november exit part the second

 

MONTSOREAU THEN, not for breakfast this time, but still acquiring provender for the lunch break we might want to take. You'll have soaked up the first epistle concerning our return to the motherland and will be impatient to complete the compelling saga from where it left off in part the first… and that was at Montsoreau. You will recall that Mme Melling and your author are now intent on engaging with the roads that flank the wondrous Loire, carried high on the left and right bank levées that have been built for miles and miles to modify the river's previous tendencies to bring wide-spread flooding to the region. We are fond of these roads as they give a continuing and ever-changing view of the waters flowing west, amongst islands, silty beds and wooded reaches, punctuated by riverside settlements, grand châteaux and bridges of varying antiquity, both rail and road. We never tire of it, well not often. The levée sections usually benefit from a 70kmph speed restriction. Naturally this is generally ignored by the native drivers but at least it gives us tourist types the excuse to travel more sedately, even if in doing so one raises the blood pressure of the former somewhat. There are weight restrictions too so one is not so likely to get trapped behind a 42 tonne articulated. We are travelling now from Chinon to the location of our last hotel, situated on the outskirts of St Malo, from where we are forced to take ship, given the conclusion of ferry links for the year from distant Roscoff.   

Perhaps it is time, at this juncture, for those who want the comprehensive picture this journal embraces, to reproduce the itinerary we are mostly following, excepting overshoots at junctions, routes barrées and diversions to take in supplementary views etc. You don't need to commit it to memory, or absorb it at all if you don't want to, in which case the text continues in this vein, below…

Sharp-eyed readers of this exposé will note that the above descriptor does not include any mention of Montjean-sur-Loire where we stop to visit, at last, the hilltop church for its fine views and historical importance. We are way past Saumur by now you see. It is an indication of our familiarity with this section that it doesn't list the places we need to pass through hereabouts, sorry. It is raining, by the way.  

The church is not ancient: it is built on the shattered stump of a former château, reduced to ruin by The Revolution (1789) but it is none the worse for that. It is set about with a splendid collection of photographic enlargements illustrating the town's history and association with the river. Great views from up here of the much troubled but crucial river crossing, the current bridge being the fourth, the post-war rebuild, as you'd expect. We aren't passing over it today. Down at river level we find a sweeping quay with associated craft and we brave the precipitation to make arty atmospheric capital of the scene.

I'm sorry if I got your hopes up regarding the Loire, but from this point onwards we are assailed by drizzle rather a lot and what with over familiarity and wanting to get on, well we simply don't stop again or take more snaps. We are relentless in fact until we have the Rennes ring road behind us and we arrive on the quayside at Dinan. 

The question is, can we get a lunch at this late hour? Well of course we can as this is Dinan, and even out of season it sports one or more all-day open bistrots, with its aspirations to quaintness thereby encouraging visitors all the year round. We hold the Montsoreau sandwich et quiche in reserve and set ourselves down in a crêperie. Our first restaurant stop-off on our last day of travel, bar one. Fair tucker too. With cidre bouché, natch, we are in Brittany now.

After settling the addition we stroll around a bit, (it is pretty nippy I have to tell you) getting some air so to speak, then complete this leg by driving on north to Dinard where our final hotel is situated at La Richardais with views of La Rance (but not from our room of course, we overlook the car park). Hey! This Kyriad is quite nice – convenient for ferries. No adjacent eateries, cafés or restos, it has to be said – but we've got this sandwich. Mme Melling doesn't want her quiche and we've had enough driving thank you very much, all of one hundred and ninety miles today, Chinon to La Richardais. So we'll watch some more BBC News to keep us sober… 

The travelling is over. Now we have a rest day, prior to boarding our barque for an overnight crossing to Portsmouth, from whence we will slog back the one hundred and fifty one miles to Bullsmead Villas. I can report that the load hasn't really shifted within the motor although throughout the trek back to northern climes there have had to be occasional  adjustments made to the position of La Carte Géologique de la France, the 3000 piece jigsaw we are conveying (in one piece) and its associated Geological Map of The British Isles, 1500 piece jigsaw (in one piece and framed) – as they tend to slide to the side if we corner too swiftly or too suddenly – you know how it is. 

