vaucluse vacances automne 26

I NEED TO RECORD RIGHT NOW the principle features of our stay this autumn (it is 2026) because it was spiritually very different from previous sojourns in the Vaucluse area and because the context of the time spent in PACA84 was so different, far more so than we anticipated beforehand I think. You see, when you are coming down here to your own gaff, you do so with a modicum of trepidation, tempered by the instincts associated with returning to your bit of the scene. Which is joyful.

Trepidation because, well how many roof tiles might have been dislodged by inclement weather in our absence sort of thing, and where will the wall salts have got to, did the terrace drain stay clear of leaves, who is parking in our bailiwick?

Obviously, all that has fallen away, no longer issues, not our problem, phew. Here’s the thing though: these aspects of our association may no longer register with us now but with that relief has comes a void, and a sort of unearthly feeling of looking in on to where we were from outside somewhere. In short, unsettling displacement, back to being just visitors, no longer intertwined with the community of which we were so recently a part (or so we felt – and were accepted as such). Damn it, we paid taxes.

So that is a big part of why, although we went to see the Germans and the Danes while they were in Sablet, we did not visit the village specifically. Neither did we find it possible to call on the good people who were our neighbours there, something I regret a bit but as the dumb-no-speaky-French, without much chance of deviating from this situation, largely Mme Melling’s decision and which I respect entirely – because I understand the discomfiture she feels about our changed status. In fact I largely share it.

So we weren’t hanging around Sablet. So what did we do with our four weeks?

One thing we did was close our Banque Postale banking and savings accounts. Four visits to the office in Vaison that was, honestly a charade. All falling on Mme Melling’s shoulders of course, she being my Minister for Finance in Fr. She spat tacks, wrung her hands in frustration, tried to provide compliant paperwork that our own banks in Blightey just don’t produce anymore, copies of passports, brain scans and collar sizes, etc etc. But she won through: we no longer have financial assets in the République: we no longer pay out for that singular priv. But we did end up with rather a lot of €50 notes, most of which we found uses for as our four week stop trickled away. While all this was going on, operatives took the roof off the post office building, did something, then put the roof back on again. Mme Melling took a pictoral note: (see above). The account closing process didn't fully end until we were back in the motherland!

And of course we were billeted in Villedieu, a village we are fond of and which might have ended up being where we bought our Fr pad, if such a thing had been on offer when we were looking…   Our last gasp, after locking and leaving 1rueFB in November 2025 was the Villedieu Café du Centre…we return to the friendly and welcoming C-du-Centre, are greeted with pleasure and the handshake of association at our return, we eat there and generally show up to refresh on fairly regular occasions. The setting under the trees, around the fountain is just about our favourite café and but a step from our accommodation. Tick! I vote it café of the year yet again, at least in Vaucluse – although Jean-Claude’s idea of a grand crême is somewhat at variance with ours, it’s the so called foamy ‘milk’ [long life] that ruins the bev. Choose something else I beseech you. Or be specific: ask for a double expresso with lait très chaud, that might do it.

Of course, we also ate at the trusted L’as de Coeur in Roaix several times, where the welcome was similar, maybe even more effusive, we’ve known David for quite a long time now – Annaëlle not so long, but also very pleased to see us. Ah me. Things are on the move though, the business is on the market, up for sale. It pains us! But twenty years running this sort of show would be long enough for anyone. Have we dined beneath the shade of the white mulberry trees for the last time? Certainly the last time we addressed the menu on this visit was firmly indoors, the weather being just through a wet spell and still looking a bit unsettled…

Inevitably, I think in retrospect we could not avoid some echoes of a farewell tour. We hope to be in these environs again next year but are not sure what the context of that visit may be. Mme Melling likens our return to this patch of Vaucluse and Drôme as ‘coming home'. I know entirely what she means but I can’t quite couch it in those terms. But if I now report here what we did this autumn it will come out a bit like, a lot like, what we did in 2025, when the writing (concerning 1rueFB) was going up on the wall. 

So, just for the record then – but don’t expect anything particularly original in this post (no change there then–ed), probably the last of its kind. This will just comprise of my daily notes with pictures for the most part – so you can stop right here and go-give the oven a good going-over instead…reading on will get you no further on, of that you can be sure…

OK well we certainly went up to Durban and into the domaine vines thereat, because it is so singular up there, where, yes we'd both liked to have lived for a spell. Without a doubt. And we first came up this road, possibly on foot, in spring 1990. When we were holidaying in Bédoin. St Hilaire, the chapel on the ridge overlooking Beaumes-de-Venise and across to Durban was still just a ruin, now of course a fully restored building. This time we walked a bit and simply stared, listened, breathed it in. We missed out on St Hilaire lest it proved my undoing. 

