I always intended this journey to be an adventure. Putting myself in the way of the unexpected; new experiences; meeting interesting people, hearing their stories. That sort of thing. As a way of conquering anxiety; which until now I’ve been blaming on Rosie. I have to own it as mine too; I think we enjoyed our worries as a couple. Chekhov’s line about all happy families are the same, but unhappy ones are so each in their own way. In our case, we were united in fretting. I’ll get to the point: what I hadn’t wished for, and tried to avoid, was a white-knuckle ride over the mountains. Done that, and in the rain. In bright sunshine you can see the drop below you clearly. The hairpins make it worse: my God, I’m going down THERE?

The Satnav, may its soul be condemned to the lowest circle of hell, had predicted just over two hours to the Tarn Gorge campsite. Time for a visit to the Bamboo Garden. I embarrassed myself in the most English way possible, by implying the nice French lady was queue jumping (“No, I was just looking at the prices!”). I apologised, saying we English had a thing about queueing (“So do the Swedes!” said another member of her party). It was lovely wander, past massive groves of bamboo; a reconstructed Laos village; a Zen area; a Dragon valley; and a bonsai garden. Exit through the garden centre. I heard the whistle from the Cevennes Steam Railway, which has its own stop there – I chased the steam cloud up the Gardon valley for quite a while. So far, all so lovely.

Now, I may have missed a turning somewhere, maybe watching steam trains. Suddenly Satnav says, up this road to the right. I was a little suspicious, so consulted the old-school Michelin atlas. It showed a short track to get me back on the road. Oh well, I’m on my holidays. It turned out to be the narrowest road of the holiday. Up the side of the valley. No wall to the side, and twisting back and forward. The cyclist, in the spotted jersey (“King of the Mountains”), who’d passed me at the bottom, I met after quite a while., and only passed him with difficulty. I was travelling at 10mph, not daring to confirm my peripheral vision. I eventually got back to the road, with a sigh of relief; found a lay-by of sorts, watered the flowers, and had lunch.

Many a good story starts out with “In my own defence”. By this point I was on the Corniche des Cevennes, a broad ridge between two valleys. I’d seen a bit of windiness to reach the next village. I also had worked out that if I put in either of two waypoints, it would take me further north, following streams and rivers down through the Tarn Gorges. Very scenic, I thought. I tried to program it in, but in my struggles with Google: well, I failed. The route took be back up onto the Causse, the upland plateau; then down into another valley via hairpins; and up hairpins again onto the top for lovely long run on the flat. I should have noted more carefully the sign that said “CAUTION! THIS ROAD IS DANGEROUS!”, but another group of cyclists were on their way up, so what could be too bad? The sign, I think, referred to what was awaiting me at the far end. Another sign prohibited vehicles longer than 6m – Willma is 5m, so fine. I thought. Suddenly the vista opened out, of the Tarn some 1000ft below, and what looked like a sheer drop. There was, indeed, yet another twisty road down to the valley bottom, with about 15 hairpins, clinging by its fingernails to the cliff face. I was following two long wheelbase minibuses, and I realised the reason for the length restriction – the one in front of me was having to reverse back to get round each of the corners. I could just do it, with a lot of concentration, and ignoring the clear and present danger of my imminent demise. Looking back at the Michelin map, the descent is marked with a dotted red line. EDIT: It’s called the Col de Rieisse, and someone’s made a video of going up it on a motorbike: https://youtu.be/BWvwrefJfFY?si=XzBlqvWi2kP7pwGo

A short drive along brought me, on the verge of hyperventilation, to the campsite I’d been aiming for. The lights were on in reception; but I had a feeling…. As I drove off, having set the coordinates for another site, I looked down to see empty pitches – all of them. First day of the season. And it was cold. 14deg in the shadow of the cliffs. In the grand tradition of the News of the World reporters, I made my excuses and left. Satnav showed the route up a series of hairpins. “Oh f*** off!” I said, and followed roadsigns towards MIllau until it became a bit more sensible; eventually taking me onto the old pre-A75 road.

Although a few people had recommended the Val de Cantobre, that was back down the A75; the site at Sévérac-d’Aveyron, which seems to have an identity crisis about whether it’s named for the chateau or not, but definitely isn’t Sévérac-l’Eglise, 20 km away. Camping Les Calquières – Camping Aveyron seems to have the same identity crisis, but I received a friendly welcome from a jolly man at reception, who showed me how to get to my pitch by drawing a line off the screen behind him. Never had that before. It was nicely kept, and had a restaurant where I chose the confit duck and chips, and half a bottle of Marcillac, one of my favourite wines. Another British VW pulled up opposite: Les and Angela from Cornwall, on their way south. As we were chatting, we spotted a group of vultures – it’s not far from Millau after all. And all rushed for our binoculars!

The night, however, was cold. In yet another error of judgement, I had decided because I’d been too hot in bed down south, I’d exchange the duvet for the sleeping bag in the loft. As it’s a bit thin, I put a woollen throw over the top. Waking up in the wee small hours (I know why they are called that these days), I realised I was chilly. After a while, lying there, things didn’t get any better, so I put the diesel heater on for a while. But that only lasts for a bit, so got up and dragged the duvet back down again, putting it over the sleeping bag. As the forecast for tonight is 3deg, I shall be doing the same. Tomorrow, Beaulieu-sur-Dordogne and the family. I may not blog so much for the next week.