We are not just going to loaf about 'til sailing time, kicking our heels, dear me no. We aspire to coastal communion! The 'rest' day is somewhat notional, therefore…

I have a faint conviction that I might just get a sighting of a phare I've not eyeballed as yet, but I prove to be completely at sea on this as the tower in question is much further west than our today's general area of exploration extends to. Instead, we sample some headlands, bays and beaches west of St Malo. We start with a croissant breakfast in La Richardais, then a walk down to the lagoon that backs up behind the EDF barrage (fed by La Rance) after which, by diverse lanes and tracks we head in the general direction of St Cast-le-Guildo. Mary has identified a restaurant that might be open, it gets some goodish reviews: it is indeed trading and we eat there. 

Quite good, if somewhat expensive I feel; fish and stuff you know. Not sure it justifies any particular accolade other than being open and serving food. The parked up electric scooter between two tables at the back rather lowers the tone…  

St Cast is quite a handsome seaside resort, I have to say, but I'd struggle with it in season. 

Most of all though today I have enjoyed the light and the sea from the two specific headlands we visited. We've kept out of St Malo but as the light begins to decline we know we must bite the proverbial and get on down to the port's embarkation area. Somehow or other we've driven seventy-two miles since leaving the hotel…. 

And there the return of the natives comes to an end, pretty much. The crossing is calm and peaceful, our cabin as far forward as is possible so quieter than most – after gratis chocolat chaud and pots of tea. Upon arrival in Portsmouth we are off the boat and through passport control in half an hour of docking, then striving to make headway through the downpours and ever present roadworks that characterise the motorway betwixt Portsmouth and Southampton: the reason we'd rather not come this way, or one of the reasons, there are others. 

Notwithstanding, we arrive back at HQ at about 12.30, I think it was, in sunnier conditions now but somewhat brass monkey. Breakfastless, > sigh < – we are in Britain again and they don't do that sort of thing (or at least what we have come to prefer) between here and there. Merde! When will one taste a croissant worthy of the name again one wonders? Back in the yard the auto needs to be relieved of its load and places found for it all. As well as this post needing to be completed for my expectant public. Heck, no pressure then.

That's it, consider yourself told – albeit just the bare bones. And as I said at the outset, you'll get a much better idea of what transpired if you refer to Mary's Le Blog, because this offering, dear reader, is over-verbose and arguably verging on tosh! Just ask my family members if you don't believe me . . .  I tried to warn you. 

This was the one hundred and seventy-third post 

in the 'Driving on the Right' blog.

november exit

 

AND SO IT COMES TO PASS that our first hotel on this final departure to the UK, slotted in just days before we make our move, is a mere 13 miles down the route back, about twenty-five minutes journey time from 1rueFB. 

You'll be familiar by now with the situation that has brought this about. We need to sleep under some form of bed covering given that all our bedding is packed for shipping. We risk the Ibis Budget in Orange. Custom built and sound proof mostly, very reasonably priced, up to full spec, where we can keep an eye on the motor in what we hope is a secure car park… we don't sit up mind,  we go to bed – after mooching into the environs of the Roman Theatre for snifters, then partaking of une pizza in the town square (Sablet Bar des Sports pizzas, the best around these parts are not an option: the chef there has been on leave the entirety of our stay).  The National Dish sustains us and I limp back to the hotel with the hope of some repose . . . 

Never slept so close to a motorway toll booth before. We are off at the break of day through the toll in question  and are quickly en route to Marseillan where we have planned to breakfast. We do just that. There is a gale blowing in from the Med but the rain is holding off. Hardly anyone about in the port but we are beckoned into an otherwise empty restaurant and are served good coffees to accompany the croissants wisely obtained beforehand in the usual boulangerie. Good. Very good. 