The Durban upper vineyards under the gaze of the Dentelles: probably my top area. We had it to ourselves, a privilege. And never tasted a drop of the wine from up here, we priced it once… It is in the Beaumes-de-Venise spectrum of fine wines. oh well, there you go. Incidentally, the group of buildings just left of mid-field (above), is not Durban, but a development of the farm seen in the 1990 snap that has been evolving most of the last ten years. Very nice too, if you've got it, them folks must have so why not live up here? We only came by once this autumn, more's the pity. But this is the place (below), A bit further up and below the road (down a track) … as I often say, we'll take it, we'll take it (but it seems to be taken, long term,  ah me, too late too late …)

Oh dear! What is this? It looks like…  yes it is…… 

the drawing of

S  T  U  M  P  S 

We've been looking back at the views we've had, where we have felt at home and where we are no longer at. The views are as familiar, as refreshing as ever, places and things as intriguing – but we have relinquished our ownership of them. 

Now we recall them as visitors again. Tis a pity. 

villedieu neighbours

roscoff codicil

OUR FINAL FULL DAY on Finistère-firma but once again there is no appetite from the squad to do owt much. Mme Melling is below par, and I'm not in very good fettle either. So we decide to stay local. We get our breakfast, as you do if you are us and in Roscoff, at the singular Café Ty Pierre where the coffee is hot, strong and served in cups the size of soup tureens. We bring our own croissants just in case the in-house supplies are running out: you can do that in civilised Fr cafés, y'know. We'll be in here twice more before we're through.  

We have to get ourselves to the Leclerc at St Pol to lay in tins of confit and similar so it seems a no brainer, as it is sunny again, not to take in at least a modicum of shore – so we drive the short distance to Carantec. Because I am a big fan of the Rade de Morlaix and we've not visited this side of it in yonks… so here we went.    

And while in the offing we shifted ourselves to the north-west tip of Carantec, ignoring the rather confusing signage (well I found it so) to pull up sharp before the submerged causeway out to the Île Callot. I don't think one can generally drive on over, and even if you have the requisite permit you'd not try it, save at low tide. There's a house out there…not to mention a Notre Dame.  I dispute with Mme Melling as I am reasonably sure we have driven over there, in another age, in a Citroën, when Roscoff visits had only just become a route we frequented, maybe just as far as that first islet?  

supper

We skip lunch, motor back to Roscoff, buy a bag of onions as required by local custom (best pink onions known to mankind) and repair to the Ty Pierre where we collect and down half litres of proper Fr cider, or cidre as they choose to call it. Sorry chaps but it pains me to opine that this cider knocks into a cocked hat anything of that description that retails in the SW of the UK. 

At 1900 hours we make up for that skipped déjeuner by reporting to our favourite fish restaurant of Finistère where we have eaten from time to time almost from its inception. The repast this evening touches the spot: Le Surcouf wins hands down as the best meal of this trip. You have to book though and Mme Melling instinctively has done so, she's a tonic. 

Cometh the dawn we are back in the Café Ty Pierre for the final time. Thereafter and reluctantly it is off to the boat, the last roundabout is counted en route (the three-hundred-and-forty-second) and we embark. Windy sunny crossing, cabin with circular picture window (see left), then after five hours of voyaging,  promptly off the Pont Aven in Plymouth (just fifteen minutes) and back at the country seat in sunshine by a little past 1600 hours: it would have been sooner if not for the final sting in the tale: a road closure just two miles from base. We have garlics, tins, bibs and bottles to see us through to Christmas and beyond. The clocks go back the following week and all we can do now is, well, suck it up, I suppose…… We have at least a few ripe figs, but only three apples from our fruit trees, the birds having taken a dim view of our absence and acted accordingly. 

codicil: I am reliably informed that the number of roundabouts we have had to negotiate on this return journey in the République has eclipsed the previous total of Spring 2025 by at least sixty-seven. Not that we came the same route, mind; but whichever way you cut it, you can't escape the conclusion that the Fr have an ongoing roundabout fixation. 

……… not just the French either……

rochefort roscoff stop offs

FOR SOME REASON that generally escapes me, the son and heir, known for his fascination with disconcerting data, (trivia, some might call it, not me, mind, no fear) and not content with doing the thing once, has elected during this return, to count traffic circles we encounter… again. He did it back in 2025 for heaven's sake. However, as all good fathers should, I warm to his rationale for doing this (we dismiss, after due consideration, my idea of recording the traffic calming/speed bumps we negotiate on this journey back) but don't expect me to set that rationale out here. If you cross his path, ask him about his roundabout count, if you've got a minute or two. 

Anyway. At this point in our travel the score stands at 219 and while taking our day off round Rochefort, we add another 27 circles to that figure. Incidentally, many years back, the first born counted all the railway crossings we negotiated on the road in Fr but there weren't quite enough to keep his attention, so I'm not sure we clocked all those we crossed… as if we cared. 

