Tournon and on

Tournon sur Rhone

Tournon sur Rhone, a very old town on the Rhone faces the famous wine producing Tain-l’Hermitage’ across the river. The steep hillsides of the Tain are a patchwork of well-groomed  vines stretching up to a spotlit tiny chapel on the top, just beside telecommunications tower. We scored a riverside camping spot which had a great view of Tain-l’Hermitage, we claimed it as ours by Jane standing in the middle of the plot staring down all possible takers while Stuart returned with the truck. Fabulous view of the river, river craft and a swan family.

 Tournon swan and babies - photo credit Stuart

The castle in Tournon is founded on a megalith of rock right in the middle of town alongside the main drag, it dates back to 894. The maze of alleys behind the castle make up the old part of the town, very interesting but with an aroma of dog pee. Just off the alleys I walked along the old main street that was full of fascinating little specialist shops. I had time to check them out properly as Stuart climbed the hillside behind them in the scorching (31+ C) heat taking a ‘special shot’. 

Tournon sur Rhone

Plane trees line the main sandy square in town and under their shade petanque players battle it out. Large river tour boats moor alongside the square, just along from our pozzie.

photo credit Stuart

The last time I was here I couldn’t get enough of Tournon (and the chocolate factory) so had to return for a second time. Valrhona is one of the most highly respected producers of chocolate in the world and they have a Cite du Chocolat which is an educational experience. Throughout the educational experience are samples of the different types of chocolate, they have single origin chocolates just like coffee and whisky. The gift shop had even more samples which made me wonder about my true reason to visit this mecca of chocolate.

One whole day in Tournon was spent trying to keep as cool as possible as the thermometer just kept climbing, reaching a peak by about 5pm. Our site is under trees but even with all the windows open it was 43C inside.  

photo credit Stuart

We took a ride on a tiny steam train along a narrow gorge track, basically to have lunch at another village. One man in our uncomfortable, third class, rattling and shaking carriage seemed rabidly excited, hanging out of the window as much as he could. A showering of soot and small cinders was his reward. At peak heat time – 5pm, absolutely gasping for drinks, we collected the truck from the station carpark and made our way back to the campsite. While I popped into a supermarket, Stuart popped into Mr Bricolage – “a wonderous place, much better and cheaper than Bunnings”. So wonderous that he bought a bag of bricolage – most of it to do with plumbing. I fended off two potential takers from our vacated but ‘reservee’ spot and we had a quick dinner before joining the Fetes de Musiques which is held all over France on 21 June to mark the longest day. There was live music and dancing in front of the bars in town, which looked as if it would carry on for quite a while.

The GPS on my phone was programmed with NANTUA as the destination. The old GPS sat along alongside spitting out lies and falsehoods. It seemed a long haul to get around Lyon and quelle horreur we ended up on a pay road. Nantua is close to the Swiss border and despite the spirit-level in Stuart’s head wanting to face the block-wall we faced the bright blue lake.  The front of the truck rested on two large flat stones to appease the spirit-level. Children in optimists were struggling to manage their craft in the windy conditions, white caps whipped up crazily.

Nantua memorial

On a promontory facing the young sailors was a large white monument, a coffin with open sides containing a skeletal body. A lone tricolour flailed in the wind overhead. It was a poignant memorial to citizens of Nantua taken by Nazis in WWII, the puppet government in Vichy at the time demanded a quota of people that were on their 'undesirable' list and Nantua had to fill the number from their citizenry. 

The houses in the town were narrow and stood shoulder to shoulder with their backs to towering cliffs. Up a narrow alley was a museum dedicated to the French Resistance and the lives of the Maquis (guerrilla type fighters who took their name from the low scrub growing on the hills). There was only a smattering of English translation, but we got the story the museum had to tell. The Ain area and Nantua will remain in my memory for a long time. 

Baume-les-Messieurs

We happened upon Baume-les-Messieurs by accident – I put my finger on a red star on the map and away we went.  Down a narrow, windy road into a deep Cotswold-looking valley. The church spire (actually an abbey) poked its finger up through the cluster of houses around it. No thatched cottages but hump back stone bridges, lots of leafy trees, stone buildings and shallow stone-lined stream gave it that English look. What a contrast to dramatic Nantua. We will stay in the lovely campsite for a couple of days and plan our next sortie.