We've run this strategy a number of times now – going south before heading west and then north: sort of boxing the compass. That is it as far as tolls are concerned too: an hour and five minutes to bring us into the Mediterranean hinterland; from now on we'll be sticking to D roads, mostly. I like Marseillan this early and this quiet. Did I mention before that we contemplated buying a gaff here? The town was a bit less honeypot then. Today the wind swoops through the yacht park rigging and the étang slaps hard up against the riprap. Magic! Can't see Sète at all through the storm-haze, across the Étang de Thau…

This is the way we begin our leisurely retreat from Sablet, stopping at four further hotels on the way this final time, enjoying the variety of landscapes, colours, people, roads, towns and villages that motivate us to travel slower than many, by routes more varied than those preferring their journeys to be as short in duration as the (autoroute) network will allow. Our rationale for getting about is to make it last, absorb the scenes, compare the differences, stop here, divert there, find out more… at a leisurely mileage per day where possible. Eccentric I know but favourite with us. 

After a stroll down the Marseillan quays and the customary visit to the Noilly Prat retail outlet (to acquire stock for 2025/6) we take again to the road. The weather holds off for a few miles; we get through Agde where Christmas decorations going up are causing traffic chaos, and having side-stepped all that, we motor on towards distant lowering cloud, skirt Béziers via the north eastern ring road, and follow the D612 off towards our destination city for this day, Castres. We have to climb through and over the Montagne Noire to reach this fine town and thus we are soon in the rain and the deep valleys and gorges of these unlovely hills, as well as ever thickening cloud. 

Dropping down the other side of the pass, the road takes us through a string of former textile towns, each grimmer than the last. St Pons is just one them and we note that the principle church has an organ over the altar rather than the more conventional position at the west end. The industry has gone (we lodged with friends of Mary's in their badly sited but grand house in miserable Labastide Rouairoux the year after Adam was born, where the river ran with purple dye. It has not improved any – although the river runs clear now, by all appearances). The weather doesn't help these places today. France has some less than lovely settlements, as well, for sure, and not just in the north. However, these grim towns are not that far from some glories, so there you are: caves, Minèrve, limestone hills and gorges, distinctive wines, that sort of stuff. Mazamet is a bit better (we take refreshment there) but chilly, heavily into roadworks and Christmas decorating. 177 miles, (not kilometres please note) the way we went, Orange to Castres. 

Now, Castres sits in much more pleasant country. The hotel Mme Melling has secured for our first real stop-off is back on the D612 as it goes into the town. It is not a very inviting walk into the centre on a grey afternoon so we shelve that idea. We 'chill', eat a good repast in an almost empty dining room, enjoy a comfortable night and drive into the centre for our customary breakfast snack – on the main square – the next morning. It is a lovely day! Castres looks as good as it did when last we passed this way. Maybe better. The central market bustle is a plus as well, so we linger a bit.

We report back to our conveniently parked up motor and drive on. This next leg is through lovely, rolling agriculture, but is a bit on the short side: Castres to Périgueux. Straightforward, on very quiet roads after getting beyond Montauban. We take a break at Fumel (it is 20°C no less) but find no café open, so just suck up the views from the mairie on top of the town that overlooks the Lot. That's a river and there is a lot to see. Maybe, says I, we could divert to our favoured café at Lalinde? 

No sooner said than Mme has the route plan sorted and off we go. When we arrive however it is apparent that the café we aspired to patronise has just closed for the afternoon so we sit out at another, nearby. Noisier than we'd like, raised eyebrows are exchanged (can that be done? -ed.) but the culprits are foreign, Belgian maybe, so one has to make allowances. Strangely, to Lalinde from Castres, the way we've come, is another 177 miles. 

But we are not done. Now we are back on familiar roads of the Périgord, through Le Bugue, thus to the outskirts of Périgueux, where we've been unable to secure accommodation in our favourite central Ibis (they've got a conference on we think) so we must make do with the rather cramped (but clean) cabins of the Ibis Budget on the outer edge of town. And it is cheap, fair do's. No immediate promise of an eatery presents itself so we buy filled baguettes from la sandwicherie next door as well as a sac of those Portuguese style custard tarts… and watch BBC News TV in our quarters. Castres to Périgueux? 218 miles by the route we took. 

