Wednesday 3 July

The varied song of birds, the occasional buzz of a bee, the distant tinkling of cow bells, the rustle of leaves in the warm wind, and the chimes from the village clock, its tower standing proud above red roofs but dwarfed by the green hills that circled round about - yes, we had swapped the bedlam of the coast for the peace of the Pyrenees. We're at a pretty half-Spanish half-French village called Amhoa although, when Pat was explaining on the phone to her mum where we were, she said 'In the Pyrenees, somewhere, in a phone box'!

Half-timbered houses line the impressive main street, with all the woodwork and shutters painted an unusual brick red. Even at 7pm, the village could still be described as sleepy. The boulangerie and alimentation was shut, whether for good or not we did not know. Shops selling smart knickknacks at smart prices were open, but mainly deserted.

The greenfield campsite too was peaceful and sleepy, the highlight of the balmy evening being the visit of a huge Pyrenean mountain dog, which wandered round the half dozen or so campers and left his mark on any canvas he could find at each one.

Thursday 4 July

Our idyllic campsite had one draw back - flies. The invasion of the fly was only overcome after we drove off to the next town of Combo and we brought our weapon out. We shut all doors and windows, Pat evacuated and Tim fired off the fly spray. Ten minutes later we were Hoovering up the corpses.

A real campers' site

As well as the flies we had to move, as Ainhoa had no food shops. We drove further south and found a campsite beside a small stream having followed a tortuous road up a narrow valley. Here was real camping. In the luxury of our camper, we felt real frauds. There were masses of tents and masses of youngsters. It was definitely an activity camp - kids walking, cycling, canoeing and playing games. Serious hikers arrived with their backpacks and lightweight tents. We were about the only tourer pitched on the somewhat uneven site.

But it was the friendliest site we have been to. Everyone who passed wished us 'bon soiree' or, as we were eating our barbecued chicken, 'bon appetite'. The youngsters were particularly polite.

Friday 5 July

We might just as well have been in the Lake District. The green hills and mountains were layered in mists, the forest trees were dripping, the valleys indistinct through the grey, our tyres squelched through the be-puddled roads and the windscreen wipers swished all day.

We awoke to a downpour and it did not stop. So we drove north-eastwards out of the Pyrenees, thinking we might leave the rain behind, not realising - until Pat phoned her mum and she relayed to us the weather information - that a low was all over southern France.

We ended up just south of Montauban, near to where we were last year - only then we were basking in 40C heat, and that was almost a month earlier! However 20C is not cold by home standards.

The previous night we had found one of our favourite 'ferme camping' sites, and this night we came across one of our favoured municipal sites, which according to a faded notice cost a princely 20 francs (£2.60). But no one came to collect any money from us and the only one other camper.

Saturday 6 July

This was the day we slipped between the pages of the map, as described at the beginning of this TraveLog

Sunday 7 July

Wash day blues

It rained. It was to be a day of rest in the sun, lazing around on the Lac de Raviege campsite overlooking the lake.

We brought the washing in under the awning when the first drops fell. Then it poured. Then it thundered. Then it gusted with winds. At times it was so strong, it seemed as though the awning would lift off. So we wound in the awning.

It grew colder and it rained.

We lazed around in the camper.

And it rained.

Monday 8 July

It was so cold Pat put on a t-shirt, two long-sleeved shirts and her jeans. We packed up as dark clouds scudded across the skies and a biting wind whipped round our legs.

We went eastwards and, as we came over a 1,000 metre high pass in the Lespinous mountains, everything changed. The green grass and trees gave way to a rocky arid landscape dotted with shrubs - and the sun shining. As we gazed at the tortuous path the road took down the mountain and into the distance, it seemed again as though we were back in foreign lands.

We rejoined the route we took last year taking us to the lovely hillside community of St Martin de Londres. There we camped again to the incredible chorus of chirping crickets. First thing, Pat was out of her jeans and shirts, back into shorts as at last we had re-found the warmth.

Through the delightful arches, we find the 'hidden church' at St Martin de Londres

We mounted our bikes to re-explore the village and do some shopping. And we found the hidden 12th century church! An archway under one of the stone houses invited exploration. Pushing our bikes through, we came to a cool vaulted area that looked through more arches to a lovely halfmoon-shaped courtyard, a large olive tree standing in the middle. Old stone houses, with steps, arches and balconies going in all directions, circled the small church, itself a fascinating building. Its transepts and nave were circular and it was capped in the middle by a high dome. The jigsaw of buildings clung to the hillside and each other, the houses on the street side totally hiding the church from view.

