£2.96). We parked right next to a ripe cherry tree - but there was no stream! There we picked up our badminton racquets and worked up a fine sweat volleying the shuttlecocks on a gone-to-seed volleyball court.

Sunday 25th June Disaster! I had just let off the handbrake to leave our pitch when BANG! We both turned round to see a large piece of clear plastic lying on the floor. 'What was that? Where had that come from?' Then we saw the smashed rear window - both sides of the double-glazing had broken. I had rolled a mere six inches back off the chocks we use for levelling the van and into the hedge behind us. Only trouble was it wasn't just a hedge. It was strong wire netting totally covered by green leaves. This had pushed the handlebars of the bike hitched on the rear through the window.

We used some double-sided sticky things we found to hold together the cracked pieces and patched the hole with the top of a plastic butter container.

The day continued not go too well. We got lost several times, we ran very low on diesel and panicked about finding an open garage and for once could not find a campsite late in the weary day. One we detoured to was actually full up.

But we did visit an absolute typical French village, Flagy, parking in its main square with church, real village shops and bar. We walked through narrow roads over its little bridges and back across its old main bridge by the mill, where there was a lavoir where women did their washing.

We drove through the wild forests of Fontainbleu with its pines, oaks and beeches, stopping for lunch on a high craggy area where thousands of the French had also descended on this hot sunny Sunday. We passed Fontainbleu Palace, which maybe not as grand as Versailles, but is steeped in French history. Here too were coach loads of trippers.

We called in at another village, Milly-la-Foret, at the edge of the forest to see its huge wooden covered market hall put up in 1479 and still standing. Except for its tiled very high-pitched roof, the entire structure was built in oak.

We did find a campsite near the River Seine, and were put on a pitch next to a very friendly British couple. They gave us cups of tea, then wine, then visited us after our meal for long natters.

Monday 26th
Sadly homeward bound, it was a day of getting from A to B - ie from near Vernon, some 60 miles east of Paris, to Calais. The exercise demonstrated how wise we had been in travelling down the minor roads. We headed for route National One, only to find it was a one long slow stream of traffic.

We quickly diverted off on to the lonely rural roads for a much pleasanter - and just as quick - drive up to Calais. There we found the municipal campsite to discover the barriers down and scores of other caravanners milling around. The office closed at 5pm! Extraordinary for a port where there were arrivals at all times of the day and night.

Another camper already in situ used her card to open the barrier for us and we all trouped in and helped ourselves to places. We parked overlooking the port, watching the huge ferries arriving and departing through the fog. Yes fog. We had had lunch in baking heat and sunshine. Some 30 miles away I had filled up with diesel in very pleasant warmth. Now here we were in a cold wind and fog. We were surely almost home!

Final holiday reflection - the town of Brantome

Next: To Mistakenly Go Where No Camper Has Gone Before - France 1996

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.