Au revoir

Lavender fields and Gorges L'Ardeche

Simiane La Rotonde

At the other end of the Gorges du Verdon, is Moustiers Sainte Marie. For centuries it has perched on the top of a hill wearing a church as its crown.  The cobbled stairs leading up to the church have been worn to a treacherous polish by millions of tourist tootsies. The inside of the church so gloomy it was hard to see anything except a glowing gold leaf altar.

I wasn’t wearing grippy shoes and clung onto the handy metal rail as I made the downward trek. I felt for the woman in front who was creeping in a similar fashion but carrying a baby in a sling.

Meanwhile, crouched below the hill, is the aire du camping cars. All the big white boxes are arranged in a circle – facing an empty centre eyeballing each other. A popular place – the latecomers were pointed to the overflow area for “Norman-no-mates”.
We were on a lavender hunt. It was a bit early in the season but ever hopeful we set off across the Valensole plateau. A most fabulous drive, the sun had warmed the flowers and the wind blew lavender fragrance in the cab windows. The colours, the colours, great blocks of purple and mauve, red pools of poppies and sunshine fields of rape.  

Sometimes our travels are a bit serendipitous, we drove through Reillanne then turned around, with some difficulty, and headed back to spend the night. It is a truly delightful village. We were peering into the tourist office through the glass door, deciding that once again it was probably the day that it closed, when the door opened and we almost fell on top of the lovely lady in charge of the office. Claire was ex-pat English who plied us with many maps and instructions to visit a nearby village. 

Reillanne

Reillanne had a large square that was being used as a venue for a dance class. The houses were painted in all sorts of Karen Walker washed out pastels with contrasting shutters and flowers cascading out of pots and gardens. There were cafes with music and the village looked like a place with real people, young people, living there, not just a clutch of holiday houses. I could move to this lovely place in the Hautes Alpes region!

The next morning we set off and followed Claire’s instructions but stopped – the road indicated was no better than a farm track, and there was a ‘chausses deforme’ sign which meant the road was even worse than usual so we gave that opportunity a miss and carried on to a couple more hilltop villages for a quick toot. 

Reillanne

Return to Roussillon. It is a town built of reddish stone. There were ochre formations in sunset stripes along the wind and rain sculpted cliffs. The pigment from the clay has been used for centuries and was once the source of the town’s economy but don’t touch it – or it will stain your clothes forever. Tourists are now the towns fortune - twangy American accents rang out across the tangle of quaint lanes and shops are selling what our friend Tim calls ‘fluff’.

Rousillon

Rousillon

Sadly we left the Hautes Alpes of Provence and entered the wide open spaces on our way to Vallon Pont D’Arc at the end of the Gorges L’Ardeche (Ardeche Gorge). Pont D’Arc is a stunning natural stone bridge formed over the eons by water and spans the Ardeche river. Eagles soar on the thermals above it and swallows are swooping into their nests underneath it.

Gorges d'Ardeche

The Ardeche a serpentine spirulina-smoothie slithers between towering cliffs. From a vantage point high above the river we can see parties of kayakers moving quite quickly around bends, looking like tiny toy boats.

Did I mention ‘kayak’? Did I hear the word ‘kayak’ on many occasions? I wasn’t a happy camper or sailor at the thought of kayaking and then the kayak rental man talked about all the rapids. Zut alors! Sacre bleu!

Again – long story short, I packed our baguette, camembert and bottle of water into the white screw-top barrel and Stuart firmly strapped it on the craft. ‘Keep a little bottle of water out so we can drink it while we travel’. ‘OK’.

Jane with plastic fantastic

The first set of rapids looked fine as we approached but then we were in a maelstrom – it was more than ‘zut alors’. Water crashed over the bow soaking me through, and where was that little bottle? I didn’t think the man in the stern was paying enough attention – how could he see what I was seeing? I didn’t want to join those poor unfortunates who walked along the riverbank looking for their piece of plastic fantastic. Anyhow, we made it through the 24km unscathed and a bus took us and a trailer full of yellow plastic craft back to our motor camp on the way. 

Pont D'Arc 

The washing was getting more than pressing and the camp man let me use his washing machine to do the biggies while we washed the smalls by hand. Stuart’s handy washing line was strung between the trees and cleanliness was restored.