Don't fret, the full score of road circles will be appended to the end of the Roscoff Codicil post, but be warned, the acquisition and construction of traffic roundabouts, of all shapes, sizes and complexities has continued to gather pace: the French obsession with them has not slackened, dear me no: it is almost an art form. I've said so before, but there just has to be a PhD in it for someone, surely (ed– it may have already been done). We've seen some absolute wonders of design and artifice, where's the directory, the archive of these works, it's just waiting to be compiled (ed– it does exist most likely, in Fr). First France, then…… the World. If I could have my time over …… hmmm. Perhaps not… but no dafter than some PhDs I've encountered, I can tell you, back in academe… 

But I digress… We are having a day off so potter off down to Fouras and the peninsula that projects west from there… Vague proposals to visit the island are put on ice, we've been before, and we decide to lunch instead. Once again, moderately good, immoderately pricey (imho) but convivially situated with shade under what may be the last of the hot sun. Inspirationally called L'Océan, what vision, what originality! Roadwork operatives are pulling the area to pieces to try and bring back the natural landscapes hereabouts, after spending so many years flattening it in the name of progress and car parking. A bit of an un-building site in fact, lots of topsoil going back in etc.  

We drive back round the coast as much as the road closures will allow. We drop in on a bit of the coastal defences (there are lots around this area, all of interest to us history types). 

There are good expanses of estuarine mud hereabouts and I am delighted to get back onto the reclaimed marshes and narrow roads of the north bank of the Charente Estuary. Lots of birds and geese expected, some already around, but of course also the dear little feux of Soumard, the antérieur of which is accessible, as some operative has left the gate open so we risk the suspension and drive down there. Naughty I know but I have a condition… I am rather fond of  this tract of land. We don't inconvenience anyone. Not sure why most of the ditch side tracks are reserved for cyclists, but I'll let it pass. You can obtain more guff on these feux from my lighthouse blog of course, you know you want to. 

The s&h is by now just itching to get off to the Rochefort Arsenal where the Cordérie Royale and the historic dry docks are situated, so we motor back to the conurbation and park in a dock side car park before shuffling off into this historic riverside site, as we have many times before. No sign of L' Hermione of course (which we watched being built year on year until launch and which Adam still hasn't seen in completed form) because it is in need of major repair and currently laid up in Bayonne for want of funding.

I can't go far, but as usual, stare deeply into the wet 'dry' docks, conjuring up the history they contain, trying to recall the ships that were built there and admiring the mud soup that glistens therein under the hot afternoon sun. Entrance is free to these redolent areas, it creaks with hist: I forgot m'wallet so did not dare enter the best marine book shop known to man (albeit unaccountably stocking mostly books in Fr… does Trafalgar mean nothing to the citizens of Rochefort?).  

The morning dawns fair and clear. We need to get going as we are not setting out from La Rochelle but Rochefort, which means extra miles to cover. And this day is the longest of the return. Three-hundred-and fifty-miles, it's a slog. There is mist about aussi. Nevertheless, and by popular demand we route via Luçon for a late breakfast knowing that the café and adjacent pâtisserie can and do produce the goods. It's the last transit day so like the first we just have to have some rain en route. The cruise ships under construction or refit at St Nazaire seem even bigger and the road round Rennes even busier and more complicated. Today it seems to take forever. The N12 comes to a complete standstill twice and a hunt for fuel runs us close to empty near Châteaulaudren. 

We don't reach Roscoff until almost six o'clock (1800) but fortunately there is a parking spot in the square. The temperature has dropped like an stone. We are patronising the Mercure this time as our more usual hostel is being refitted and is closed to all comers. Good rooms though, a suite of rooms in fact and would you believe it the bath is not next to the bed? Crêpes for supper, not for me, I feel ill (but enjoy the cider) and both Mary and self are now almost floored by heavy colds. But as you know, I am not one to complain… and as at Rochefort we are taking a second day out before clocking in at the marine station to embark, and suffer the deflation of the return to Bullsmead Towers. My, there's a chill wind blowing though. That's it: the heat has gone and from hereon its cardies and fleeces…

moissac the abbey and a rembrandt

No petit déjeuner at the Le Moulin de Moissac this morning, we've got business at the Abbey.
We drive there, to the car park on the other side of the railway tracks that carved their way slap bang through the abbey's medieval refectory back in the C19th. Almost took out the cloisters as well, which is now the major cultural feature of this edifice, which we have bee-lined here for, as Adam hasn't seen it since he was knee high. M and self brought the senior sibling Terry here in September 2024 and renewed our acquaintance. 

