TUESDAY, 22nd August 2006 – Cozes to Chauvigny

On the move, on the move, we’re on our way again.

Strange how songs stick in your mind, isn’t it?

Time to go. Once again, I’m a little vexed by the shortness of the grey water drain hose, which unclips and extends all of two inches away from the body of the van. I couldn’t be bothered to move the van even closer to the drain, so we did it like we did it before – drain into kitchen bowl, close tap, empty bowl, open tap – you get the idea. At least we were filling up with water at the same time.

Today’s destination was the beautifully-sounding Chauvigny, a little to the east of Poitiers. The Caravan Club book (personal recommendations only, not necessarily those of the august club itself) stated that the office was shut between 12 midday and 3.30pm. That’s what I call a lunchbreak. We pushed on a bit on good motorways and main roads, cruising at a heady 70mph sometimes. We arrived shortly after 11.30, to find that the office was actually open until 2pm, and opened again at 3pm. No peace for the wicked, obviously. Maybe the previous wardens got the sack for pushing the boundaries of the legendary French lunch hour. We got checked in, hooked up, and had lunch.

After a splendid lunch of bread and cheese and one of Annie’s special egg mayonnaises, we turned our eyes upward, and walked up the steep steps to the Medieval City of Chauvigny, dating back to the 11^th century, don’t you know. The usual crop of demolishments in the name of progress or religion, or both, meant that a lot of the medieval stuff had been replaced with bars and pizzerias, neither doing very good business. Maybe Tuesday is not a good day for the tourists in Chauvigny.

We wandered the narrow streets, trying to avoid being mown down by distinctly un-medieval Citroens or mopeds, probably carrying the pizzeria workers back to their lodgings in the town below. It was hot, and we felt the need to sit down and enjoy a beer at one of the medieval bars, where a slightly bored-looking medieval waitress served me a beer from a small bottle direct from the fridge (but tasty all the same), and Annie some cider in an earthenware goblet, the effect spoilt by the chips on the lip of the thing. It wasn’t worth complaining, since we just had the one, and went off again in search of something interesting.

Tuesday afternoon is not a good time for the sellers of traditional artisan fare, as an awful lot of the places selling this tat seemed to be closed. I would guess most of the artisans were off in the big city, working in banks or building societies or Offices de Tourism, moaning about the lack of money coming into the place.

One very good thing, however – les Geants de Ciel, which, from the brochure the lady at the campsite gave us, was something about birds. What it didn’t say was that les Geants were cormorants and eagles and Other Big Birds, taking off from within the remains of the ruined castle, wheeling and diving and soaring on the currents and thermals created by their lofty positions. It was quite awe-inspiring, and made us glad we hadn’t bothered to pay whatever Euros were required to watch them from benches within the castle, and listen to a commentary in French.

Back to the van, and reading continued. Annie had a hankering to look at the main town, through which we’d driven on our way in, so we walked the fifteen-minute walk and looked in shop windows, some of which were even open. A handily-placed Spar (so near, so far – one of those songs again) was able to supply us with a couple of bottles of cider, to which Annie had taken a fancy.

Back to the van, more reading, until teatime. Tea was wholemeal vegetable tart things (a bit like pizza, but nicer) with tomatoes topped with – goats cheese. We seem to be having a bit of a goats cheese fest on this holiday. It is jolly nice, though.