To be honest, the holiday hadn’t been going that well – cold and sometimes wet, and as in the Stanley Holloway song, “no wrecks and nobody drownded, in fact nothing to laugh at at all.” After Forcalquier, I dropped in at the Occitan factory and shop at Manosque, more precisely an industrial estate just outside. Always a bit of a soft spot for factory outlets, especially when they smell this good. I had to choose my purchases quickly and leave otherwise I’d have bought everything. I’d like to have done the factory tour too, but needed to press on. By the time I was back on the road (track would have been more accurate) the sky was showing a true cerulean; and I felt a surge of optimism to match the weather. I set the satnav for Loupian, still undecided whether to go there for the municipal site, or to head for the Camping Beau Rivage at Mèze, a site I’d been to many times, and had thoroughly dissed on a google review. Now under the management of Ciela (like Forcalquier) I wondered whether they had taken note of my criticism, or whether I’d be told I was persona non grata. Coming off the autoroute I’d decided: I could always go to the municipal if needed.

Of course I was welcome – “I see you have been here before – you come from Dart..f ..d?””Dartford, yes”. I was given a pitch Rosie and I had used one rainy holiday, in the tent. Across the way was another VW with UK plates, so I applied my customary policy of introducing myself, to Andy and Sue from Skipton, though originally from the North East, via Manchester. If possible, the sky was even bluer, maybe the reflected light from the lagoon. The site was much improved from my last visit: the roads had been resurfaced; some useful tweaks to layout, including swapping the performance area with the pétanque court. As it seems with many French sites, the number of statics had increased, with a corresponding reduction in touring pitches. And for the three days, or bits of, I was there it was a bit of a construction site, as dumper trucks came to deposit loads of hard core onto pitches, to raise their level. Some campers were not amused. Me, I loved it, better than a floor show.

After a quick trip to the supermarket over the road I settled down to a light tea – a quiche that I didn’t realise was frozen; but at least I had a microwave even if I was unsure of the defrost procedure. I have to explain the real reason for the shopping trip was to try to buy a length of plastic tubing. They didn’t have any; I need a Mr Bricolage supermarket I think. I have an issue with another warning light on the van, telling me I have too much oil. According to the dipstick, it’s OK: but just in case, I need to syphon off a little bit. But that’s a tale for another day. Anyway, among other things I bought a bottle of Muscat, which I took over to Sue and Andy. It made for a pleasant evening. A lovely couple: it turned out they knew of the circles in which Matt and Jen moved; both were left-leaning, though Andy had left the Party recently. so there was much to discuss. Although experienced campers, they were fairly new to campervanning, having used tents before. I’m wary of imposing; with too much, and apologising too much for doing so. but that’s it really. The next day they left – as planned, I should add, before I get comments from the usual quarter -leaving me with the lorries and the diggers.

I took myself off to the harbour, to a restaurant I’d used before, both with Rosie and solo. It’s a great place to have half a dozen oysters and an oven baked gilthead bream, washed down with a half-bottle of Picpoul de Pinet. A bit of a tribute meal; I offered up a silent toast to herself.

By this time the sense of elation was real, and only partly driven by the wine. I could revisit the past without sadness, but with gratitude for times gone by. Several time on this journey I noted her absence, thinking she’d have liked this bit, or what would she have made of that? Mèze, in particular, had many memories; even down to the various pitches we’d had, the places we’d eaten. I wonder if that’s what had sent me there, as an emotional yardstick.

The town hasn’t changed much. As I sat in the town square, watching the cleaners tidy up after a market day, a random collie turns up and drops a tennis ball at my feet. looking round, I couldn’t see an owner. I bounced the ball, and the dog jumped and caught it. We played together for a while, and the dog was great at chase and jump. The owner eventually emerged from the tabac, and the dog followed her. We passed a few words, and I complemented her on its friendliness. She agreed and moved off.

It’s soon Friday morning, and time to make my way up to the Perigord, to the banks of the Dordogne, as I told my neighbour as he was packing up, heading for the Jura. Managed to get everything away by ten, and drove to the wine outlet for essential supplies: a box of red, a bottle of pink, one of muscat, and a small bottle of Marc de muscat, to be used for special occasions. I’d been giving the iPhone a hammering, running satnav and music app through it, so it decided it didn’t want to play. So after switching off and on again, it agreed to play ball again. must remember to do that reset a bit more often. This time I could follow satnav without worries, knowing the route well: up the Pas de l’Escalette; a coffee and screen scrub at Caylar; over the magnificent Millau viaduct which still takes my breath away; the cross country past Rodez, Decazeville, and Figeac to Beaulieu. Once again, I was asked (in reception) where I had learned such good French. Maybe I’m better than I think.