Because in a country not short on exquisite cloister configurations St Pierre's Abbey I maintain, is absolutely premier division one. My camera took the day off today, without permission, while Sten says no to dawdling round ecclesiastical institutions and anyway it doesn't open til nine… so we sit out front of the magnificent entrance porch and have our breaky at a café in the square. The snaps herewith date from September 2024; am I glad I took them! This is a remarkable town in other ways too. Look at their history during the second world war and the occupation… I'm just saying…

A Unesco World Heritage site we have here, the whole abbey and its appurtenances.

People come from all over and it's on the pilgrimage route to Santiago-de-Compostela. I worked hard to keep the place looking deserted. It wasn't. 

Adam and Mary have availed themselves of the entrance fee and revisited St Pierre.

We meet up over the railway tracks and make a move. 

I'm not sure when it is that Adam and your author detect a departure from the approved route. The former certainly before latter. I have noted with regret that we've passed under, without stopping, the magnificent aqueduct near Agen carrying the Canal de Garonne over the river of the same name. But now here is the variation we mooted before even setting out on this holiday. 

I am directed… and do duly arrive in Le Mas d'Agenais where in the singular village church we encounter the Rembrandt. It is a crucifixion. The work has the distinction of being the only Rembrandt that is neither in a private collection or in an art gallery. It belongs to the church and the parishioners thereof. A Rembrandt, mind.

I've had the privilege of standing in close proximity to a Rembrandt before, in Holland. True, there is protective glass here but the presence of the painter's genius is hardly dimmed by it. We have this unique masterpiece to ourselves for, what, at least twenty minutes or more. Could have been longer… No queueing, no attendants, just a quiet Catholic church interior with the occasional parishioner in the nave or chancel. No entrance fee either. No priest, even. This is one of the world's greatest painters of all time. And this work is one of his. 

Be moved. 

Sorry about the reflections, but even these integrate the Christ figure with the church interior. Not a fan of crucifixions, me. But of Rembrandt? That I am. 

This photo representation of the work (above) is by Mme Melling.

We motor on, take refreshment at Sauveterre by eating our filled baguettes, but not securing beverages as lunch is still being served, then don't stop again until we get into the usual traffic mayhem of Rochefort. There's the hotel, there's a spot to park, let's get off to the crêperie (the new one just down the road is already closed and not trading) I limp all the way down there and shamble all the way back. Damn it. I liked my galette anyway and we did sink two bottles of rather dashing cidre brut. But bed's the thing. We are here for two nights but no one is too keen on going very far tomorrow… and we didn't.  

marseillan to moissac

 

As daylight returns, bats zip about the trees opposite the overnighter. We are down on the port rather earlier than usual (not having had the A9 hack down from 84110) looking for breakfast and all that. Mme Melling has gone and secured boulangerie requisites but for a worrying few minutes it looks as though no one wants to make an honest euro out of us and serve us with coffee to match. At last an ice cream parlour proprietor breaks ranks and we enjoy a last few minutes of refreshment (coffee, not glace you understand) before setting course to the next overnight oasis at Moissac. Mary secures filled baguettes and we get going. 

There's a market blocking the road to Agde so we go via Marseillan Plage instead. Béziers, St Chinian, and St Pons fly by under fairish skies as we climb through the southern bit of the Central Massif, before we jostle our way into Castres. Sorry about the lack of snaps through the lumpiness of the Central Massif: bendy roads, gorges and summit cols, you know the drill. The bleak industrial towns that punctuate our route have been covered to a slight extent in a post last year when we overnighted at Castres, as you'll recall, I have no doubt. Yeah Right. 

I'm not in good walking form today so confine my activities to sitting it out in the Castres square with 'uncle Sten', I wish he'd take a hike: Sten that is, not the fellow up on that plinth. A&M do some cultural mooching. Adam's first visit since he was in nappies. It is a fair town, so it is. Everybody visiting Castres simply must snap the river-edge houses that feature in the centre so here they are, on cue:

Again, sorry for the lack of a snap on the road thereafter. We dive off down a country road to Viterbe on the Agout (that's a river – crossed here by a very narrow suspension bridge to a golf course). Simply to eat our sandwich lunch. I took pictures but I've dumped them. I'm less than enthusiastic about our route long before reaching Moissac.  I have to reveal, I don't enjoy it so much, a bit unrelenting and rather urban, punctuating the intensive fruit growing that stretches to the horizon in all directions. Need to go another way next time m'thinks. With better views. 

I have to commend Mme Melling though, who readily directs the complicated but very worthwhile avoiding route round Montauban. So much so that we arrive in Moissac in time to go and seek the confluence of the rivers Garonne and Tarn from the high river-cliff viewpoint we think we know of, just up there.  

