Time to move it on. The journey time was 2 and a bit hours, so I knew I had a bit of time. Went to the Giant Auchan hypermarket nearby for a few bits, then managed to find my way out of Lyon, and on to the motorway; passing over both rivers, and past the Confluence building where they meet. Down the road, saw a sign for the Palais Ideale, and from memory of the map knew it wasn’t far off. After the Tollbooth stopped at the lay-by to put it the satnav – a half-hour detour, so worth it.

The Palais Idéale de Facteur Cheval (Postman Cheval’s Ideal Palace) was the obsession of one man over a period of forty years, building an elaborate grotto in his vegetable patch, finishing just before WWI. He also did some bits to his house and the rest of the garden. His work eventually came to be recognised by leading lights of Modernist art as a naïve masterpiece, owing as much to Hindu temples as to western traditions. The place is totally bonkers, in a nice way.

Then moving on, down to Grignan, where Rosie and I had visited before. There’s a perfume factory on an industrial estate that makes my favourite cologne; so stopped off as I passed it. The campsite I’d chosen, Camping du Chateau, is a former municipal affair, next to a crêche and the local pool, that’s only open in July and August. It’s a bit ramshackle, with only one loo and shower for each gender; the small pitches showed signs of heavy rain (read mud pits!), and with the sounds of four-year-olds playing tag, and the roar of the Harley Davidsons from the road, I wondered whether I’d made the right choice, and should have chosen the Flower Campings site a bit further out. In the end, the intimacy of the site, and its proximity to the town, won me over, especially when my close neighbours started practicing the bassoon, and rather well. Yvonne, and Bruno, who it turns out was playing trumpet through mute with headphones (he said, “Third trumpet isn’t usually the most interesting line for people to listen to on its own!”) They were Swiss, and delightful to chat to; we exchanged contact details; they are contemplating an English trip soon.

Then the Belgian couple across the way, Maggie and Jack, got chatting, after they had been out for a scooter ride. (The scooters were towed behind their motorhome in a box trailer). Maggie, who is from Brussels, and speaks French, Flemish, English and Spanish, tells me they are on a 5 month holiday. (We have spent a lot on the Motorhome, so we have to make best use of it!)

It was at Grignan that Rosie and I came across the City of York rose, which has a wonderful perfume. She was quite taken with it; so much so I managed to find an English supplier, and to hide it until Christmas. It’s growing quite happily at home. What I hadn’t realised, is that it was part of an ongoing festival of roses, ancient and modern, that the town has been running for twenty odd years. The collection is as spectacular as the town; its castle is famous for its association with Mme.de Sévigné, the C18th belle lettriste, the which I’ve just started reading. After a good saunter round the ramparts, following the advice of Pepé le Pew, taking the time to smell the roses, while following la belle femme skonque, sniffing every variety in sight.

“M’sieur, le chateau est fermé, de 1200 à 1400” a nice lady tourist told me: handy, giving me an excuse not to go, even if I’d intended going – I found a restaurant to take lunch. All local, with veggie option if desired: I went for the Steak Tartare, with pistachios and crunchy vegetables. And a local Pale Ale. Back at the van, time for a little tidying up and maintenance, put the canopy up for shelter, and a sit and enjoy the sunshine; until the clouds started massing blacken the eastern sky. The Dutchman behind me was optimistic – “Just coming in off the mountains, it will pass us by,” as the rolling clap of thunder sounded in the distance. I love the Dutch, an optimistic nation. That night, it rained continually nearly until dawn. The canopy was wetter than I’d like, to pack away.

Bruno and I were uncompetitively competing to pack away first – he just beat me – so after fond farewells, I made my way to Intermarché, for a little restock, then hit the motorway, en route for Cavalaire-sur-Mer.