Next up: Périgueux to Chinon. We suffer a wet night: outside that is, we stay dry. Once more we easily pick our way through P, no wrong turns whatsoever, onto the misty wooded roads by Brantôme where the sun breaks through and we take our breakfast: Brantôme brings in the visitors and is usually a honeypot – but this morning, quiet. It sits astride the river Dronne, not the Donne as the illustration below suggests. Doh!

The drive today is full of interest, the road extremely quiet, it is sunday after all, just local traffic but the weather turns back to grey again with occasional light but increasingly frequent showers. We stop at L’Isle Jourdain for a coffee on the former cattle market square (sorry, no snaps) as we are making too good a time. A front room café habituated by locals who greet one and all as they drop by for a café. I have noted, long before this, that we can see ahead the condensing vapours rising from the nuclear power station on the Vienne a full sixty miles before we pass it, at Civaux, just prior to reaching Chauvigny. Amazing, what?

Then we undertake a variation on the route which isn't up to much (who knew) from Châtellerault: to try see a river confluence: the Cruese joining the Vienne. Not visitable by those on wheels, seemingly. Trying to introduce variety into familiar country. It happens. Or rather, it didn't. 

We arrive in rain soaked Chinon and dither about a bit, trying to find this hidden Ibis ‘Styles’ hotel. It proves to be opposite and not in the town: guarded by a no entry sign one must ignore. We book in and get into our room (quite nice, spacious, but no tea/coffee therein, the hotel does no food either at weekends, FGS! In my book is less than welcoming really). Wet afternoon, Chinon not exactly humming: we went up and down it a bit prior to locating the digs, in hope, as we have secured no lunch on route. The hotel boasts views across the Loire to Chinon Château: not from our room of course: we overlook some forlorn willows. But we do have a (dirty) wet terrace. 'Style' yes, not substance. Pleasant journey… this hotel – not so much. 

Chinon was projected to be a highlight of this return. We are not completely unacquainted, you understand, but it has been a while. Neither party fancy the trudge in and out and across the bridge, or the rather clammy coldness, so we call it off. And go hungry. 184 miles in total for this day. 

Which is why we take very full advantage of the all-in-breakfast extra that our booking has attracted ('free') the next morning. Jolly good actually – so I relent in my tedious critique on Chinon Ibis 'Styles' – though I might hesitate in choosing it a second time. We are so stuffed in fact when we leave, that we are unable to stop at Montsoreau, for breakfast at least, we've had it. We are on our last leg of our journey back: Chinon to Dinard. At Montsoreau we obtain provender for lunch once more and note the leaf fall since last we passed this way. For now we are following the Loire downstream, a pleasure we always respond to, no matter the weather or season (but best out of, of course…).

Yes, we have reached the Loire, where I have oft maintained heretofore that for travellers bound for southern climes (Sablet for example) France really begins, the vineyards most certainly do, mostly. Going back to the motherland (and thus crossing the stream in the reverse direction) one holds on for dear life to the evolving traits, features and more northerly characteristics that demonstrate that Fr continues, yeah, even unto the coast and La Manche. If you are a fan of Fr that is. I am, we are. It isn't until we are through the passport check, the humiliating post brexit exit stamp applied, and gained entry to the bowels of the ferry, that we finally and wistfully concede that we are off terroir Francais once more.

As crossing the Loire northwards is still perceived by this party as drawing stumps, as it were, this seems a good point to conclude the chunk of turgid drivel that constitutes the story so far and reveal the tragic news to those that have somehow struggled to this paragraph, that this isn't 'it': a part two is to follow.        I know, don't take it to heart. 

