A long time ago, before my daughter was born, we decided to to take our campervan for a pootle around France. I kept a very rough journal of our trip and have only recently started fleshing it out a bit. This is day 10… other days might follow.
Outside of larger cities, the French never seem to be in a hurry.
Generally this trait is something I admire, and even aspire to, but watching the mechanic drift between his truck and the engine of our van like the retreat and return of the tide, was making me wish for someone a little more driven.
It was a drizzly morning at a motorway services on the A89 outside Clermont-Ferrand and Helen and I were mid-journey towards the Rhone Valley in search of hazy riverside camping grounds with plenty of red wine. Unfortunately, thanks to our camper-van Flo, we had just learnt that French Autoroutes operate their own roadside recovery ‘service’ – regardless of what pre-arrangements you might have made before embarking on your road trip. So it happened, that after summoning the AA to our rescue, instead of a shiny yellow van; our mechanical salvation arrived in the form of a small bald man with a cigarette.
We watched his ritual unfold, as he moved on to some studious but apparently ineffective poking and prodding. Eventually, probably deciding that he had better things to be doing with his Sunday morning, he made some alarmingly vigorous adjustments before signalling (equally vigorously) to me to turn the key. With a gasp, poor Flo struggled to life and, while she sputtered unsteadily, our friend the mechanic waved us triumphantly out onto the motorway.
Back in the roaring traffic…
…it took only a minute to realise that whatever improvements had been made to the carburettor had certainly not had a favourable effect on Flo’s performance. We decided that smaller roads would suit our mood better for the time being – and might remove the worrying possibility of breaking down a second time in the same mechanic’s territory.
Our goal for the day was the small town of Saint-Galmier – famous for being the home of Badoit mineral water. Its primary attraction to us however was that it contained the Hostellerie du Forez: a highly-rated guest house from our essential little ‘Logis’ green book, and our planned lodging for the night. Having mercifully exited the motorway, we spent the rest of our journey puttering along smaller country roads rich with the kind of scent often politely called ‘countryside smells.’
Arriving in Saint-Galmier, we found exactly what we’d hoped for; a beautifully idle, mostly stone-built town, resting along the crest of a low hill. Its one main street contained a full-house of establishments necessary for a pleasant stay including, at its far end, our hotel.
Flo, who by now refused to idle, conveniently stalled in a parking space just outside.
After checking in and washing off the countryside smells, we headed back out to found that the town had drifted into a very continental early-afternoon slumber. Strolling past our reflections in various closed patisserie and shop windows, we were beckoned by the waft of conversation and clinking glasses from Bar Le Melti farther down the road. We arrived at the perfect moment to enjoy a pizza and beer; joining the few locals who were still awake watching Jenson Button win the Spanish Grand Prix. Leaving the bar some time later, we felt quietly and proudly British, and yet very at home in this little French town, sleeping its way through a sunny Sunday afternoon.
An evening meal at ‘La Chaumiere’ proved a perfect epilogue to our day as our conversation turned to the next day’s plans: the Rhone was finally within reach and our destination would be the curiously-named Saint-Pierre-du-Bouef.
We put aside any worries about a campervan that might or might-not start in the morning as the arrival of l’addition heralded the closing of another day.
Tomorrow would bring its own adventures, but with weary heads we strolled back to our hotel, totally conquered by the exquisite lethargy of rural France.
Don Lowe 