Back at the campsite, we set up our barbecue to blacken our chicken for a lovely meal to the setting sun.

Tuesday 9 July

The thermometer rose to 60C (140F) in the sun. In the shade it was 30C (86F). We had found the weather, so we stayed put to enjoy it. We lazed, we sunbathed, Tim swam in the pool and we listened fascinated to the incessant chirping of the crickets. For an insect the size of a beetle, it produced sounds of an animal 100 times its size. Some sounded like ducks quacking, others like birds. If there was a sudden gust of wind they fell silent, as they did when night fell.

Wednesday 10 July

We decided to spend Tim's birthday doing nothing - lazing around again on this sunny campsite. In the evening we descended to the village square and sat under the coloured lights next to a huge tree at the Restaurant Les Deux Arches for a meal to celebrate both our birthdays. Tim had this plate of cold rare beef in a mint, oil and vinegar dressing, with chips and salad, Pat spaghetti with salmon and cheese sauce.

The chef asked us how was the food

The chef came out and asked us how was the food, a puppy from the bar snuggled up to our legs, the Frenchman at the next table took our photograph and everyone seemed to be enjoying the evening. Except, that is for a couple of Germans. Looked like father and son had nothing to say to each other and just sat with their chins in their dishes pre-occupied with their own thoughts. When they left, son strolled up one street, father another. 'Father's got the keys, suppose I'll have to follow him', the son must have said as he saw the older man wandering around the square and he reluctantly followed.

Thursday 11 July

Doe, a deer, a female deer, Ray, a drop of golden light, Far ... Any minute you expected Julie Andrews to come dancing over the hilltop, singing the Sound of Music. The rolling green fields abounding with colourful wild flowers and the mountain backdrop transported us back to the Alps. But in fact we were high up in the Cevennes mountains in central France. Signs advertising ski hire and lifts indicated what happened here in winter.

From St Martin de Londres we had followed the rocky hills and gorges north, passing communities clinging to life on hilltops, through passes with mountains looming over us, on roads that in places were almost slipping down the fearful ravines, alongside pretty rivers - and we wished we had more time to explore. We made a note to revisit the region.

It was dramatic countryside - and in one village dramatic driving for Pat. A lorry with a lift, taking tiles to a roof, was parked in the middle of the road. A workman waved us through, signalling to the gap between the vehicle and a hard high wall... We didn't budge.

He kept waving us on. Eventually Pat inched forward. There couldn't have been half an inch each side, but we came through unscratched.

We were following the deserted N9, which ran near to the A71 autoroute. N roads are France's national trunk roads. Yet we had noticed it getting somewhat bumpy and unkempt. We came to a fork, the left one being a minor C road. Just keep to the main road, said Pat who was now in the navigator's chair.

On we went. But what was that tractor doing driving on the wrong side of the road? He moved over, staring at us bemused. We passed a milestone, that, yes, re-assured us we were still on the N9. We rounded a bend, noticing faded white lines across the tarmac when suddenly there was a gate and fence. It was a dead end and we sat there looking at the autoroute.

There was nothing for it but to drive back on what obviously was now a rather swish farm track and took the minor C road we had passed. Later a signpost indicated this country lane was in fact the N9.

It's obvious of course - especially with hindsight - that the autoroute had taken much of the line of the N9, and that now this supposed main trunk road had been re-assigned to country lanes going in the same direction. Sometimes the signposts had been remarked to notify the traveller of this, sometimes not!

The Grabit viaduct

We certainly had a diversifying time on it, passing what is now marked as a tourist attraction - the Viaduct of Grabit. This huge structure carrying a railway line across a gorge looked like part of the Eiffel Tower lying on its side.

We camped quite late that night on a municipal site at a town surrounded by hills called Mossiac. And we discovered what to do with the flies - a certain stupid type anyway. Our handy hint is, if you've got one of those small vacuum cleaners, let the flies all congregate round the light and then suck them up. It works! But you have to be fast, as they start to crawl out of the nozzle when you switch off. Tim ran outside with it still on and emptied out the contents, hoping he didn't wake up the neighbours with the buzzing machine.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

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.