Why not get on with some of your charity work and save just a bit of your sensibilities if you can, for the time when la deuxième partie goes to press? you know you want to…

curtains

THOSE STALWARTS of this blog, whoever they may be, will have been considerably better served concerning the last days of our residency by referring to my fellow conspirator (Mme Melling)’s post. She gives it out on a daily basis, you see, contemporary reporting, whereas I take things slower and less immediately. I am after the event, as it were. 

So those that wanted chapter and verse on the once-and-for-all packing up and closing down we had to undertake in the miserable month of November, well, they’ve (you’ve?) had that already. Her account is of course still available; I can do no better than refer you to Mme’s posts [le blog] on the subject. 

I shall limit myself here to a broader but diffuse musing: because dear reader this thirty-eighth and final use of our home in Sablet was the least happy, shortest, most frantic, most disturbing: all this being so as a result of its finality. We returned to 1rueFB in November, just less than a month after leaving it in the previous month – and stayed just long enough to clear it out. It was an unhappy necessity which, even at this remove (a few days after getting back to chez nous UK) leaves me wondering if we really had to do it – did we – dispose of our second home?

Our resolve was as follows: no van hire: too expensive to simply trail things back to the UK where we already had the majority of ‘stuff’ already. So what we could take back would be particular. And be fitable into the motor. We achieved this to some extent in the two journeys back associated with this unhappy time, when Octavia pitched in and carried without complaint all that we crammed within its capacious boot spaces. However, logistics required us to only pack after we were sure we no longer needed the vehicle to transport stuff to the déchèterie et ressourcerie facilities available to us as full card-carrying taxpayers of Vaucluse.

In the late autumn warmth we did at least manage a small handful of reliefs which punctuated the work of sorting stuff. Like, for example, a visit to Saint Cécile-les-Vignes Saturday market, for victuals and atmosphere, followed by an al fesco lunch at Villedieu where we also dropped off books at the village depository, and which had already been snaffled by the time we'd eaten and were returning to the motor – we checked. Other books were deposited at Buisson including my mammoth Oxford Companion to Wine which joined other tomes of size and antiquity in the reading area under the shelters of the square.

 Another time we drove to Malaucène for indifferent chocolat-chaud and came back over the Suzette road to donate books to the former telephone box, and enjoy the late autumn light and mild air. 

We took advantage of an excellent Menu du Jour at L'As de Coeur, under the freshly pruned white mulberrries, and kept schtum about our residential departure from Sabbers… we'll be back, after all, but reduced to being but passing tourists. The shame of it…

Time is found to partake of a complete Rasteau vineyard circuit, in lightweight clothing (a Sunday morning ritual) ending with refreshment in the square, under the ‘Rasteau-blue’ skies – but oh-so quiet. And since we last sat therein, in October, three plane trees have been culled; trees older or as old as the WW1 memorial they shaded. Apart from possible disease, which one clearly had, there was no indication as to why this had to be.

And the saga of the drains inspection chamber installation had to play out just 48 hours before we were scheduled to ship. Mustn’t forget that little nonsense! 

Suez contractors arrive: two lorries, one trailering a tracked excavator. Rue Fortuné Bernard is closed. Operatives know as well as we do that there has to be an inspection chamber somewhere for 1rueFB but are contracted to put in a new one, another one, in the absence of the one that is no longer apparent. These genial coves are not as deficient as the original job's-worth drains chappie however. They point to where they (and we) think our inspection chamber should be, unship the excavator, and drill at that point. There it is: obscured by a patch of tarmac and concrete and now revealed. Who knew? We did. 

A whiz round to clear the edges, a new hatch cover and frame, a smattering of filler and tarmacadam, leaving a traffic cone on it while it dries, they are gone by 10am. No payment sought, and head operative opines we should get our deposit back as no new chamber was required and the hiding of the extant feature was down to council road works. End of story (and six months of incredulity, worry and puzzlement: Suez owe us €540, the muppets).

