It was the apocalypse, said a resident in a special programme devoted to it on French TV. The first hint I had of a catastrophe was as I drove north of Nimes towards Ales.

I had to dodge mounds of rubble on the N106. This is not a very well kept road I thought. Then I came to a part where the tarmac was suspended over a washed-out hole. I gingerly went round it. Next, I saw a car in the middle of a muddy field. Shortly afterwards there were three cars in the middle of a very sorry-looking vineyard - and one was upside down.

Was this some gigantic scrapyard? But these were not old vehicles - just very muddy ones. Soon, I was passing scores of abandoned cars, many nose into ditches, or lying on their side up against a wall or hedge, or as was becoming increasingly common, piled up on one other. Beside some, people stood in a daze, possibly waiting for breakdown rescue.

A small crowd was busy at what was a roadside bar that now looked like a ruin. Further on, a holidaymaker had spread the contents of his car along the side of the road.

There had obviously been one mighty torrent washing through this plain bordering the Gardon River.

In fact it happened only hours before I came along, I learnt from the TV. Much of the large town of Ales was flooded, and I was amazed I was able to get around it, admittedly often going over bumpy rubble and debris that had still to be cleared.

It wasn't until the next day that the scale of the disaster struck - at least 26 dead and 12 missing, said the newspaper headlines of the floods that hit three 'departments' of the South-East. Pictured were people up to their necks in water in the streets. The thunderstorm and torrential downpour that pounded the motorhome in Bandol, on the Mediterranean, the night before was part of the same cataclysmic weather system that caused not only the Gardon to flood, but also four other rivers that flow into the Rhone.

Interestingly enough, unlike British commentators, the newspapers here didn't blame global warming. It was put down to 'tarmacadisation' (more roads, more carparks), the rapid urbanisation along rivers, and modern farming methods - all of which reduced the ground's absorption of water. Apparently, more rain fell in 24 hours than falls on Paris in a year.

This occurred in the middle of my holiday. To start at the beginning . . .

Friday August 30th, 2002

We're back in World War Two. Hardly had I left the ferry at Calais at 8.30am (French time) when police were directing all the disembarking traffic into the over-taking lane of the excellent roads leading away from the port. Don't you get the feeling the French manage their transport so much better than we do?

Anyway, on the inside lane were hundreds and hundreds of old army vehicles of all types, from motorbikes and ambulances to MP jeeps and troop carriers. British, American, Dutch and, of course, French vehicles with their respective flags flying were trundling along at about 10mph in a convoy that must have stretched nearly two miles. I didn't notice any Germans, though.

How to create an instant resort (well over a few years). Take a large chunk of varied landscape, including a gentle valley. Flood the bottom 7 metres to create a lake. Import tons of sand and make a beach. Install a variety of water slides, get a fleet of pedalloes and other boats, have fishing areas and build showers and washing areas just off the sand. And don't forget the friteries, bars, cafes and electronic/video amusement centre. Build a large hotel further round the shore, landscape an 18-hole golf course, and have two really imaginative adventurous playgrounds - one for kids, one for the older person with high-up rope bridges, aerial runways and army-type obstacle challenges.

And the whole family is catered for. As are other enthusiasts - you have a hide for birdwatchers, equipment for archers, courts for tennis players and horses for riders.

You haven't forgotten the campsite have you? Well, the French didn't when they built just such a centre - Parc Nautique de l'Ailette, just north of Reims. And that's why I landed up there. As did other Brits to my left and to my right. It happened to be one of only a few campsites in the area on the popular route south or east. Indeed, it was a real fancy stop-over point.

Saturday August 31st

Zoomed on south, stopping the night at a depressing campsite near the town of Beaune. What's the point of having a roaming room with a view when you have to park between two hedges? Some campsites do go in for these privacy-making little plots. Not only that, the sun and sky were blocked by a forest of trees rapidly shedding their leaves. So every time you stepped into your motorhome, in came a load of damp brown vegetation.

But hey, I wasn't spending two weeks at Camping Les Bouleaux at Vignolles. I didn't care, even though there was a Camping and Caravan site sticker on the door. It only meant I had to put on the lights earlier.

Sunday September 1st

I did not mind paying the £10.40 autoroute toll for the A40 as we climbed into the French Alps. For the most part, you were either on soaring viaducts or in tunnels and if the views were not fantastic enough, you could only admire the engineering feat of it all. And thrown in 'free' with the toll was an 'exposition' at one the motorway 'aires' that the French are so good at, which showed you how it was all accomplished.

Stopped the night at a campsite overlooking the Rhone, just outside the town of Seyssel, which straddles the wide turquoise green river. Once a major river port, the two old centres are connected by a 19th century suspension bridge, now pedestrianised.

	By day and by night: The bridge over the Rhone, connecting the two centres of Seysell

A very pleasant five-minute walk along the side of the Rhone brought me to the 'left-bank' centre, which had been blocked off for a local festival. What I saw of it was a few country-fare style stalls dotted around and the local amateur dramatic society touring the streets, enacting scenes of I don't know what - I had too much of a panic on to find out.

I was incredibly thirsty - must have been the 'croque rustic' I had for lunch. So I sat at a pavement table, waiting to order a beirre pression after the bar lady acknowledged my signal. And I waited. I lit a cigarette, which does nothing at all to help your thirst. I signalled the lady again. I waited. I sorted through my rucksack - I had just thrown everything in before setting out. And I waited as other people who came after me got served.

Stuff this. I crossed the square to another bar, and was immediately rewarded - a lady straight away took my order. Better check my money I thought. Where was my wallet? I emptied out every single rucksack pocket. I dashed into the bar, where my glass had already been filled. 'Madame, I've no money, sorry,' I said, mumbling about losing it.

Feeling very foolish, I went back to the other bar and looked around where I had been sitting. No wallet. Had I brought it in the first place? I couldn't remember. I didn't feel like approaching the bar lady again, and anyway, what was the French for wallet?

Dashed back to the motorhome. No wallet there. After consulting the French dictionary, I rushed back to town and the bar, outside of which a large crowd had gathered to watch the amateur actors in full swing. Once I had squeezed my way inside, a younger woman - luckily - said 'Bonjour'.

'J'ai perdu mon portfeuille' I said. She brought it out from behind the bar with a smile. Phew!! Many 'mercy buckets'!

I had a can of beer back in the safety of my motorhome.

Monday 2nd

After passing through captivating Alpine country, Grenoble appears like a sore thumb - its skyscrapers, forbidding grey buildings and modern industrial plants standing in stark contrast to the majestic mountains that surround it. I'm sure the cosmopolitan city will have its charming spots, but I did not fancy the traffic-clogged streets to find out - the 5mph crawling traffic on the autoroute bypass was enough for me.

I continued south, down the Route Napoleon, in reality the N85. But in 1815 it was a winding dirt track along which Monsieur Bonaparte travelled after escaping from his prison on the island of Elba.

Some 50 miles down, I overnighted at Camping Ser Sirant on the shore of Lac de Laffrey, at Petichet. And at last - no hedges to block the view

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.