So said a camper, nice chap from Preston, I think on our first visit to Beaulieu-sur-Dordogne. He was right, which is why we kept coming back, why Matt and Jen and the young ones come, and why I’m back here again. Once again, revisiting old haunts, I get a wave of comfort. I know the drill, where to get stuff; while there’s a guilt I’m not challenging myself, well, sometimes it’s great just to kick back for a bit.

The birds are friendlier than I remember: while unpacking, I was inspected by a blackcap; a great tit decided to hop inside the van and inspected my carrier bags, and a family of blackbirds are wandering around unconcerned while I napped, and gave me one of their typical stares, as if to say, “Anymore breadcrumbs? No?” It’s been raining, there’s some serious tyre marks on the wetter pitches, suggesting people had trouble getting off. A sudden shower caught me while I was at SuperU (5% off for campers!); while the Dordogne, and the mill stream the other side of the site are in full flood. In fact Week 4 (already) has been rather rainy altogether.

After leaving my new friends at Huttopia Millau, warm smiles, handshakes and promises to leave sparkly reviews, I knew I had two days for adventures and challenges. After humming and ha-ing, should I France Passion it at a watermill (did I really need more stone ground flour, and walnut oil is lovely but ….. so I decided on one of the Most Lovely Villages in France ™️, Conques, with its old abbey church, pilgrims’ hospice, and paid car park €6 please. The campsite was at the bottom of the valley; arriving too early, I drove up the hill and parked. One wag on Tripadviser said it was a cross between Diagon Alley and the Hobbit village; it had that air of a tourist destination that knew how pretty it was. I stopped for a Galette for lunch, and decided there wasn’t a point in stopping, you can have too many gift shops. I’d seen the village and the camping looked dank, thought pretty. Grey weather makes everything look grim. The church was a great piece of Romanesque though.

I remembered Rosie and I had once tried to camp at Aurillac, during the street theatre festival there. We ended up in Vic-sur-Cère, about half an hour away. So, on a whim, I took myself off to same campsite, actually in the suburb of Arpachon-sur-Cère. It’s a busy river. More than can be said for the camping. Firstly, carpenters were in repairing the canopy at reception. Yes, it was still open. Next, the sign on the door said ring this number if we’re not here. “I’ll be about ten minutes, wait there” A rather ancient but friendly lady came up, said in broken English “Are you looking for something?” At which point a young man in a reversed baseball cap arrived and took charge. ABFL had already established there was plenty of space and I could choose my pitch. It turns out there was only one other occupied, though a few mobile homes had the odd inhabitant.

It was still a soggy day, and a soggy night. The next day was a little better, cloudy but no rain. Now another of my questionable actions was to ask the jeun’homme, is it far to the town? Meaning Aurillac. He assumed, with local pride no doubt, I meant Arpachon. “Not far at all. Left at the entrance, then about ten minutes on foot”. I set off next day for Aurillac, and after about an hour, of wandering along main roads, past Macdonalds and furniture stores, then a lovely riverside path past a housing estate, I stopped to ask a chap in a hoody in LeClerc’s car park, which way to 5he centre. “Carry on up here until you get to the viaduct then turn left”. I carried on until I saw the viaduct, somewhat in the distance. I turned round and retraced my steps. 12000 in total, there and back.

The campsite, still under municipal management, wasn’t exactly rough, nothing a couple of blokes with a paint roller, and a decent plumber couldn’t put right in a couple of days. Parks and recreation were obviously taking care of the hedging, and the carpenters had done a good job on the canopy. I didn’t dare try to have a shower, though there was water at the washing up sinks from a range of boilers up on the wall. It was, let us say, another experience.

The road to Beaulieu, in contrast, was nothing but sheer joy. A fast road for most of the way, through rural France: fields of liver-coloured Salers cattle, taking over from the dun-coated Aubrac mountain breed, like big Jerseys with horns; goats in a back yard, a field of donkeys, the odd trekking pony. Coming off the D210, onto a more local road, a huge raptor appeared from a stand of trees, a kite I think, with a wingspan of six feet. “Dear God in Heaven” I exclaimed out loud. The last part, following winding roads through hillier country, eventually gave out to a view across the Dordogne valley, with rain sweeping across in parts; down a long valley side and into the town. Willma is a joy to drive: she sticks to the road, goes where you point her, and has enough power to make short work of most hills. Today she returned 37mpg, much better than her motorway performance, where it’s just over the 30.

Coming back to somewhere Rosie and I were very happy, is interesting. I can almost feel her presence, and it’s good. I might indulge in a bit of reflection on here tomorrow.