But visiting the déchèterie was not our preference for getting out and about. We’d already made an appearance there with some good stuff in October, but knew at heart we’d have to go back. Ressourcerie also keep a presence at the site so we killed two oiseaux avec une pierre: stuff that had value, was resell-able, etc to the latter, anything else or rejected by them was simply sorted and trashed. We managed at least one trip to this weird place without déchèterising anything, just resourcing instead. Just how is it that we accumulated so much stuff though, or brought it to Sablet from HQ? Most redolent perhaps, for me at least, was to hand over my bulky outdated but still functional binoculars, carried all the way to the foot of Everest and back in another life, so I could examine the highest mountains in the world in detail. And part of the scene for so long pictures, Mary’s baskets, personal stuff, even my Times World Atlas, Millenium Edition…

Enough already, I am reaching dew-point!

Ressourcerie also runs to house clearances: we had to book it for a thursday. That's the one day a week they devote to collecting. On our last day, a thursday,  prior to setting course back to Blightey, the lads turned up (a mere three hours late albeit including their lunch break). Within twenty minutes we saw our remaining chairs, stools, tables, storage units, mats and rugs disappear into the ressourcerie van . . . leaving us standing in what was now as near as dammit, an empty and depersonalised 1rueFB. 

Prior to that, on only our third day of our seven day sojourn, I was compelled to witness the removal of The Great Table of Sablet. Into a van. The dealer, a seemingly pleasant chap, naturally tried to pay even less for it than originally agreed, the impudence of the fellow, but he nevertheless paid up, as well as lifting all our arm chairs, dining chairs, living room mat, and the low living room table we’d brought out from Bullsmead way back . . . I hated that man (I’ve softened now, but for two pins I’d have told him to sling his hook at the time– he spoke enough English to understand that I thought him a rip-off merchant, but he was, you know, a dealer. Enough said). He left a void and cleared off with a van-load back to Puyméras that had originally cost us quite a lot and for which we received just a few bucks, almost sweet fanny-adams. But we cleared it:  so job done. Bye bye table. Been nice sitting at and eating off you. And polishing you aussi, the least I could do to acknowledge the craftsmanship of your build (m’God! I’m talking to a table now…). 

Shelley (the current Terrace Towers incumbent) took some stuff and bought a mat from us. Nick and Helen (recently moved to Sablet from Greece and long standing associates) bought our good step ladder, our oil and gas mobile heaters etc. They softened the blow. But the folks I’d have liked to take the odd personal item were already gone, or not currently in residence. Sad.

The beds, the settee, the blue chest of drawers, the lighting, the curtains etc., etc., all stay as part of the house price. Our terrace pots complete with geraniums and the matching blue slatted patio table and folding chairs remain: a parting gift: no chance of getting them in the back of the family tumbril, so… I was amazed just what I did manage to shove in there. Even the French and UK Geologique jiggies found space. Even the telly FGS! 

We’ve packed it, all that’s going, including life support. After the ressourcerie clearance, we zoom off for a restorative at Villedieu (and checking to see that my packing doesn’t shift in transit). We return, shut off the water and electricity, close shutters, lock up and leave. We’ve decided to slip off, late afternoon, to an hotel, only in Orange, but thirteen miles on our way. Lovely day too. We stop briefly to look back: see next post. Sombre mood. Some sniffling. There you go……

november final outward

Montsoreau

I THINK STITCHING UP THESE POSTS concerning our to-and-fros to Sablet and vice-versa has to come almost to an end, run it’s course, lost it's sparkle, become unconscionably repetitious, I mean who really wants to read this stuff? No one. So very, very yesterday. A contrivance, as repetitive (as thin –ed) as workhouse gruel. 

But as such excursions are indeed coming to an end anyway, to 1rueFB at least, and as this transfer was such a classy, rich and enjoyable one, perhaps, well, one more time? Where’s the harm. Skip it, no one is forcing you to suck up another self satisfied travelogue, there are limits. But this is at that limit; after this you’ll have to start on something altogether more challenging. Travels with a Donkey, RL Stevenson for example. NB: There is still the hike back to Bullsmead Lawns to come, but at time of typing, that is yet to happen and yet to be writ. Two more times then — here's the first of the last.  