Except we don't, we've got confused with another viewpoint we visited a while back, overlooking the confluence of the Garonne and the Lot (that's another river) a bit further west. Unsurprisingly we fail at the first two attempts to find this panoramic delight and almost give it up, but as the realisation that we've never been up here before dawns on us, we do in fact make it to the official viewpoint. It has taken a while though and some choice expletives have been given an airing. For which I apologise. It was mostly me. Crap signage. 

What's that they are growing down there, you may be wondering? Very red apples mostly, that I think are principally for juicing because they taste awful if you chomp on one: I have in the past, and it was rubbish. Cordons, with hail protection nets… mass production and still not yet picked hereabouts, as yet. Can't be past their best, because they don't have a best, take it from me. 

We give up any hope of visiting the confluence down at river level and make our way to our hostelry in Moissac (the town is just round the corner from the river-join and firmly on the banks of the Tarn). A big old hotel, once the biggest water powered flour mill in France. Mary has secured us a superior room overlooking the river, the old mill wharf, and a noble squad of firefighters practising and honing their river life-saving skills far below. Adam sees kingfishers down there as well.  Mme Melling has taken an executive decision and booked us into the hotel's capacious restaurant where we eat a moderately good supper at an immoderately high price (well the wine is). Not our thing really, but Sten won't let me wander the streets looking for bistros, so needs must. 

Our foolish confusions regarding the confluence viewpoint has caused us to postpone our visit to the abbey until the morning. River mists hide this hotel window view on the morrow: the sapeurs-pompiers are long gone of course. We are off to the abbey.

footnote: Sten? Uncle Sten?? this refers to my current constant companion, Lumbar Stenosis, soon to be late of this parish I sincerely hope…

reflective returning

We didn't get sunsets at 1rueFB in Sablet: facing the wrong way we were. 

So at least, that was a plus when residing in Villedieu. The terrace looked west. 

Notwithstanding, we embraced more readily the rise of the shining orb above

 the Étang de Thau when we arose at Marseillan to drink it in, our first stop back on our journey to the hallowed shores of the motherland. 

No disrespect to Villedieu mind, just relief to be out of a holiday let that had so disappointed and frustrated us, that fell so short on what we had quite reasonably expected, but found wanting…

This is my record, for the record, of the journey back, because in many ways it made up for some of our discomfiture in Villedieu: some of it, not all of it. And most of what we did during our time in Villedieu was pretty fine, familiar, homecoming sort of stuff, the accommodation did not cloud those pleasures, well not much. 

I might have a stab at relating a bit about that month (for the record) but first…

the return.

We can't stop ourselves. Even when we have secured an additional day to ensure we don't conflict with the departure time required of us, so that we don't feel hassled, we still get going as early as 0900, but are happy to stop after a mere three or four kilometres, at Violès, where the best croissants in the Vaucluse can be secured, and consumed in the little bar next door. 

And because we are slightly relaxing now we don't join the A9 in Orange but drive to the Rhône crossing at Le Pont-de-Roquemaure (alongside the A9 and TGV bridges) where we resolve to give the autoroute a complete miss.

I won't detain you with the rather less than fascinating list of towns and villages this occasions us to find our way through… we complete, and reach the coast not far short of Frontignan. We take a breather to view the wondrous Canal du Rhône from Le Pont-des-Aresquiers, where it slices through the étangs close by the Mediterranean. Not that the ocean is much cop in this vicinity… although there is a fair old sprinkling of flamingos that hang around these shallow pools and lakes. And not just for the tourists either, you understand: I believe they are 'native'. 

We leave out Sète today and motor to good old Bouzigues where we once paddled with the son & heir when he was classified as a toddler. By now we are feeling the heat so as well as taking the air we take in some liquid refreshment: in that hotel with the weird lettering on it, which once refused to give us breakfast simply because we weren't resident. Mme Melling and self rented an apartment here when we were considering this bit of France for a potential house purchase. Without a boat of some sort? Er…… Sadly not. No chance then. 

Marseillan is just up the road now, through Mèze. We arrive, park up and get the keys. What a contrast! The coolest apartment that Mme M has somehow managed to secure, for just one night, because of the absence of suitable hotels. Fortuitous! Everything just so. Outside space, crisp and ultra clean. A bit of alright… mark it down…  I want to come this way again. 

The gaff even sports this fitting tribute to the Phare-des-Onglous, the feu that marks where the Canal-du-Midi enters the Étang-de-Thau, once a favourite early morning walk, once upon a time.  Class!  (Although fading a bit…)

We eat, naturally enough, at La Pacheline. 

I don't recall what m'family had but I had this little lot: – which is probably why I can't remember much about what the kith-&-kin consumed; preceded by fish soup if memory serves. After that, an early bed is called for… but nevertheless we perambulate down to the green port light where we dispute which phare we can see flashing across the way at Sète. Ah me. Marseillan, home of Noilly Prat (we have stocked up). Still got some of its original charm surviving despite the wear and tear of those terrible tourist types… thankfully just about out of season as October gets into its second week.

