Well you can’t stay in the same place forever. I knew from the forecasts it was likely to be a bit damp, so took the route back to the autoroute I’d came in on, not the road along the corniche to Toulon. I waited for the thunderstorm to pass by, and set off. Should I detour into St Tropez? Maybe not, though I was almost there. I started up through the hills, for all the world like something from a Marcel Pagnol novel, if he’d had a campervan. Then the rains started. And got worse. What had been rivulets turned into streams, then into torrents so I was frequently crossing fords, with stacks of gravel and sticks, and eventually boulders. I was alerted to the bad weather by a frightening alarm tone; and a text message from the Prefect of the Var, the French text read out to me in a perfect estuary accent. Three times. If it had been difficult to understand in French, imagine this in Stacey Solomon’s voice:

Alerte : pluies intenses, risque de crue, inondation. Message de la préfecture du Var. En raison d’une crue probable de l’Aille. 1. Éloignez-vous des fonds de vallées et des cours d’eau. 2. Reportez vos déplacements ou soyez prudent sur les routes. 3. Ne pas s’engager sur une voie immergée ni descendre dans les sous-sols. Restez en lieu sûr jusqu’à ce que les autorités déclarent la fin de l’alerte.

You’ll forgive me if I’m a little short on photos; I wish I could have had some to share, but my hands were busy with the steering wheel. Especially after I met a member of the Town Police of Lagarde-Freinet (which I think means try your brakes) who’d parked his car across the road at a traffic island, blue lights flashing. Smilingly, he made circular motions with his hand, turning everyone back. I followed the instructions on the satnav, which brought me through the village, back to exactly the same roundabout. I pulled over, and had a closer look at the map. There seemed to be an alternative route going East, through le Plan de la Tour, which lead to the autoroute one stop back, only adding half an hour. Google maps isn’t the most expressive guide, and neglected to say this was something of a mountain track, more suitable for donkeys. Especially as the rain was now of biblical proportions, going on apocalyptic. Never was I more glad to see a two-lane road; even better when it occasionally became a dual carriageway. Reaching the A8, I stopped for a coffee, to see the cafeterias scattered with motorcyclists, snoozing or staring into space, waiting for the Prefect to tell them it was OK.

Before long, the clouds thinned and a watery sun came out. I passed Mt St Victoire, which Cézanne painted, often. I didn’t really get what the paintings were saying, but now I understand; like Mt Ventoux further north, it’s a massive lump of rock, on its own, and really stands out from the surroundings. The clouds were now vanishing; all perils forgotten. Negotiating the outskirts of Nimes, I followed the road up to Anduze, where I’d found an inexpensive campground, on the banks of the Gardon River. For some reason, and I think it’s down to layout, people are much more willing to engage in conversation. The lady at reception had said there was a way into town along the river. I asked a passing Frenchman if he’d found it yet. “You’d be mad to go that way!” he said, “Takes to up on the main road, with cars going whoosh whoosh. I wouldn’t even do it on a bike!” Now that did sound like another challenge, especially when another chap said his wife had found an exit at the back of the site.

Tomorrow’s another day. Despite using levelling ramps, the van was still on a bit of a slope, but not too bad to sleep. The fridge door shuts of its own accord though. Having done my morning ablution, tablets, and food routine I set off down the footpath to the town; Nightingales again; Firecrests some where. They are all hiding in the bushes; all except the little brown fledgeling who had decided to fly into the van, clipping my hair, and got lost in the pop-up windows. Sweet little thing, once it was out. The track did indeed lead to the main road, but only for a short stretch. Coming back was a different story.

Having made it without losing life nor limb, I sat down for a coffee; then went for a wander/stroll/amble/mooch. I rather like Anduze; although clearly it has a quite a lot of tourist shops, they are rather more hippyish. Local leatherwork, organic perfumes and makeup, alongside cheap cotton clothes suitable for the southern climate. I bought another sticker for the van.

I found the church, very romanesque, very Roman Catholic, and watched one of the faithful genuflect at the altar, then off to light a candle. I do like the rituals of faith; they give meaning to life, even without the metaphysics. After Rosie died, we were given what in other circumstances would be called a goody bag, with things to help the bereaved. Toys for the grandkids; a book on coping; and a candle in a holder, which I burned the other day. (I did leave it burning overnight; but fortunately didn’t burn the house down, which would have been a bit more Romany than I’d have liked.

Skipping lunch, as I wasn’t hungry yet, I made my way back, getting thoroughly lost, and ending up in Lidl; I’ve often thought it was a place for the bewildered. Grabbing three microwave meals – very convenient if you have a microwave – and they fit neatly in the freezer compartment. Well two do. I had the petit salé for my tea (Sausage and a ham in green lentils, very nice – better than the shepherd’s pie the other night.)

My new friends are Henk and Carla from near Rotterdam, who are travelling with their motorbikes in a van; which latter breaks down to make sleeping quarters. Today they drove 250km, really exploring the Cevennes. We spent a pleasant evening chatting, exchanging our stories – Henk had been in computing before it was a thing; and recently retired from Ernst and Young. Carla had been in the police, and now did forensics. Their joy, despite some pretty bad spills (in Carla’s case) was motorcycling; their van, at 24 years old, was a former wheelchair carrier, so still had the ramps. At 100,000 km, still a low mileage!

The next trip is to the Tarn Gorge – just found out the Huttopia site opens today (that’s the one where the fledgeling vultures crash land) so has to be done. It’s only a couple of hours, so I’ve got time to visit the Bambouserie, just over the river.