We are the very last motor off the Armorique: last off the very last regular sailing of the year (we are talking 2025 here). Nevertheless, we are on the road to Rennes just 30 minutes after the ship rubs up against the quay. Lovely day, even this late in the year: 0830 allows us to proceed without having to light the motor’s lamps. There is just one brief shower in the vicinity of Morlaix: thereafter the wipers are not summonsed. Breakfast is taken at Châtelaudren and we are relieved to see the church belfry is restored fully, the associated tower cleaned and repointed. Most excellent filled baguettes are obtained in association with our breakfast croissants which (the latter) we enjoy in the busy Grand Café (it is market day on Mondays here). A proportion of my readership will recall it……

Our route takes us down to the Loire as is usual (we cross and recross it to get the best benefit of the waterside roads) and we sink the sandwiches high above the river at St Florent-le-Vieil (south side of the stream) where it is warm enough to sit out, there are others of like mind, and we bask a tad. Those baguettes: oh my. Mary has the last rustique for sale and I make do with the classic standard, both stuffed with the chicken salad option. I’d trade a straight repeat of these delights all over again for the meal we suffer in the evening of this day, if I had had the foresight and the option. 

The river flow is up on our transit a few weeks ago. The trees – every shade of gold, copper and yellow, ditto the vines. Mme Melling distributes remnants of her Fr library to book boxes en route…   

Campanile (Saumur) is our hotel of choice this time, on account of cost differentials. Oh dear. I don’t care for this chain at all. Old fashioned, motel style, even if one’s motor can be parked right outside one’s porte. The hotel is not central, so we elect to eat in. Somewhat of a let down. The wine is paletable at least…… waiter service is also good, executed by a startling yet modest, friendly, tall young woman of Sudanese complexion and a most endearing countenance. Hem hem (OK… young). But Mme Melling agrees… so I rest m’case. Upon return to our quarters, sadder, wiser and even more ancient of aspect maybe, I note that the shower is part-broken – so I risk a bath. Lots of hot water at least but, you know, a hotel bath (for folk less than 60 inches tall)? No plug?? I thought those days were behind us. But I cope: let it never be said that he didn’t cope. Whenever next door drain their wash basin, or worse still, flush, it sounds as though they are doing same actually in our bathroom. Quite unnerving for one of my sensibilities.

The Campanile bed though is, in our room at least, remarkably comfortable. Competition on this journey on this front (best bed awards) proves to be intense, but while the chain trails behind in all other respects, the bed takes the accolade. Mme Melling is as one with me on this. It has springs! 

café-cat at Montsoreau

Our second day is full of light and warmth. We crawl through early morning manoeuvres in Saumur to pick up the Loire-side roads and again take petit d’ej at Montsoreau, as the mists on the river dissolve. Top flight coffee as some weeks ago. Proceding southwards Mme Melling is in favour of a visit to the square in Richelieu where more sandwiches are obtained and we potter about a bit.

Our route after departing from Loire riverside, lies through lovely countryside, sometimes on long straight switchbacks but usually in proximity (often alongside in fact) to the Loire’s principle tributary, the Vienne. So much light, and actually so very little traffic. Where is everybody? We eat again riverside, Vienne that is, the sun hot on our backs and again with like minds adjacent but reasonably spaced. We’ve taken our repast here before, at Chabanais, but below the bridge: better upstream side, imho. M comments on the number of cranes she spots flying ultra high in large skeins (the birds, not the constructor’s apparatus). 

Our passage is modest today but there is Périgueux to negotiate. We do it without the slightest error (right through the middle) and arrive at our hostelry betwixt the cathedral and the river early enough to bag one of the very few parking spots right outside the lodge. Nevertheless we are still only designated accommodation with a view to the cathedral still being repaired, brought up to scratch – so covered in scaffolding. As it was last visit. 

