Having looked at the weather forecast, I’m in for a week of rainy, cold weather; clearly an arctic plume pushing down from the north. This wasn’t quite what I had in mind, though I suspected it might happen. Last night I put on all the bedding – sleeping bag, quilt, and blanket, but not the electric throw – and was quite warm. The heater was useful again. It was slightly warmer than the previous night, which I’d spent near Ashford to save an hour’s journey getting to the Tunnel. Just as well; despite setting the alarm, and waking up early, I was still five minutes late for their recommended check-in, an hour before departure. My usual morning pills and drinks routine was way off the mark, but I did get a great latte from Starbucks while I was waiting for the call.
It was an uneventful journey down to Châtillon-sur-Seine, stopping for a coffee and to gather some supplies (no milk though, except oat milk). Lunch further down the road was an unexciting cheeseburger and chips, under-seasoned and undercooked, at a motorway service station, prepared by a woman with a face like a hatchet. It was food, of sorts. And at least the French was holding up. Needing more supplies, I stopped at a Super-U just outside Châtillon, and arrived at the campsite just after 4pm. There was a queue, managed quite efficiently by M.le Gerant. The site takes the Dutch discount club ACSI card, but as he pointed out, as a solo camper it was cheaper than the discount rate.
Ahead of me in the queue were a British couple, from near Bedford, David and Alison. As they hadn’t done a lot of French camping, I was able to bore them with the intricacies of the ACSI card. They were tenting their way south, in a vintage Vango ridge tent. Having established something of a rapport, I put myself on the next pitch, as you can see from the photo. A delightful couple; together we decided to check the town out, and maybe find somewhere for an evening meal. Finding the path shown on the campsite map, we went down a steep set of steps, and found ourselves in a park near the Seine. I asked a couple of young women, who were walking a pretty dog, whether he spoke English; misunderstanding the strange old Englishman, they helpfully said they spoke a little. My jokes need improving. I had to look up the French word today. we went on, to check out the local museum, housed in a redundant abbey next to the church of Our Lady. More of this later.
Next to find somewhere to eat. following clues on David’s mobile, we wandered around a bit. I asked an old lady (probably my age, who knows?) if there were any good restaurants nearby. She looked bemused, either by the question or my accent. A bit more wandering, and we met the young women with the dog. As we’d already been introduced, I interrogated them. There’s a few pizza places, but they tend to ope when the films finish at the cinema. there might be a decent Japanese up near the Kebab shop. I observed that Châtillon didn’t seem to have much of a gastronomic culture. They agreed. Walking on, we spied a sign for a hotel/restaurant 100m up a side street. The inside was lit by a dim bulb; the outside sported a deal of peeling paint, and an AA sign dating from the 1930s. And no menu – not promising. A little further down the street were steps leading to a small pizzeria, which was delightful. We had it to ourselves for quite a while, then it filled up with happy local diners, evidently having a good time.
The way back took us over two arms of the Seine – it had had a past as a mill town; and back to the steps up the cliff to the campsite. This took a toll on my constitution, and I should have paused on the ascent. After quite some while doing my breathing exercises to recover, I realised that a full stomach was not a good idea, and found a quiet corner to unload. Waste of a meal there I thought. ce. I reassured him I was old enough myself to know when I was overdoing it, and that I had restored my equilibrium. (I suspect that dodgy lunchtime cheeseburger may have been a contributory factor.) David was mortified, blaming himself for setting too quick a paBut it was good exercise; just shy of 10,000 steps. I needed that after a long drive.
Thursday morning, after a rainy night, I started slowly; saying farewell to my nice neighbours on the way to the ablution block. Up and dressed, I made my way to the museum, to see the Treasures of Vix. These are the remains of a princely burial site from about 450BCE, near an Iron Age site of the Hallstadt culture on a hill nearby. There are signs of an extensive set of large hall buildings nearby; apparently this was the highest point for river traffic on the Seine, so the wealth probably came from cargo transfers from pack animal to boat. The main item, given pride of place, is a giant Krater of Greek/Puglian origin, about 5′ tall, and used for mixing wine. The ultimate status symbol around 450 BCE. The other stuff there included a gold torque, and elements of an elaborate cart which had held the body of the princess, aged in her 40s, whose burial this was.
It’s a nice museum, with lots of random collections, as with many local museums here; there were modern paintings interspersed with the other exhibits, a nice touch; and a special exhibition comemorating Kiki, the Queen of Montparnasse, who was born locally, and became a famous musical star rivalling Piaf, and a model for Man Ray. One of the collections, from way back, is an extensive set of stuffed birds, including my favourite, the Golden Oriole. It’s amazing where these themes keep popping up.
On the way back, I investigated the source of the River Douix, which emerges from its underground course at the foot of the cliff below the campsite. A very pretty spot. Mounting the steps to get back was much less eventful! Very pleasant afternoon nap, interrupted by hailstones and thunder. There are yellow weather warnings for today. Tomorrow I move on, but the cold weather continues. I’ve just been chatting to a Belgian couple, who are going to the Jura. Their son lives in Nice, and it’s even cold there. Next week it’s forecast to warm up: but the only warm spot is the Languedoc coast. That’s made my mind up!
Willma’s travels 