Waking up again to 14deg on the van; outside colder. but at least there’s no wind out there. Yesterday was cool but sunny; in the sunshine, it was pleasantly warm. Liverdun, just north of Nancy, is a pleasant little village on a hill, looking down on the Moselle river, now far upstream from its confluence with the Rhine at Koblenz. if I spat in the river here, in a few days it would be where I was camping last week.

The site is below the village, on the water meadows, with only a small road and a fence betwixt me and the river. The welcome brochure gives explicit instructions of what to do if flooding is expected. “You will be warned over loudspeakers as soon as the first steps are required by the authorities……Please keep calm and strictly follow the instructions”. Bloody big steps, to higher ground basically. It’s a fairly large site, not overly busy when I arrived at 3.30. I found a pair of British motorhomes, with friendly folk in, and pitched nearby. They were going to explore the village, so I tagged on. Turns out one couple were from near Bath, so I bored them a little with family history sagas. By 6:00 it was filling up fast; I remembered I chose it as a good potential stop-off from Provence to the Low Countries.

I set off in good time from Rüdesheim, meaning to take the town ferry across to Bingen. By getting in the wrong lane, I travelled back along the Rhine, and crossed further down; not really anywhere to turn, the road is sandwiched for the most part between the river and the railway (both sides are like this). Anyway, it was a nice day; it IS the romantic bit, and I got to see lots of castles perched on cliffs, that I’d missed while coming. The tiny ferry was quite efficient, and worth its €5.70 toll; and anyway, what’s a 20 mile detour when the sun is shining? Two of my satnav apps gave wildly differing times. I think I’ve managed to programme Google maps to avoid motorways, while Waze takes the high road.

The castles are interesting. Many are just picturesque ruins, while some have been fixed up; others again seem to be C19th pastiches, in the way that Neuschwannstein plays to dreams of knightly nobility. It’s all a bit pre-Raphaelite, neo-gothic and Wagner and you can have too much of a good thing. I am, of course, a big William Morris fan; but I’m digressing now.

Walking up the hill with Somerset Steve, Alison, and the lady whose name escapes me, was pleasant, though they weren’t as keen as I to stop for a beer. The views were great; and there was a small community event, making bottle gardens I think, at the Chateau Corbin. Didn’t see any allotments.

By the time I was washed, dressed and breakfasted, my acquaintances had departed on their slow route north. I think I’m finding it more difficult to muscle in on camping groups, rather than couples. So anyway I read for a while, and went for a walk by the river. There were so many herons, perched like anglers at their stations along the far bank. Occasionally one would take off, with a kraaak sound that a pterodactyl would be proud of, and flap a few beats to cross the river. The panels along the path also advertise the fish varieties, and the presence of kingfishers – le Martin-pecheur. In the bushes, the sound of a chiffchaff, and everywhere the four-note cheep of the great tit. The leaves are starting to turn, there’s a brush or two of brown and orange on the hillside, and Autumn is on its way. I’m wondering what it will be like when I get back.

It’s been a grey, cloudy day, helping with the early autumnal feeling. As I watch the snowbird campers setting up, squabbling over the pitching, sat two by two in their camping chairs reading the French or Dutch equivalent of Hello! I catch myself with a twinge of envy. I found myself fantasising about a dog again; even found one I fell for at a rehoming centre, but she was snapped up pretty quickly. I’ve started researching solo camping groups, to try to find some companionship without foisting myself on people so much. If truth be told, what I miss most is the sheer physical presence of another: someone to hug, to exchange a quick kiss with in passing, a stroke of a shoulder. And I do enjoy female company. It is the intimacy of the physical presence I miss; a squeezed hand, the warmth of another presence. Despite the looming anniversary of Rosie’s passing, it’s getting less painful, now it’s more about practical emotions, of that makes sense. (Can’t guarantee that next week, of course.)

Maybe puppetry will do something. That’s the next stop tomorrow, three hours up the road; and the festival starts the day after. It will, I feel, make a change to have some contemporary culture rather than a load of old ruins. I do have a choice of course, looking at the weather: it’s 300 miles to the Dordogne where it’s a comfortable 25deg high this week; meanwhile the cold Mistral is blowing at 60mph down the Rhône Valley! No, puppets it shall be.