At the back of the Ibis,  that is. It drives us to drink

 – four kirs (4) in the bar (two apiece) before zipping off to Chez Fred’s which has changed its name (can’t remember to what, do you even care, really?). Tsch. Fred's is no longer quite the thing as far as I’m concerned. Pricey (but apparently competitively so) food, good as far as it goes – but now fails to impress, me at least. Heavy, shall not willingly patronise a fourth time…  

So stuffed after last eve, are we, that we skip lunch altogether the next day. Périgord countryside is as lovely as hitherto until we exit and get down amongst the netted orchards concentrated on the Tarn/Garonne confluence, Montauban, Castelsarrasin et al. They are only just beginning the harvest, for juice we reckon. We drink tomato juices in Villemur (for lunch) and watch the plane tree leaves blow back and forth…

Mme Melling sorts alternative routes avoiding Montauban of unhappy memory (long time ago, don't ask), but it takes a while to skirt round the area and get back into more shining uplands. 

We take a mooch around the older part of the town… check out the church etc. which can be observed from miles around, gracing the ridge with its hefty tower and belfry. I believe the  organ here is of some significance… The town runs to its own composer of note, Déodat de Séverac, as well. He could come up with some good tunes, look him up and take a listen… fin-de-siècle sort of cove… you must have come across Séverac, surely…

Good views and clear light stretches to the Montagne Noire. Our room, when we report for duty, proves very adequate indeed. Not the top suite this time but been there, done that. Views of the D622. The double glazing keeps out most of the drone of the passing timber-laden lorries. It is quiet at dusk. There are no fireworks and no burning of the guy in St Félix this November fifth… 

Our supper? – The Cassoulet option. The auberge chefs are renowned for it here and have won Michelin stars and Toulouse gongs galore for the dish. I’m happy to confirm that a further gong [with bar and oak leaves] could be willingly proposed from this quarter: good show! We go to bed feeling full of bonhommie and beans. The shower works, the towels (and gowns) are soft and purest white… the wind rattles the shutters I’ve opened until the early hours, but reassuringly so. As beds go, it's a winner, another winner. 

Grey scud greets our first view of the morning. But it is oh so mild and the air is fresh. We modify our route a little to employ the bendy road through the southern flanks of La Montagne-Noire, via Revel. Wonderful, although a distant enforced day in Revel when Berlingo’s overtightened brakes had been re-adjusted (no charge) comes to mind. Years ago.

Not covered in this post or in this blog even, you'll be relieved to learn.

The beech and oak forests, maple perhaps (et al) even more eye wateringly beauteous as we sweep round bends and chicanes, all set against a darkling sky. Coffee (expensive but very sound) sans croissant at Montolieu, and the rain is falling. Down to the Castelnaudary–Carcassonne road, bypassing the former by this serpentine and long descending variation… we begin to circumnavigate the aforementioned honeypot in increasingly torrential downpour. The sky is close on black. The rush hour traffic even slows, the wipers working flat out. Surface water inches deep everywhere, then lightning strikes close by and the sky seems to fall in.

We come through it unscathed. More precip. is encountered but it is not on the same scale, thankfully. Decision made: hop on to the A9 at Béziers and conclude this November Cheldon–Sablet transit as soon as is reasonably possible. Toll notwithstanding. We fetch up at 1rueFB as the church clocks rings the half hour after mid-day. We unload our rather reduced luggage allowance and are quickly off to Tulette for victuals, petroleum distillate and a chocolat chaud in St Cécile (with cake). Bread, cheese, Devon hard boiled eggs for supper washed down with Ventoux rouge (bib) that we started drinking in Bullsmead tavern and brought back to finish here. Who says that wines don’t travel? This one has, I can attest.

The purpose of this rather late visit, the clearance and final retreat from our Sablet gaff, looms. We will be here but eight nights. And that will be that. End of an era. OMG. Just wanting to get it over with now, if truth be told… But still need to stock up on Bibs-for-Christmas and find room for same in the next cartage back to Blightey…

And this post, dear reader (is anybody there?) has delayed that activity by some minutes (well an hour or two if truth be told); I really can't devote any more time to addressing the void just now, much as I would like to………