Tuesday 3rd

Old Napoleon must have done a lot of stiff hill-climbing as he wound his way northward along densely-wooded mountainsides, through steep-sided valleys, detouring round impassable ravines and across wide fast-flowing rivers. My 2.8jtd engine found it hard work on tarmac, never mind being on foot or horseback.

I don't suppose the spectacular scenery held much interest for the ousted emperor. He had urgent matters of state on his mind and, amazingly, 81 days after setting out, he entered Paris in triumph.

I took it far more leisurely, detouring off to admire Europe's largest man-made lake, Lac de Serre-Poncon. A very winding road full of unexpected surprise views took me round a small western corner of the waters, finding La Viste Camping, near Rousset, up the hillside overlooking the dam, where six billion kwh of electricity is produced each year.

The lake and mountains had a menacing mood that gave way as darkness fell to angry glares of lightning, then thunder that bellowed at us, followed by copious tears that drenched those of us walking back from the excellent restaurant on the site. It would be sexist to say the weather was feminine.

Is it racist to say the French can cook? I mean how can plain lettuce and tomato make such a tasty starter? Finely cut and in the shape of a cross on the plate, the tomatoes were liberally covered in basil and an oil dressing. You pushed your fork into the lettuce, and out oozed a creamy dressing. And hidden underneath were fresh olives.

I followed that with skewered lamb, heavily herbed, under-cooked, melt-in-your-mouth, accompanied by stir-fried mixed vegetables and pomme frites. That and a creme brulee all washed down with a demi carafe of red wine is what I call good eating - and it was at a very moderate price.

Motorhome with a view: Overlooking Europe's largest man-made lake - Lac de Serre-Poncon

Wednesday 4th

From my van I overlooked not only the lake, but also the roof of something called a Museoscope. This was a cross between a museum and a cinema, telling the dramatic story of the flooding of two valleys to create this enormous reservoir.

I had not realised that for decades at the beginning of the century, the French had been keen to tame the River Durant. In the spring it frequently flooded when the snow and glaciers melted, sometimes causing havoc and destruction. In some summers, it could dry up.

It wasn't until 1955 that they actually decided to build an earthen dam. It meant as the waters rose, five communities had to be lost. Seeing models of the villages brought home the scale of what was involved. Hotels, schools, churches, cafes, businesses, farms, bridges, a railway station and town halls - not to mention the hundreds of homes - were destroyed before being submerged. The idea of bulldozing the buildings was so that the ex-inhabitants would not be distressed seeing their former homes when the reservoir level dropped.

Finished in 1961, the benefits was not only a harnessed troublesome river and hydro-electricity, but land in the whole region - some of which had been permanently dry - suddenly found they had water. An irrigation network has seen the birth of orchards and vineyards where there were none before.

Thursday 5th

Today, it chucked it down from breakfast until teatime. Heavy rain blown furiously across you in strong winds. And the D-roads, lacking surface drains, were like shallow rivers. Travelling the opposite way to Napoleon - being back on his route for while - I ended up at Moustiers Sainte Marie.

Just before you enter, there were signs to two campsites. I drove round 3-star St Jean, to find dismal damp grassy pitches in the gloom under trees, there being no views from this low-lying site. It was almost deserted, as I have found most of the sites so far. The French season seems to end so much earlier than in the UK. Nearly all that I've been to were shutting on the 15th.

Just across the roundabout was 2-star Camping Manaysse. Here were light and airy pitches with hard-standing and, being on a rise, with views of the mountain-side town. And it was busy! Admittedly, the Germans and Dutch outnumbered the French - and certainly the British. As far as I could see, I was the only person with a GB plate. Anyway, the moral of the tale is - do not go by the star grading system

Friday 6th

Dramatic: The mountainside town of Moustiers

Moustiers is a typical example of what the French in bygone centuries were so good at - building towns clinging to mountains. Here you have pedestrian-width alleys on steep inclines, where the last place you would want is a wheelchair - but there was one! Houses and shops were built into the rock-face, quaint bridges crossed ravines and waterfalls, and fountains and water troughs were everywhere.

The sun blazed, so I stayed put for the day, to explore in the Indian summer heat. But there was respite in the narrow alleys, where the shade had an autumn nip to it.

The town was famed throughout Europe for its pottery, but was dethroned by the rage for fine English china and the ovens died in the 1850s. Today, the industry has revived, thanks to tourists, and every other shop is a pottery shop. It wasn't the chunky sort - the plates, cups, lamp fittings, jugs, you name it, were very fine, with intricate painted patterns.

After a fair bit of hill climbing, I was gasping for a drink. So went to a bar and did my 'wallet' trick - only this time it was my cigarettes and lighter I left! Again, the serving girl had them behind her counter. About teatime I headed back to the campsite - just in time as it started to rain.

Saturday 7th

Exploring the area east of Aix-en-Provence, I ended up at Puyloubier, one of the few spots in the area boasting a campsite. That's all it seemed to have going for it. It was a typical French village, but only had one bar and the only outside table taken.

