Back on the Road – France, Familiar Faces & Fridge Fails

Back in France! The land of baguettes, boules, and baffling roundabouts. After a long day behind the wheel (and strategic cup of tea stops), we decided that “familiar and cool” was the order of the day. So the coordinates for Peyrehorade were tapped into the satnav.

We’d been to Peyrehoradeo before—but we had park somewhere completely different last time. With the late afternoon sun getting ideas above its station and a grocery shop still looming, we declared it a wrap. Found ourselves a lovely shady spot overlooking the river Gave—very scenic, very peaceful, and very… handy for people-watching.

We planned to just stay the night, but since it was the weekend and we had shade (gold dust for motorhomers in this heat), we stuck around. It’s also a great area for walking and cycling, or in John’s case, somersaulting over handlebars. Thankfully, only his pride and a few limbs were bruised and cut. Let that be a lesson to him: no good ever comes from riding like you’re in the Tour de France and being nosy.

Across the river, small boats drifted past while a weekend music festival kicked off. Nothing like background bass to spice up your evening of cheese and wine, and our dancing neighbours.

Monday rolled around, and as much as we loved Peyrehorade, the laundry situation couldn’t be ignored. If socks could talk, they’d have been filing a complaint. So, another post-grocery shop and a machine-load of clean clothes later, we hit the road again.

Now, hindsight is a wonderful thing. And ours told us we should’ve gone straight back to the river, where shade was abundant and peace reigned. Instead, we found ourselves at the edge of an aire in Miélan. It had shade—eventually—but not much else to write home about. After a short walk through the underwhelming village, we retreated to the van, clung to the shade like lizards, and took turns under the cold outdoor shower much to the amusement of the locals who pasted by.

By the next afternoon, we were driving again, desperately scanning the landscape for trees. Eventually, we gave in and stopped at Eugénie-les-Bains—where, praise be, there were trees. And shade. And a bossy French man who thought he owned the carpark.

Our next stop was Samatan, a lovely little town where we’d previously stayed at a municipal campsite with a pool. This time: same spot, same vibe, but a week too early for the pool season. C’est la vie. Still, we were right by the river, had access to showers, and were treated to a cracking thunderstorm that rolled in just as we got back from an evening walk. The storm was great and brought a brief drop in temperature.

Next up: Fleurance and Lectoure—both familiar, both lovely. Except when we arrived in Fleurance, the travelling community had taken over our usual spot. Sadly, without a dag to guard the van or join the chaos, we gave it a quick walk-through the village and carried on up the road to Lectoure for the night.

Monpazier, a postcard-perfect bastide village, provided us with an aire behind the fire station and community hall. Not exactly tranquil, but entertaining nonetheless. We watched the volunteer firefighters dash into action when a call came through, while local kids flooded into the hall for their end-of-term party. Later that evening, we strolled into the village with our new motorhome buddies, James and Yasmin, and found ourselves at a wine bar. As you do. A lovely night all round!

The heat was relentless. You know it’s serious when your first instinct is to sit in a river. So a few days later when we bump into James and Yasmin again in Coux-et-Bigaroque, all four of us took the only logical step: river lounging.

It was the same story at Verteuil-sur-Charente. The entire motorhome population of France seemed to have the same idea—find a river, dunk yourself in, repeat until further notice.

We had planned to watch the Tour de France in the Pyrenees… but the temperature said otherwise. We all know I like to moan about weather at any time, and this heat was peak moan material and after another night of no sleep, we made the executive decision to chase cooler temps and follow the race northward.

By the time we landed in La Flèche, there was only one thing on the to-do list: head to the pool. And we were not alone. Other people had the same idea of getting into the water before even thinking about setting up camp or opening a beer.

Just when we thought we had a rhythm going, the fridge decided to throw a wobbly. Nothing says holiday quite like warm food. On the plus side, we passed the Château de la Motte Husson (yes, that one from “Escape to the Chateau”) and got a wave from Arthur.

Our final stop was Saint-Hilaire-du-Harcouët—a chilled spot where John hit the road on two wheels and I stretched my legs on foot. The heat finally eased, the area was calm, so we spent a few peaceful days winding down the journey.

In a motorhome you soon realise that shade is a priority in this heat. Rivers become your saviour. Fridges can be fickle. But France is still a place to be full of surprises, whether it’s accidental festivals, thunderstorm timing, or unexpected wine bar meetups. May our next aire come with trees.