After a random consultation of our very detailed map of France I settled on Vogue as our destination, its name had a nice ring to it. Luckily it more than met our expectations, and a few others as well – it was Sunday after all.

Dining out was on the cards, and I had a very strange starter, an éclair stuffed with a slice of terrine and garnished inside with swirls of lavender coloured (blueberry) cream. Sprinkled around were pieces of bright green sponge cake (pistachio) and small strips of bacon. I had read the menu correctly but was surprised all the same to see that nothing was lost in translation. I had the ‘house aperitif’ and Stuart declined my suggestion of biere pression (draft beer) and chose instead ‘biere Monaco’ from the list of beverages. Was he surprised to get a bright red beer with pink froth on top! It is made from lager, red cordial, lemonade …. and tasted a lot like the house aperitif.

We are going to follow the Rhone northward and see what it brings. Au revoir.

Lake Orta, Gorges du Verdon

 Lazet-Ubaye, France - the camping car 'aire' had a fantastic view of the lake

The GPL story – it is the weekend and we couldn’t find anywhere (bar travelling on the autostrada in an undefined direction) that was open to supply the gas we use for cooking and heating water. We checked into a campsite and plugged into electric. The campsite we took was on the side of Lake Orta. We were so lakeside that we had our own set of swimming pool type stairs to descend into the lake. So, long story short, we spent two nights beside the fantastic Lake Orta . The truck we hired has the same gas system we had set up in our own truck before arriving in NZ. It is a refillable bottle so we can travel Europe without changing bottle type. Not only cheaper but more convenient- until you strike a weekend.

Lake Orta

Lake Orta was delightful, we visited Sacro Monte. It is a UNESCO world heritage site on a hillside overlooking the lake. Spiralling around the hillside are 20 chapels containing statues and frescoes portraying the life of St Francis of Assisi – he is following me on this trip.  The first chapel was built in 16^th century and the last 100 years later. The perfectly landscaped park surrounding the chapels contains scotch pines, broadleaf trees and an avenue of hornbeams.

Orta

The time to depart Italy had arrived – we headed to France crossing an alpine route. A different route than we took last time, shelling out toll after toll. We snaked down a steep descent from Italy into Briancon in the Hautes-Alpes region, the truck was running on engine braking and regular brakes but holding back to avoid over-heating. Hairpin bend after hairpin bend was negotiated before we arrived at upper Briancon – phew.

Briancon

We were greeted by ancient grim fortifications strung out across the hilltops, a reminder of times that were not peaceful. The main street of old Briancon has a channel in the middle that runs with water, its nickname is the grand gargoyle, and has existed since 1345. Lower Briancon was a congestion of children just released from school, roadworks and a whole circus occupying the area we intended to spend the night in, so we pressed on to a municipal campground about 20 km away.

Leaving Italy - Just Go

Our route planning is quite ad hoc and a day later we ended up in Digne les Bains. I was sure we stayed there before on a non-motorhome trip and I was right! Please erase this town from my memory banks – it has no saving grace then, and still hadn’t anything to offer this time around. The only thing I gleaned was that ordering ‘café crème’ meant I got a latte. In my best schoolgirl French I asked the waiter, who put aside his cigarette, what another customer had ordered.  “Noisette” was the answer.  Yeah right, it is a small coffee with a ‘nut’ of fluffy milk on top. Must remember that for next time.

The Hautes Alpes area of Provence is up in the mountains and we headed to St Andre Les Alpes for a quick look-see. Nice place, we had a stroll around and watched children and their parents visiting the patissier on their way home to collect some after dinner treats. We did like likewise, walking away from the shop with a beautiful little carry-box.

The Gorges du Verdon, described the Grand Canyon of France - but first a stop over at Castellane at the eastern end of the gorge.
It met my criteria of gorgeousness, and the dedicated camping-car place was about 200 metres from the town square. There was a towering cliff with shrine atop looming over us and once again we were beside a river.

Dancers at Castellane tramshumence fete

Castellane has a Citroen museum that we took a look through, and there was also a transhumance (moving of livestock) fete while we were there. 

Traditional dancers, geese being shepherded by a border collie (who took his job very seriously, his eyes never left those geese) and unusual sheep breeds were on display. 
All sheep that are not NZ sheep look unusual to me. 