It was a gloriously hot day, so I scooted off the five miles to nearby Pourrieres. Following signs to La Grande Place, I found this village had two bars. On the steps leading up to a church was a huge crowd in their wedding finery being photographed. By the time I had parked up, many of them were heading for Bar Le Gold. So I went to the neighbouring, but not so attractive Bar du Var for my bierre pression. I sat at one of the few tables I could find in the sun, in front of a gravelled area I assume was meant for the boules players. However, it seemed to be more used by dogs - I counted five lumps of their toilet activity.

This was definitely not the tourist trail, but it all depends on what you want. Rising behind Puyloubier and the campsite was the mountain range Montagne St Victoire. As the sun lowered, I climbed up into a stony and rocky scrubland to find a feast of differing plants and shrubs I could never name, and a lonely wildness as you stared into a horizon of more of the same.

In fact it was this mountain range with its sheer drop that inspired Paul Cezanne. It was the subject of more than 60 of his paintings, when the foundation of cubism was laid.

Sunday 8th

I did the tourist thing today and headed for a Mediterranean resort. In fact, it was a trip down childhood memory lane. When I was in my teens, my father worked in France and for several summers the family moved to a villa overlooking the marina in a town called Bandol - in between Marseilles and Toulon

I hardly recognised the place. But then I suppose anywhere on the Riviera would have changed in the how-many-years-I'm-not-going-to-say to accommodate the sun-and-sea-hungry tourists.

Bandol

In fact, if you want the French Med, it's not too bad a stop - so long as it's not July or August. September is great. The temperature didn't drop below 25C, even when cloudy and windy. And the difficult-to-find-campsite (I wandered around for an hour following elusive signs) is not too busy - but do not expect anything like the 20-metre-of-space-between-units rule.

Bandol does not have the chic image of Cannes, Nice, or St Tropez (hence not quite so crowded), but it has a huge marina full of fascinating yachts and cruisers, lovely long promenades, smart shops and restaurants and so on. There are, as well, interesting towns to the left and right, to which you can scoot, bike or take a boat ride.

Monday 9th

Security is a hot topic among motorhomers, with some fixing chains between the cab doors so they can't be forced open, or having safes bolted to the floor, or have supa-dupa alarm systems. My biggest danger is myself.

I did it again. So far this trip, I'd lost my wallet and then my cigarettes - today I managed to lose my scooter keys.

Staying a second day at Camping Vallongue (it's just off the D559 going towards St Cyr sur Mer next to the Champion supermarket for anyone interested who doesn't want to get lost), I scooted off to the town centre and sea front 2km away.

After an hour or so, I thought I would scooter on to the old port town of Sanary. But where were the keys? I turned every pocket of my rucksack out three times. I hunted around the scooter and the wall where I had stopped to take a photograph. I retraced my footsteps through the town, even asking at the tabac where I had bought some postcards.

I gloomily made my way back to the useless scooter, thinking I would have to find the gendarmerie. Not far away was a restaurant. I suppose I could ask there, just on the off-chance some finder could have handed them in. They had!! Grief, am I lucky or what?

So I got to Sanary, which is like a smaller version of Bandol only with actual fishermen - and women - working there, and a more interesting old town whose narrow streets invited discovery.

At a harbour front restaurant, I had my first taste of crepe St Molet - a buckwheat pancake wrapped round spinach and bacon and topped off with a fried egg and melted butter. Having got well into treating my taste buds, I followed that up with 'Timbolan' - prunes steeped in syrup and so much of a brandy liqueur my lips tingled. A French coffee had to see that lot off.

Tuesday 10th

This was the day I found myself in the aftermath of the mighty flood. I climbed away from the devastation, heading up through the Cevennes mountain range, stopping for the night near a large village called Villefort. Here I had the pick of the deserted municipal campsite, which was tiered up a hillside. I chose the safety of the top terrace - my motorhome was not an ark!

Wednesday 11th

Lac de Villefort

It was back to the dramatic beauty of the mountains - formed no doubt by just as apocalyptic weather and natural disasters in eons gone by - as I climbed and negotiated the hairpins above Lac de Villefort (a man-made beauty, however) and on to the 'roof' of the Cevennes national park. At almost 4,000 feet above sea level, you can understand why people climb mountains. Yes, because they're there, but also surely because of the views.

I descended to Le Puy en Velay, the city which has four giant cores of sheer solidified lava crowned with man-made monuments. I have stopped here in the past, and made for the very convenient campsite almost in the city centre.

So it was a simple walk into the old town. Not so simple finding my way back. I became hopelessly lost - and le Puy should have been no bigger than my home town of Darlington, according to the population figures. Someone must have been kidding. After wandering around quaint narrow streets and incredibly busy main roads for an hour, a lady on a crepe stall was able to point me in the right direction. It was another half hour's walk!

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.