I’m spoiled for choice when it comes to puns; I must admit to a cheeky sense of fun when I chose Tours as a stop off on the northern section of the itinerary. Touring round, being a tourist or Tours-ist. Sat here, looking out at five German motorhomes and the levee of the Loire, I’m completing what to make for my tea. I might even switch on the gas, and boil up some pasta. I microwaved some porridge this morning, just to make a change from muesli. Once again I’m ahead of myself.

It was a good run up to Chef Boutonne, pretty much all cross country, Mike and Jan were welcoming, again, and were preparing to entertain that evening – “Only six of us this time!” I backed Willma into the woodstore, and for the first time applied the steering wheel lock, after learning there had been a spate of thefts in the area. Thon (Dutch contraction for Anthony) and Jeanette, who were part of the party tonight, had had their caravan stolen recently, so precautions were wise. I met Jeanette last year, and she had forced a jar of honey on me, for the grandchildren. At the time Thon had been in hospital; he’d only just come out again, after keyhole surgery for kidney cancer. It didn’t stop him being the life and soul of the party. The sixth member at the table was Jane, a softly spoken Yorkshirewoman, who’d been at a Sunday dinner last year. To my slight embarrassment, I’d forgotten she told me she’d been brought up on a farm near Harrogate, leaving her with slight northern inflections in the voice. A very pleasant evening; I got to bed about midnight, after refusing much of the alcohol going round; including one of Mike’s prize bottles, a 2012 St Julien that he’d bought for €28 six years ago. The wine app valued it at £78. I’m really not used to imbibing wine of that quality.

The next morning I made my farewells and set off for the Loire, aiming for Montsoreau; I stopped off at an Aldi for a few bits in passing. At reception, there was a bit of a scrum, so I parked and waited my turn. My pitch, I realised later, was right under a tree used as a perch by most of the neighbourhood blackbirds, all of which seemed to have regular bowel habits. As the wind was gusting up the river, it was also shaking some of the dead twigs onto my roof at various points. The site restaurant was quite good, and I treated myself to salmon and ratatouille, with a glass of the local white. By this time the French was flowing quite well: gratified when the waiter at the till said “Vous parlez Français trés bien, m’sieur!”. With inner smugness, I simply thanked him.

The next day was grey, and much cooler than I was used to. As I was planning to visit the Chateaux of the Loire, I made a start; realising this one housed a collection of contemporary art. There was an exhibition by two English conceptual artists, under the banner of Art and Language. I found it all a little ernest and worthy, the object of the work was to get us all to think about the relationship of things, citing French cultural theorists, which frankly I found a bit of a cop-out. Lots of things with mirrors, inviting us to frame our own experience.

A rather good set of drawings, of George Bush and Wile E Coyote, done as painting by numbers. And a huge dark oil painting of an artists studio by night. Lots of intertextualising; but it did remind me a little of Tony Hancock’s film “The Artist” and his painting of ‘Sodium Light on the Left Buttock’. But then, the late C20th was that kind of time too.

My second chateau, on the way out and further up the Loire, was at Ussé; because of a visit by Charles Perrault it is thought to be an inspiration for Sleeping Beauty. Although not Disney, it certainly is not short of a turret or two – one might almost say it had turret’s disease. Sorry, couldn’t resist. And neither could the owners – I got a sense it was still in private hands. The explanation boards were very sniffy about the French Revolution, and heavier on aristocratic lineages than the lives of the servants. One wing was given over to a set of tableaux retelling the narrative of the fairy tale, room by room. Inevitably there was a coach load of infants there: I didn’t see them after the gift shop, only their teachers in serious conversation with the coach driver.

And now I’m here, an hour or so up the Loire. Tomorrow it’s a bus trip into Tours, which should be an adventure. I have my instructions: “You must walk to the bus station and take the 3a or 3b into town. You will pay the driver, about €3, and get off at the Hôtel de Ville – it’s a huge monument, you can’t miss it”. So long as I get the bus heading the right way, nothing can go wrong.