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It was all because the name of the French town was right on the fold of the map. We could make out 'Lac' on one page and something then 'e' on the other. We were on the right road, the D81, going through gorges, forests and gentle mountains of Haut Langedoc, a region where time has stood still.

And we arrived at Lacaze. This was it ... the place on the fold of the map where we had to turn south. It was an old-fashioned very rural village with the D81 running above it, so you were looking down on the rooftops. But how did you get down to the centre of the village, to take the road south? We came to an impossible narrow road at such a sharp angle, that we could never make it. We drove back and found another turning, again unable to turn round into its acute angle. So we drove on a bit, turned and approached the village from the other direction and began an incredibly steep drop down a gravely road, wide enough for a horse and cart.

We inched our way on round some houses, looking for the bridge we had seen from above that crossed the river. But no, there was no way we could turn the right angle on to the bridge that didn't even look wide enough for us anyway. There was nothing for it but to carry on.

This took us round a bend where the road became narrower still. It seemed impossible for us to go any further. But there was a cobbled street on our right. Up we went, engine revving, until the stone walls of the houses on each side seemed to trap us. We pulled in the wing mirrors and out Pat got to wave me slowly as though she was landing a plane. This way a bit, that way, forward, slowly. At Pat's reverse walking speed we got through the street. We eventually made it back to the D81, where a woman with a bucket looked on amazed as we passed her for the third time. The village had probably never seen a camper before - and certainly not one making such a determined search of its little alleyways.

It seemed we were not going to be able to make our turn southward. So we continued along our dear D81, only Tim was so absorbed by the recent drama, he set off on the wrong side of the road. Suddenly a black Mercedes appeared. The camper did a panic swerve, the Mercedes did an emergency break - and it was a near-miss! It is easily done, setting off on the wrong side when concentration goes.

Anyway, some kilometres further on, we saw signs for the next place - Lacaune. So this was the spot on the fold of the map!

It turned out to be a charming country town with a festival going on. We now know it quite well, as we must have been up and down the main street ten times, first looking for diesel, then a campsite. We found the diesel but gave up on the campsite when it appeared to be a long way out of town through something of an industrial area. We headed further on to Lac de Raviege, where we found next to a lake a quiet greenfield campsite (thank goodness).

That was a not-so-typical day in the middle of our 1996 French 'tour de France' that started on . . .

Our first campsite, outside a town called Blangy, was set on the side of an isolated valley and in the grounds of what has been a stately farmhouse. We entered through two large white gates to stop in front of a grand old house. Along one of its walls was a long conservatory; still filled with flowers - but also neatly installed are the toilets and showers for the campers!

After a leisurely 156 miles, crossing the very high Pont de Brotonne, we ended up in a picturesque campsite in the centre of a town called Falaise, overlooked by its castle high up on a rocky hill.

The remarkable feat of ancient building and architecture of Mont St Michel has been in the hands of the French Government's Monuments Historiques since 1874. The French were certainly advanced in realising heritage needed preserving - or is it exploiting? To this day, the Government department continues the tradition of serving and taking the money from the pilgrims who for centuries have come In their hundreds to see this abbey and village perched on and around a 260ft granite rock just off the mainland.

Now they arrive in their thousands in cars, coaches and campers - and today we were among them. Thirty francs gave us a sandy parking spot in the middle of what seemed like a motorcaravan convention. There were hundreds of them.

After walking past thousands of parked cars we entered over the causeway to be greeted by enticements to all kinds to see museums and attractions. You can only see round the abbey proper after paying to join a party with, of course, a government guide, who also - according to a tourist leaflet - 'takes visitors round the rock with complete disregard for chronological order apparent method'!!

It is, however an awe-inspiring monument, especially when you think they were hauling up stone to start what was first of all just a small chapel in the eighth century. The streets round about remind one slightly of the Shambles in York, only on a steep incline and even narrower. One passage and staircase was so narrow, you would have almost had to walk, or climb, sideways to get along it. And there would be a traffic jam if you met someone coming the other way. Mind you, pushing one's way through the throngs in the main thoroughfare was a bit like that anyway.

After several hours there, determined to get our 30 francs worth, we pushed on, heading south.

We stopped for the night just outside Vitre, one of the age-old gateways to Britanny. The municipal campsite was set among these extraordinary sections of 3Oft high stonewalls, five sets in pairs. The riddle of what they had been for kept us guessing, until I asked the campsite warden. >From what I could make out, the site seemed to have been an old fashioned firing range for the military.

