I’m sitting in what must be one of the smallest campsites I’ve ever been to. Swimming in the pool is like taking a dip in someone’s back garden. It’s very pleasant though, with very few people and it’s in the heart of the Morvan, which in turn is in the middle of Burgundy, which itself is in central France. So a long way to the sea! Not that I miss it, as I swim in the pint-sized pool and pidgin my way through conversations with friendly Belgian ladies in my rusty old O level French. No we are not discussing world politics, just the intricacies of plumbing and how many ways there seem to be nowadays to turn taps on and off in public bathrooms. Which reminds me: why do they hardly ever have seats in French loos? And where is the paper?! After using the communal loo at one site, I went to wash my hands, ‘that’s a funny shape’ I thought, ‘ and where are the taps’?! Oops, the basin is over there not here…….
We’re in France as we wanted a bit of warmth and so our planned trip to Scotland and Ireland hasn’t happened! I gather that the weather is now lovely at home but I’m not so sure about Scotland…The weather here is gorgeous too.
We’ve made our way to Burgundy via a series of aires. There was a lovely one in a little village, where a lady invited us to a Friday evening concert of music by Brahms in the church. Now I don’t like Brahms much but we did our bit for the entente cordiale and turned up. After lengthy intros of everyone thanking everyone from Brahms to the audience to the cleaning lady, I soon remembered why I don’t like Brahms. The music was lovely and the musicians were excellent but I glazed over and dreamt of being outside in the lovely warm air. The next day I assured the lady that it was all very agréable.
We continued on to the little town of Bray sur Seine where I felt as if I had stumbled into an Impressionist painting. We parked by the Seine and little seemed to have changed since the 19th century. There was the wide flowing river, blue-green in colour, a towpath, grassy banks, a fisherman, a thickly wooded riverbank opposite, barges and a line of poplars. All I needed was a group of bathers lounging on the grass or a strange character in a shapeless grey garment gazing into the Seine.
Up in the little town it was much the same. Old streets with timbered stone buildings and pavement cafes. All very unspoilt. You could just imagine Manet or Cezanne disappearing round a corner…
Down by the river there was always something going on. I was amazed by how many loads of grain one barge could take. Harvest is in full swing and the hay is already rolled into large round bales in the fields, again reminiscent of Van Gogh…there I go again, he was further south wasn’t he?
We went to escape the heat at the swimming pool in Bray. Alan was told his long swimming shorts were ‘pas hygienique’ !? We are still struggling to understand why. Any ideas? I think it’s just an excuse for French men to strut their stuff. The friendly and informative lifeguard did remind me of what I like about the French (no not him personally) as he told us Alan could wear the offending garment this time but not next. In the UK it would have been ‘Rules is rules, you can’t come in, not in those trunks….’ So we had to go off to the Auchan to buy some suitably snug garment so Alan could join the gang….
My amusing moments in French bathrooms continued as I was cheerfully washing myself in the communal ladies showers after my swim in the pool at Bray. Fortunately, I was still in my costume, as a trio of men came marching through on their way to the pool. It was so nearly an ooh la la moment!
On which note I will leave you.