ride on you crazy mazda

Sheena has left us. It is a sad day.

After barely using her for the past 7 months we decided we had to let our beloved campervan Sheena go; she deserved more adventures. She has gone and we hopefully be happy with her new owners.

sniff sniff

I'm a bit chilly... open the window!

After a rather playful debate between our three flatmates - Jorge, Pete and Alex - the air-conditioning has gone on in our flat. Alex, who pays the bills, wanted it set at 27C, while English Pete was lobbying for 22. I think they settled at 24 in the end.

To be honest Kate and I hadn't been that bothered by the heat. True we had been sleeping on top of the covers, but I think after spending last summer sleeping in 38 degree heat in Sheena, our campervan/solar oven, we've become somewhat inured to warm, windless nights. In fact for us, it's a bit too cold tonight and we've actually opened the window to let a bit of heat back in. Pete, meanwhile, after 4 years in Spain clearly hasn't acclimatised and sleeps with what sounds like a jet engine fanning his room.

The freedom of free camping...

There is a definite art to finding the perfect place for overnight repose, safe from uninvited visitors and unwanted interruptions. Our free camping so far has been in a ferry port carpark (convenient with good facilities, but hardly picturesque); a closed campsite (kind of cheating, but a useful spot); at an aire de loisir by a fishing lake, where motorhomes were forbidden to park overnight (luckily Sheena isn't obviously a camping car and anyway, no one came to check); and at an aire de loisir by the Canal du Midi, along with a group of other transient motorhomes.

In France, free camping is not generally encouraged because the country is so richly endowed with official sites, most towns, even those of modest size, boasting at least one municipal campsite. These are great for being able to use proper loos and showers plus the availability of water and electricity hook-ups, their general level of security and the flatness of the plots.

But, as we have found, many do not open until mid-April at the earliest. Also, you generally have to check into the campsites by 1800 or 1900 at the latest, which can inconveniently cut short sightseeing or stints of driving.

But free camping does have its drawbacks. You could indiscriminantly park up and kip like a long-distance lorrydriver, but that kind of utilitarian, service-station camping doesn't quite cut it somehow for a honeymoon or holiday. So we have found ourselves driving numerous kilometres seeking out a more agreeable spot, looking for lacs and aires de loisirs on the Michelin road atlas that might offer the right surroundings. Thus the amount we save in campsite fees is at least partly offset by the extra diesel expended en route.

Some motorhome afficionados clearly know of good free camping park-ups because you see clusters of them choosing the wagon-train approach to road-trip stop-offs and grouping together for safety in numbers. Going off-piste has its advantages if you hit on a gorgeous secluded oasis, but they are not the easiest to find. Eventually exhaustion will lead you to lower your priorities an settle for roadside avec les autres winnebagos, as it did on our way back from Carcassonne. It's the worst night's sleep I've had in Sheena, partly because I didn't feel secure in the aire we'd chosen and partly because of an uncomfortable recurrence of the IBS with which I am frequently plagued. However, I reckon we'll get better at this free camping business as we accumulate more experience. As for the IBS, I'll just make sure I cut down on cheese with my evening meals.

Brittany Tales

If you're going to be ill while on the road, you might as well pick somewhere picturesque in which to do it. That was our reasoning as we checked into a hotel in the centre of the charming Brittany town of Dinan. We wanted en suite toilet facilities, wi-fi and a bit of space in which to slob out and convalesce to the extended edition of The Lord Of The Rings: The Two Towers.

But there was still the interesting mission of finding food. Self-catering, it quickly became clear, is by far the simplest way to ensure nutritious meals if you're a vegetarian in France. Basically, if it doesn't come with meat or fish, the French do not regard it as actual food. Luckily, Brittany is home to crepes and galettes (savoury buckwheat pancakes) and the latter have fromage and champignons as a filling option, so the first night saw us supping in one of the town's many creperies.

The next day was spent in warm sunshine wandering around Dinan's tour and ville vieux, a siesta and a leisurely postcard-writing session outside a bar, enjoying the local Breton cider (served for some baffling reason in tea-cups).

Our mission for meatless food resulted in a couple of "Je suis desolees..." as we explained our dietary needs to various regretful restaurateurs and we'd almost decided to cop out and get a pizza when we found another creperie, but one with tourists in mind that had a few fleshless options on the menu. Galettes again, then - vegetarian for me (served with various vegetable purees) and tartiflette sans lardons for Theo. Very tasty, even more so for the various failed attempts we'd made along the way.

On Saturday we said our goodbyes to Dinan and also to the tummy bug which had beset us for the last week as Theo finally managed a decent-sized breakfast, which didn't immediately head south. The laryngitis, which had afflicted me since the eve of our wedding, was at last disappearing and I could talk, albeit in a Mariella Frostrup sort of rasp.

We drove down to the Atlantic coast of Brittany as it was more or less on the way to Nantes, which was our next scheduled stop - and because Theo was keen to look at the various arrangements of prehistoric megaliths in the area. Essentially, lots of lumps of granite, rather grandly called "Les Alignements". Once we had satisfied ourselves that at least one of them was the actual menhir carried by Obelix in the Asterix books, we went to find a campsite.

Carnac and nearby Trinite-sur-Mer are places absolutely made for tourists. As well as those keen on checking out the rocks, it's a lovely stretch of coastline and extremely popular with sailors. Unfortunately, this being so early in the season, only one campsite was open and it was rated two-star. I'm not really au fait with the star ratings for campsites, but in this case it meant no loo seats, no toilet paper and water that made it to tepid at best.