We stepped into the Middle Ages when we explored the dark narrow alleys and tightly packed houses in the well-preserved old part of Vitre. A refreshing change from the highly commercialised Mont St Michel, we walked up to the formidable castle, shaped in an imposing triangle with fat round towers.

Then we were on our way southward again along the long straight roads down towards Noirt. Who needs to pay to go on the autoroutes when you can make good speed and see the barley crops, fields of sunny faces - the sunflowers - other interesting crops and the quiet sleepy villages, especially as we always seems to be travelling when everyone else is having their siesta!

But we did see a wedding party. It is quite common on Saturdays to see cars with white lace tied to their aerials or handles. The occupants are the wedding guests. Coming towards us was a convoy of cars, all their emergency lights flashing. Then we saw the white lace tied everywhere and we knew it was a wedding procession.

We headed into what is called 'Green Venice' - marshes drained in the 11th to 16th centuries, making a delightful network of waterways among trees and villages.

We camped at Maillezais and put up our new awning and got out our new barbecue to celebrate Pat's birthday and sat in the warm setting sun and ate our delicious smoky pork chops and sausages.

Now we know why this area is known as La Venise Verte, or the Green Venice. The maze of dykes and canals all have a solid covering of green algae. After a lovely lazy day in the sun - it was Sunday after all - we mounted our bikes in the late afternoon to explore the village and its ruins of the once mighty Benedictine abbey and monastery. We wandered down to the green waters in a rustic corner of the village where boats and pedallos were for hire

We sat under the vines of a bar's pergola by the water's edge for a drink watching the pigouilles, as the flat-bottomed boats are called, setting off with trippers down the canals. The boats, propelled by poles, are still used for moving stock and taking people shopping, to church and to school.

We were lost in a maze, a road maze. Every half mile or so there was a junction or crossroads, usually without a signpost. If there was a signpost, it didn't have the town or village on it we needed. We were obviously not the first frustrated motorist - at one crossroads someone had written in felt tip on a signpost the name of the main town to which we were heading.

We meandered alongside dykes and canals lined by willows, ash and alder trees, crossing strange little hump-backed bridges, passing through sweet little villages with canal-side houses.

Our car compass proved its worth and with its help we eventually found ourselves on our way south again. We knew we were nearing the town of Cognac when we began passing the fields of grape vines. We learned brandy was invented when Cognac wine producers distilled it to save freight charges to England (instant wine - just add water!). The town of Cognac is not as special as its product, so we scooted on by taking to the more minor roads to find St Emilion; a most unusual town built on two hills.

Arriving early evening, we found the nearest campsite a few kilometres away. Expensive, but pleasant with its own snack bar.

They stood like sentries at the ready. Five young people at five paces apart lined the side to the restaurant and bar tables in the square. The moment any one approached, it was eye contact, 'bon jour' and a movement designed to sweep you to a table. But forewarned by Fordor's guide to France, we avoided paying £2.60 for a glass of water and £4.30 for an 'inedible' sandwich.

Of course the cafe was in a prime spot - in St Emilion's Place du Marche right opposite one of France's largest underground churches, hewn out of the rock face between the 9th and 12th centuries.

The medieval town has old buildings of golden stone, ruined town walls, well kept ramparts offering views across the rooftops; its little houses packed together in steep streets. The way through was so narrow that we were forced to take the long way round away from the town. Sloping vineyards invade from all sides with signs all around enticing you to buy direct their particular wines.

Our next port of call was a town called Cadillac with an arcaded square. But we were disappointed. It seemed nothing special. Perhaps we had been spoilt last year with the beauty of the arcades and arches of Monpazier

The nearer we came to Biarritz, the heavier the traffic became. As we toured round the once-affluent city, we looked out for the famous faces of the stars who were said to frequent the resort. We failed, perhaps because these days it is said to be more the haunt of rich Spanish tourists.

Had this been a British town, it would have been largely pedestrianised. Being French, it seemed you could motor anywhere, although the smartly laid-out pavements, chic shops and parked cars encroached perilously close to the camper wing mirrors at times.

We headed on down the crowded coast road overlooking the Atlantic searching for an elusive town called Hendaye near the frontier, said to be quiet as everyone else was rushing in and out of Spain. Not so, it was as busy and commercialised as the rest of the coast.

If you're ever stuck in Hendaye, avoid Camping Des 2 Jumeaux. It was late and a last resort, costing us 70 francs with a charge on top of 15 francs for the privilege of filling up with water! Pitches were on terraces on a steep hillside, therefore not level, and we went to bed to the sounds of either trains on the railway line over the hedge, or music from a near by disco.

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.

An occasional series of articles by Tim Sinclair