 

disappointment in 11084 in 2026

AN EN SUITE is a bathroom that is exclusively accessed from a specific bedroom and usually consists of a bath or shower, a toilet and a wash basin. 

A bath/or shower that is within a bedroom is not defined as an en suite.

An ensuite was specified in the two bedroom house we rented for 28 nights in Autumn 2026 but we found on arrival that the only bathroom in the house was actually in the main bedroom. There was also a small hand basin. The bath had a selectable shower attachment and a half length glass screen. There was generally a good supply of hot water.

Two towels were supplied for each person, one hand and one small bath towel but no bath mats. Changes of bed linen were supplied given the length of our stay but the linen provided for the double bed consisted only of bed sheet for a single bed, no fresh duvet cover and a pair of pillowcases. This linen was stained as was the duvet cover already on the bed.

The other sanitary provision consisted of one unventilated toilet cubicle on the ground floor, adjacent to a small shower, also unventilated, and a wash hand basin nearby in a corridor. The second bedroom had a wash hand basin. As one would expect, the kitchen, situated on the second floor, had a sink, a double one. 

On the ground floor there was a reliable modern washing machine.

The living room on the ground floor had no windows. Natural light depended on the half glazed house door which had shutters.  There were casement windows with external shutters in both bedrooms.

The stairwell (an open tread modern construction) was dark but adequately lit until the light on the middle floor failed early in our stay. There was no apparent way of changing the lamp and no replacement lamps were available. Thereafter it was neccessary to use torches for safety after dark when descending from the kitchen. One section of the upper stairs had no grab rail.

The kitchen/diner, situated on the top floor, had double full length glazed doors opening onto the terrace. It was provided with a comprehensive amount of kitchen utensils and had a modern oven and an induction hob. Electrical appliances such as a microwave, toaster and kettle were all available. It was not provided with T-towels although washing up had to be done by hand. There was comfortable seating in the dining area although there wasn’t enough room to use the four dining chairs around the table to eat at as the table, if brought out and extended, obstructed the space of the dining room.

The terrace had a table and seating of various sorts. One of several folding chairs was broken and was not used. The ikea outdoor sofas, upholstered with plastic faux cane weave, had comfortable cushions but were fragile and sagging somewhat as the plastic weave was breaking apart in a number of places. The washing line was broken and mostly missing. The sun umbrella appeared to be damaged and was not used.

Our experience of this house
In our opinion the seating in the living room was uncomfortable, even dangerous: this included a stone or concrete sofa with inadequate cushions and just two small tub style armchairs. It was inadequately lit for a room without windows.

On the middle floor the rugs and matting were dusty and in need of cleaning. The house appeared superficially clean upon arrival but there was dust collected under beds and the main bedroom floor presented a very worn and overused appearance.

We found the kitchen cramped and with too many impractical and inappropriate accessories. It had very small food preparation areas and the plasticised table cloth was stained and dirty.

There were electrical appliances without an adequate workspace to be employed, plugged into gangers, some of which seemed to be other than the standard electrical type employed in France or connected to UK style adaptors.

We discovered that the taps in the bedroom dripped even when tightly closed.

The plug in the hand basin in the main bedroom did not function so water could not be contained in it.

The showerhead in the bathroom shower was so clogged with calcite it did not dispense water evenly and tended to wet the bedroom floor.

A significant part of the terrace seating was becoming unsafe to use due to age and deterioration. Bedlinen was clearly well used and well past its ‘use by’ date (in need of replacement).

The house was quite well decorated although the emphasis on Eastern religions and scripts seemed out of keeping with a holiday rental that is situated in Provence, being rented by clients who have come specifically to holiday – in France. 

 The re-use of redundant, old doors and windows as wardrobe doors that neither fitted nor closed properly in the main bedroom was problematical.

We considered the unventilated toilet to be unacceptable in a holiday rental and probably in contravention of French building regulations which require both extraction and ventilation for such facilities.

In short, this autumn rental in Vaucluse was a considerable disappointment, not to our taste, and falling well short on the provision we expected of it: generally poor value for money, in the final analysis.

autumn 2026 en suite

 

Brevity is called for in this post and I shall supply it. My international public, followers, critics, well wishers and range of other associates all await my account of our journey to the S of F, this autumn – some, as if their lives depended on it, others more akin to reading the guff on the side of a cereal pack, in the absence of anything more gripping to distract them at the breakfast table. Or so I imagine.

We reported for embarkation at the port of Plymouth, wondering what shape the inconvenience of doing so this time would take. We fully expected to be finger printed, either here or on the other side of La Manche. But no; nothing. We are acquainted with folk who have shipped this way recently and got the latest inconvenience of the Schengen Area over and done with already but nothing doing today. 