Fixing them geese with his steely doggy gaze 

We drove along the gorges of Verdon - taking in the 'Route des Cretes' - a narrow road  with many view points overlooking the gorge, at a dizzy level way below. We also walked a recommended scenic track that involved several tunnels. Huge birds of prey circled above - some had been re-introduced. 
We forgot our head-torch  and ended up relying on the torch in my iphone in the tunnels, never mind, it did the trick. 

Can't say it was one of the best hikes we have ever done but it was popular. The whole gorge route route was popular with endless streams of motorcycle enthusiasts touring in groups.  Given the narrow width of their vehicles you would have thought staying on their side of the road would have been easy.


We are heading off to explore the lavender routes in the Hautes Alpes region of Provence.

Gorges du Verdon

Chianti, Maggiore

Bevano, Lago Maggiore

Chocks away, some tanks filled and others empty, we hit the road northward - back to where we picked this little truck up – Tuscany, specifically the Chianti area.

Rows of vines stretching up the hillsides, pencil cypresses and the occasional umbrella pine are standard issue in the Chianti area. We made for Greve, a place we had previously enjoyed. It is known for Chianti Classico, demarked on the bottle with a black chook. The dark red wine is made from the Sangiovese grape and is very velvety and plummy. 

That evening we ate outside a restaurant offering typical Tuscan fare. The evening air was warm and we spent a little time chatting with other diners – Aussies, but when they speak your lingo, conversation comes easily. A nice change from my stuttering ‘mi dispiace, non parlo Italiano’ hoping the poor person can understand what I want.

Chianti area

Two nights in one place already! It meant time to move; wallets opened as we clicked through various toll gates on the motorway (autostrada). Quibbles have to be put aside as traveling any long distance in Italy without using the autostrada is like being in your own never-ending story.

The speed limit is 120km/hr, and in some places trucks are assigned to the inside lane, so the passing view is a wall of trucks. The autostradas need full concentration as stuff is happening everywhere, bum clenching time (for me).  I have seen a truck driver weaving across lanes as he concentrates on his smartphone – one foot on the dash. Generally though, things are orderly.

Lake Maggiore in the far north of Italy was glinting when we finally caught sight of it. We stopped in the vain hope of finding a light-weight blanket. No blanket, but Stuart found a length of plumbing pipe in a diameter not available in NZ. It was sawn in half and stowed in the small ‘garage’ at the back of the truck. It will be used to repair an “oops” that happened to Chausson on the Molesworth Road in NZ.

The Maggiore lakeside road passed spectacularly grand hotels and elegant Italian villas, similar to what I imagine George Clooney lives in, on Lake Como. The lake has steep craggy mountains streaked with snow as a distant backdrop and in the foreground are inhabited islands that have beautiful gardens and buildings.

The camp we stayed at in Baveno backed onto the lake and was close to a ferry landing, it was very full. We didn’t realise we had arrived during a series of holidays, but Miss Campground showed us where we should park and where we should face. The spirit level that lives in Stuart’s head said we should face the amenity block (as it usually does) but Signorina Campground said we need to face the lake and back a few inches and over a few inches . . .  the floor in the truck was on a bit of a slope and the spirit level wasn’t happy …..

Even your old bike needs a good lock

Isola Bella is the most beautiful island on the lake and has a palace that is open for visits. We had a leisurely stroll through it admiring the rooms and sculptured gardens compete with strutting white peacocks.

I walked around an elegant room with a ceiling 3 stories high  It held a conference of high representatives of Italy, France and the United Kingdom in April 1935, resulting in the agreement known as the Stresa Front, which was an attempt to avoid WWII. The town of Stresa is just a short ferry ride away. Princess Diana and husband as well as Napoleon and Josephine had also been hosted at the same palace.

We finished our visit to Maggiore with a ferry trip up to Locarno in Switzerland and caught a couple of trains, including a narrow gauge panoramic train through part of Switzerland back to our campground. A spectacular firework display was launched from a barge on the lake to celebrate Republic Day.

There is no particular plan of where to go next but we do need to fill up with GPL (gas) and head in the direction of the French Alps.

The Italian Lakes are a film makers ideal of a honeymoon destination.