But hell, we could hook-up Sheena to the electricity supply (we finally found the in-point thanks to an email to her previous owner), crack open another bottle of our wedding bubbly, take a romantic stroll along the beach and sleep for the best part of twelve hours undisturbed, except by fits of coughing. Yep, Theo's recovery from the tummy terror merely meant he could be fully assaulted in the sinuses, while I continued the relentless task of trying to liberate my lungs. As they say in France, "sante!"

Tomorrow, Nantes.

Of Monts and Molehills

Well as Kate has done a fine job letting you know what happened while still in England, it falls to me to let you know what we've been doing since getting to France. If you are short of time, here's a summary: stayed overnight in Cherbourg, drove to Mont Saint-Michel, took photos, drove to Dinan, checked into hotel.

Thanks for reading, do check back soon.

For those of you with more leisure time or a more pressing need to avoid doing any work, it's slightly more complicated than that. Our French is taking a while to warm up, so trying to first find a mechanic and then explain that we needed our headlights adjusted, straight off the boat while trying to get my head around the French traffic system was a bit of challenge. However we did it - sort of; we've put stickers over a section of the headlights to avoid blinding those on the other (left-hand) side of the road. So armed with a handy map of Cherbourg from the tourist office we decided (as it was now 3.30pm) to stay in Cherbourg rather than to push on to anywhere else. Priorities: a shower and to sort out the arrangement of luggage in Sheena. Last night had been comfortable, but cramped.

The Map pointed us in the direction of a campsite. After a few obligatory wrong turns we found it, only to find it was closed. Well, actually it was open, but all the shower and toilet blocks were locked up. Still there was running water on site, flat ground and it was near the beach, so we just decided to stay - if anyone turned up we'd offer to pay, but the unlocked gates seemed to suggest that they weren't too bothered. Well we'd always intended to do some free camping. This still left the issue of showers.

We solved this by going swimming. Not in the sea (tempting, but probably more than a bit nippy this time of year) but in the piscine next door. The plan was, have a dip then use the changing room showers. Brilliant. As ever, nothing was quite that simple. The next problem was that I only have Bermuda Short style swimming trunks and, for reasons unclear to me, these are banned from French swimming pools. Hmmmm. After fronting it out with the receptionist ("oui, oui, j'ai le malliot correct") I decided it was safer to go through in my boxer shorts, which, handily, were black and close fitting trunks. Had to tuck in the Calvin Klein waistband - could have been a bit of a give away - and felt unable to risk using the water slides, but otherwise Kate and I very much enjoyed our little dip, feeling buoyed up by our problem solving skills.


Suitably refreshed and cleansed we headed off in Sheena back into town to Carrefour, one of those gigantic French supermarkets, to buy a picnic dinner and the most obscene chocolate patisseries ever. We were both feeling much better by now, having managed both breakfast and lunch on the ferry. We felt great, sitting out behind Sheena in the warm evening sun eating bread and cheese with fruit and salad, sipping Champagne (thanks Jon and Sarah!) and toasting our good fortune. Later, after a romantic beach side stroll we retired to bed, feeling like we had just about everything worked out.

.... oh dear.
If the presence of countless molehills was anything to go by there used to be a pretty healthy mole population at the Collignon campsite before we arrived. After some rather fluid bowel movements the following morning this is probably no longer the case. I felt like I was committing mammal genocide as I madly dug with my shovel and squatted, intestines heaving, in the early dawn. All yesterday's optimism at our returning health - mine in particular - vanished pretty quickly. Kate's stomach was at least holding up, though the poor darlings lungs were behaving like those of a 60-a-dayer after a 3 mile swim through treacle. It was in rather duller spirits that we made our way through splendid sunshine and rural roads to the glorious Mont Saint Michel.

YOU DO WHAT...??!

I blame Watchdog.

It has to be the reason broadcasters are regarded as such stratospheric insurance risks, especially it seems, for camper vans.

When trying to get insurance for our new van there were two factors that continually told against us. Not being able to keep the vehicle off the public road was one. Understandable, perhaps. Although what you can do about that when you live in a flat in the middle of a city (without shelling out stupid amounts of money) is rather limited.

But when my profession was described as "broadcaster" we were turned down flat. Again and again. Why?

I explained that to all intents and purposes my job is an office job, but the office happens to have a microphone in it. I walk the eight minutes into work and have no plans to use the camper van in the course of my duties anyway. I'm on a staff contract and covered by statutory sick pay, so no expensive loss-of-earnings claims after an accident. I am not a celebrity. The closest I ever got to that was having a small profile piece in Venue Magazine, hardly A list. I wouldn't be using the camper van to ferry bona fide celebrities about because I wouldn't be using it for work reasons. And I don't move in starry social circles either, so would be unlikely to take Tom Cruise with us to any European campsites (not that I would particularly want to anyway). And I certainly wouldn't be using the van as an outside broadcast vehicle.

Do they think all that FM rots our brains and impedes our driving ability? That we might mistake the gearstick for a microphone and spontaneously read out the football results during an overtaking manoeuvre? Or feel impelled to try and record a quick soundbite every time we saw a blue flashing light? That we might mistake the red traffic signal for "Microphone Live"?

Nope, it must be because of Watchdog taking the industry to task once too often. But don't blame me - Nicky Campbell is hardly my fault.

In the end, I got a special type of insurance aimed at people wanting to tour Europe in a camper van. The nice man at Ensign didn't care about the Broadcasting or that the van is on the public highway (although technically it isn't because it's actually getting fixed in the garage at the moment) - as long as we get on continental roads pronto, we're insured. Fully comp, at less than £450.