For the first time ever, (as far as I know, that is) we found ourselves shipping out behind a blood relative, also intent on holidaying ‘over there’ but in his case (my younger brother and his wife that is) in the N&W of F, in a van and on a tandem. I recognised my sibling’s latest wheels on the back of their van immediately (through rainstreaked windows) upon joining the check-in queue. They were parked up when we arrived, making tea. Had we known.

We eventually boarded our barque apparently before sibling (after the usual interminable dockside park up) and we met up on deck seven, where self and M were just finishing our customary pre-cabin freebie victuals. We chatted a while (I suggested a drink in the bar which was declined) and as the Armorique left territorial waters, we bade farewell to one another and took to our quarters. We did not see them again, either on board, or during the scramble to get through Fr passport control, out of the Gare Maritime and en route. 

As we have done so often before, we made good speed and 60 miles progress to Châtelaudren where we found our usual favoured café to have been thoroughly refreshed and refitted, its former character giving way to greater efficiency, an encyclopaedic display of the greatest vapes known to humankind, and away with the bumpy seating. But coffee just as good as hitherto, although the croissants from across the way - a bit chewy today. 

Through occasional drizzle and showers thereafter we pursued our conquest and reached the Loire (it's a river) after 200 miles of fairly comfortable motoring. We ate our filled baguettes, as once before last year, on the river bank south side, opposite Ingrandes-le-Fresne-sur-Loire. The river was barely flowing seemingly, the sandbanks and islands as extensive as we have ever seen them. 

As in previous transits in this direction, we now proceeded on the south bank of the river for quite a while before weaving through Angers outskirts and taking the north bank levée road all the way past Saumur, where in the past we have called it a day. Not so this time. We are bound for Chinon.

We cross the Loire one last time at Montsoreau, stop to water the horses at Le Mail café, then ho! for our hotel in Chinon. 280 miles. Book in. Crash out. Weather has cleared, now sunny. Room boasts juliette balc. Eat outside in the square (chips: why can’t the Fs make them properly, isn’t there a diploma or a university course or something in how to make edible and appetising fries in France, FGS?) Bistro food C minus, pricing inventive. Good night. Quiet. Great bed. Good shower. All there is to it. 

The next morning, Saturday, river mists. Away betimes. Apart from those mists the day was straightforward. And pleasant driving: once beyond the misty reaches. Until a Route Barrée reared its unsavoury head. You’ll know that Mme Melling eats these for breakfast usually but this one did disconcert a tad. Diversion signs petered out… we did end up in a farmyard at one point. No matter! On roads no self respecting Michelin Road Atlas would deign to feature, surfaced mostly, if not this century, barely the width of a 2CV… but we won through! 

For hours, ever present and appearing at one time and another at various points of the compass, the vast vapours from the Civaux power station (nuclear, obvs, this is Fr) was the 'pillar of cloud going before' (old testament reference, keep up)… Until triumphantly we arrived under the very cooler itself, which has so often been our marker when en route to and from Périgueux…… where we arrived having covered almost the exact mileage as we did last time (which was sans route barrée so what gives?). Our sixth stay at this lodge, and still we failed to route directly to it. Perplexing. We ate in the hotel. Indifferent as the hotel is good. 

Weirdly, while taking our repose at Ibis Central I lost the ability to get out of bed in the early hours and when overcoming this disability by crawling, I could neither stand or walk to the facility. Stenosis. Don’t ask: mustn’t crumple. Panicky talk of abandoning this venture. Turning round. Shipping out. Returning to base.

At normal departure time I somehow managed to shuffle to the motor having decided to pretend it hadn’t happened. Perhaps it didn’t because normal service was almost fully resumed once moving down the Sunday morning roads (sun full in the eyes notwithstanding) and we set forth to reach Laguiole. Via Brive. But not via Tulle as planned. You guessed it (or might have if you you’ve read this twaddle thus far), yes Route (altogether now) Barrée. 

Before all that we’d had a pleasant 3/4 hour potter in Sunday morning Terrasson Lavilledieu, a delightful place with lovely bridges and water (see also the header picture). No croissants but you can’t have everything. And we nearly missed the old town: we returned after sucking up a coffee at a Rugby Union cafe on the outskirts, to give T-L but a fraction of the time the older bit deserved. We took to it but had to move on. 

Now, Brive is laterally extensive (east to west). Thankfully we know it (it is a fair and interesting city, once favoured by ourselves until the somewhat scrotty hotels apertaining at that time turned us against it) and have been misrouted through and about the city’s regions several times before. We have come to know something of its inner workings … we sailed right through it without a stutter. Piece of Sunday morning gâteau. Except that Le Dept Highways had decided to close entirely the main Brive to Tulle road, and offer no meaningful diversion except back the way we’d come. I mean: who would possibly want to go to Tulle on a Sunday, FGS? 

