Thursday 12th

Grey skies urged me to move on, and I followed a spectacular route I had travelled some years ago through France's largest national park - the Auvergne. Soon I was climbing to an ear-popping 4,600 feet - and with it came a real chill wind.

It was 10C at the pretty summer and winter resort of Mont-Dore, where I stopped the night. Some contrast to the 25C I had been enjoying in the south. A log fire was burning in the campsite reception area, and I felt a bit foolish there in my shorts. They were soon changed for jeans.

Friday the 13th!

Well, it wasn't a major unlucky day. Just that on the N141 to Aubusson was a 'route barree' notice in the middle of the road. Diversion signs took me on a one-and-a-half hour detour along tiring, winding country lanes.

Then - well it's sods law really, when you're desperate for a lay-by or picnic spot, there aren't any. My neck was aching by the time I was back on track but the D940, while a pleasant enough straight drive, did not cater for stopping.

Eventually I spotted a bit of the old road where I could pull in for lunch, next to a field where a bunch of cows just stood there, giving me a questioning look. I ignored them.

The baguette was ready cut on the table, the kettle was on the boil, the ground coffee in the filter holder, and I had just poured the whipped-up eggs into the sizzling omelette pan when a farmer came along on his tractor . . . and gave me the stare.

Oh no, he wants to be here. But there wasn't even a gate - just a fence. I sort of waved, signalling - I thought - did he want me to move. I just got the stare, even less friendly than that of the cows. And the omelette was doing very nicely.

There was nothing for it. I hesitantly drove 50 yards down the old road, hoping nothing would spill, and that he wouldn't want to be along here later, as there was no passing space.

I saw him sort of dismantle the bit of fencing and drive into the field. And luckily that was the last I saw of him. And my lunch, as it happened, was very nice.

At 3.30pm, I stopped outside Chateauroux at a super supermarket - my, why can't our Safeways have mounds of fresh seafood and such choice? Why can't we even get Danone bio-active yoghurt with prunes in syrup at the bottom? (You might have guessed, I like prunes).

Anyway, I wanted to fill up with their cheap diesel. But for some incredible reason, there were height barriers on the exits leading to the filling station. After a three-mile search of the roads around (I noted the mileage, as I have been on filling up), I managed to get to the pumps.

By now it was 4,30, so decided to head into town to find a campsite. Big mistake. It must have been rush hour, and it wasn't until 5.45 that I'd covered about two miles and drove into Camping Le Rochet. It was a very pleasant municipal site, next to a river and a park with a lake, around which every jogger in the city seemed to be doing the rounds. Kids with mothers were feeding ducks, which later in the evening waddled over to the site, hoping for more titbits.

At £3.20, it was one of the cheapest sites I've stayed at. And it had heated shower/toilet block. And loo paper was provided. The average, this first year of the euro, has been about £5.40.

Saturday 14th

I prefer driving on the French rather than British roads any day. But they do have one drawback - their 'deviations'. Today, happily driving along at a constant speed on the N138 north of Tours, there were suddenly signs that caravans and vehicles weighing over 3.5t (I'm 3.85) and over 2m wide (I'm 2.32m) cannot cross Chateau-du-Loire.

Perhaps I was being over cautious and would have squeezed through the town, but I followed their diversion signs. Thirty-five country road miles later, I rejoined the N138. What a detour - it set me back one-and-a-half hours. Luckily I had no ferry to catch.

The French are trying to shock their wilder drivers into behaving themselves. Like in the UK, they have signs saying so many killed on this route in the last so many months/years. But then, when I was on the N143 earlier, I noticed on the roadside these black silhouettes of people with a cross on them - a life crossed out at that spot. I passed a clump of three of these wood cutouts, then a single silhouette - a bunch of fresh flowers at its feet - then there was a couple, then two more singles. It certainly made you think about that foot on the accelerator.

Stopped west of Le Mans, just off the A81, at Brulon, which had a lakeside campsite. Expensive at £6, considering there was no loo paper and the shower block wasn't heated. Not that I want central heating - since descending the mountains, the days have been gloriously warm and the evenings balmy. And I always use my own shower in the van anyway.

Sunday 15th

It's in the air. The nose can tell the difference between approaching the Mediterranean and the Atlantic. The off-sea breeze is stronger, cooler, but tangier - it must be the tides, leaving seaweed, millions of shells and rock pools exposed.

Never mind the local laws: View's too good not to park here at Binic

I called in at the pretty harbour of Binic, well west of St Malo. I wished I could have stayed at the free motorhome park, or done what many French motorhomers had done - parked on the harbour front, despite a sign forbidding it. But hey, why obey the local bye-laws when there's a great view?

No, I was in desperate need of water, so a campsite it had to be, as there were not taps to be found. Followed signs for Camping Les Palmiers - but I thought £10 for the night outlandish. I certainly wasn't going to use what they called their Californian swimming pool.

Followed signs for Camping Des Entangs. Two miles on, the gate was open, but a barrier down. It was like a beached Marie Celeste as I walked to the reception. Masses of autumn leaves gusted about, a garden chair was on its side, two huge umbrellas had blown against large patio windows and notices were half torn off a board. There was a caravan and a tent on site - but not a soul anywhere.

A working fishing port - Erquy, Britanny

Back in town, I followed signs in the opposite direction for Le Panoramic. It might have had a view - but £12 for a night! I had to take the bitter pill. I would probably spend in fuel the difference going back to the Californian pool site. So I got my expensive fill of water . . . just. They didn't cater for campingcars - as the French call motorhomes - and the manageress didn't think there was a tap I could drive to. I found it myself, behind the ladies, and with a tricky bit of manoeuvring managed to reverse near enough for my hose to reach.

Monday 16th

Brilliant blue skies, deep blue sea, sweeps of deserted yellow sands that ended in rocks and cliffs - for what more could you ask. A sea view pitch? Well I almost got it when I drove round the coast, past St Breuic, to a village called Erquy. There they had a special area set aside for motorhomes (£1.35 for 24 hours), 100 yards from the beach, but near enough to hear the waves.

So I spent a day at the fishing village, where tourism has thankfully not really caught on, walking around the harbour filled with working boats - not a luxury yacht or cruiser in sight - and dining at a sea front restaurant.

Tuesday 2nd, Wednesday 3rd

Two more brilliantly sunny days, but it was time to wend my way northwards to Calais and home. And as you approach the ferry terminal, you look through your insect-spattered windscreen at those nice clean motorhomes and caravans going in the opposite direction, wishing you were among them. But then those in them had no sun-tanned skin, their camera films were blank and they had yet to acquire a host of treasured holiday memories.

Miles covered: 2,830 Average miles per gallon: 20

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.