Mme Melling expunged Tulle from the record. Forget Tulle. I deleted it from the itinerary. Wrong direction anyway. We have passed through it, back in the mists… so. They make tulle there, th’knowst. 

We continued onward, like the wise men (new test) via another way… Argentat for example, very nice, on the Dordogne (that’s a river) where we took refreshment, even hobbled along the riverside quay a bit. Thereafter the roads got really whippy over bigger and bendier hills ravines and tree filled gorges, all in cloudless sunshine. 

We digressed for lunch, taking refreshment originating from Bullsmead and brought for such a convenience by the side of the La Cère (that’s a river) at Laroquebrou. Then we bypassed Aurillac and down sweeping roads to Entraygues… vast views over rolling grassy moorlands dotted with satisfied looking caramel cows. (30°+). High passes, sort of 1300 metres mark, and then some. We shipped into hilltop Laguiole at 1540, to our Logis Hotel in this cooler upland town. A short day. Clean air! (The town is famous for its knife manufacturing, very sharp and very expensive, each carrying a bee motif on the bit where the blade meets the handle). Big business in the square… (see below). And a good dinner before us. (We employed said Laguiole knives thereat). Oh and a most satisfactory hotel suite, top flight, seperate shower room etc etc, wonderful bed. Another winner from Mme Melling’s quest for comfort in our old age. When I think back to those first budgety places, where bedrooms even (get this) had the bath and bidet next to the bed, well we certainly have come a very long way from that era have we not? Hmm. 

The hotel restaurant attached on the street frontage is Michelin Recommended. Our table, and one other were the only takers this Sunday evening. Nevertheless the food and service was admirable if not quite touching Michelin star standard, just yet, which it may be in the process of seeking to secure, what do I know? We drank three different wines with our repast and decided it was worth the outlay. Or rather we accepted that it was the price we would pay without demur.

Which was odd: the following morning our bill (and we were assured it was correct) was very modest indeed. We left, took our breakfast coffee just down the road from the lodge, (we rarely have petit dej in these establishments as you’ll recall) – but this can’t be right we mused. 

Empowered by caffeine my Representative in the République gathered her skirts about her and surged back up the steps to our hotel reception. I remained outside. There was no shouting, I trust there was some gratitude, we were right, they’d left off our dinner from the reckoning, which actually cost more than our bed and board. Once again the honesty of the Englishman abroad shone through and we tried to leave Laguiole with our heads held high (except we couldn’t find the right road at first, so went round in circles once or thrice). 

Now for the last leg, over the central massif high hills and thus to Villedieu. 

A lovely day for it as well.

As previously mentioned we were initially confused as to our direction but once we had grasped how to go forward we embraced the challenge of a new day. The high grassy moorlands became more rock strewn, the Aubrac cattle dotted here and there in graceful twos and threes. My patrons may wonder why at this point I do not present them with sweeping panoramas of this wonderful countryside: I’ve wondered why myself. The truth is I didn’t pull over and try it, knowing as I do the limitations of the box brownie in these environs: you’ll have to visit the area tha'sall. Mme Melling snatched this group under some of the occasional copses…

We messed up though, but didn’t realise it until it was a bit too late, not that it mattered, I am not sure why I am even mentioning it. We joined our oft used route via Florac, took refreshment there, even. But the prescription had been for us to drive from Marvéjols via Barjac to Mende etc etc, whereas we actually went via Barjac south to Florac. You follow? never mind. Mme Melling had the situation by the balls: she directed me to turn off the road to Alès at La Grand-Combe and by roads of very diverse characteristics, navigated us through to St Ambroix and on to the second Barjac of the day, the place which was our base-town when we hired that gîte we so wanted to buy at Brujas. I digress because dear reader (is anybody still reading this?) so had we.

Now on familiar roads we motored on through to the valley of the Ardèche (that’s another river as well as a department) past where Max Ernst used to live, across the Rhône at Pont St Esprit, to Bollène, Suze-la-Rousse, and Tulette for the vital starters of life (supermarket shop and distillate for Octavia) before rolling up at Villedieu sometime after 1530. We opened up the rental in full anticipation and expectancy… we’d visited the exterior last November . . .

Ah. Hmmm. I see. (if I put the lights on). A rental that offers a free form interpretation of the official definition of en suite, (I’ve checked with AI). A rental where red represents white and the kitchen is on the roof. Good terrace though, if you can find somewhere to stand; while parking is nearby although not adjacent (on street level of course) . . . Within minutes we took ourselves up to the VD Café du Centre to reflect…… (greeted and acknowledged, always nice)…just what have we taken on here? 

NB On arrival I concluded that I have bronchitis again. I have no remedy and just hope it works itself out – but at time of writing it is still in charge of my throat and sinuses.