The depot near Lyons airport was colonised by a herd of motorhomes, apparently
at rest. It was an alien world all right. I made a snap decision. “If I’m
going out in one of those...” (I couldn’t bring myself to say the word),
“then I insist on being captain.”
“Motorhomes don’t have captains,” said someone close at hand. It could have
been my wife. Or my stepmother. Or the depot manager. But I think it was my
wife.
“They do now,” I said, and immediately felt better.
Until then, a large part of my driving life had been spent cursing motorhomes –
mobile blots on any landscape. What kind of people went on holiday in a
butcher’s van? And a significant slice of my travelling life had been
devoted to avoiding camp sites. I’d had far too much of the communal-living
malarkey at boarding school.
Now, a new fly-drive motorhome scheme was obliging me to crack two personal
taboos in one go – motorhoming round camp sites. But I wasn’t going
sheepishly. I intended to impose myself. I needed status. “Captain” would do
nicely.
CAPTAIN’S LOG: DAY ONE
Four miles out of depot, food supplies holding up and spirits surprisingly
high. Indeed, getting higher. Sitting here on the bridge (“Behind the
steering wheel,” corrects wife) with several yards of vessel stretching out
behind, I am king of the road. Car drivers down below look up with respect.
Or maybe they’re just hoping I’ll go through the wrong motorway tollgate, so
ripping van’s roof off.
Approach Alps. Peaks soar beyond human realm. “For Chrissakes, don’t get
poetic,” chorus crew. Insubordination within 30 minutes. Annecy a lovely
town, but streets made for mountaineers or dog sleds – or something
narrow, anyway. Not for driving a house around. Must remember that when cab
is halfway across a junction, back bedroom hasn’t yet cleared the
mini-market.
Drive along edge of Lake Annecy – glorious, song-in-heart, etc – to
Doussard at bottom (southern end, I mean, not bottom of lake). First camp
site. Reception is shut. Enter anyway and get lost among gravel alleys.
Stumble on lady owner, who greets us as if we’ve come to kidnap her dog for
vivisection. “When reception’s closed, you stop at the house.” “We couldn’t
find the house.” “It’s over there.” “Obviously you
know where it is – it’s your house.” “Everybody else always finds it.”
So I grab her poodle and start cutting it up. Manoeuvre motorhome (recently
christened Melissa) onto pitch, hook up electricity as thunder rolls round
nearby summits. Lightning enlivens plug-in process. Crew start unpacking,
stowing stuff in more cupboards than we have in our proper home, discovering
provided stuff in yet more cupboards, with little yelps of joy. “Real
crockery,” cries stepmother. “It’s like playing house.” Crew much chirpier
now we’ve stopped.
Welcome pack from Eurocamp Independent includes constituents for a good finger
buffet. Plus moisturised French toilet paper. Plus bottles of Chablis, from
which pour captain-sized slug before tackling business of failing to
understand Melissa’s instruction manual.
For gas, do this. For water, do that. For electricity, do something else. Then
manual suddenly BURSTS INTO CAPITALS, with dire warning relating, I think,
to water pump. Potential for incomprehension could mean entire holiday spent
reading manual and weeping. So fling it aside and decide to rely on little
multilight monitor above door. No further problems. Truly, I am captain
material.
CAPTAIN’S LOG: DAY TWO
Melissa is like reverse Tardis. Mastodon from the outside, snug inside.
Couldn’t be otherwise, given all the kit: beds, seats, table, kitchen,
bathroom, cupboards. A complete flat crammed into a can – with, it must
be said, élan. Still snug, though.
After dinner last night, more Chablis, then Bordeaux, stepmother posted
herself into back-bedroom bunk through a
slightly-bigger-than-stepmother-sized gap. Climbed ladder to own quarters
above cab. It’s like sleeping in a sleeve. “What did you expect? A
four-poster?” rasped captain’s mate.
Sleep unbroken till birdsong at dawn. Astonishing, that. Comfortable, too.
Have just returned from sanitation block. Ah, yes. Ablutions. Melissa
herself has splendid bathroom (shower, sink, WC) jammed into telephone
kiosk. Challenge, though, is not space. It’s proximity. Tricky subject, but
we’re all adults. Let me put it this way. Make any untoward noise in there –
or, God forbid, smells – and rest of crew will know exact state of your
digestion immediately. So bathroom largely unused.
Great thing about Melissa is that you can leave on a whim, taking home with
you. Like snails. We go faster, though – even if traffic building up
behind might demur. In past, I’ve been behind, too, and going bonkers. Slow
Melissa right down, to produce similar cathartic effect among Alpine
drivers. They show appreciation by hooting, ecstatically.
O’er hill and dale to supermarket above Lake Geneva. Food stocks now low. Have
had to eke out supplies of Chablis by drinking only by the glassful. Crew go
in, return with bag containing, essentially, more wine. “If you think I’m
cooking full meals on holiday, buster, you can think again,” says captain’s
mate. Insubordination edging towards mutiny.
Am distracted by admiring glances thrown towards Melissa by other shoppers.
She looks good in a supermarket car park. Return to cab with great pride. I
am becoming a new, and strange, person.
CAPTAIN’S LOG: DAY THREE
Lake Geneva – elegance made geography. Sun-sparkled acreage of water,
hills and mountains, Switzerland within yodelling distance. All the glam
dissolutes have stayed on its banks. Lord Byron. Tchaikovsky. Freddie
Mercury. I fear they might have sneered at Melissa. Ill-advised. I’d have
driven her over them.
Into Yvoire, a medieval lake port wondrously intact: stone, flowers and, now,
ample opportunities to buy milk, jam, summer clothes, wooden cats. Also to
eat dace, perch and trout from lake. Which, given state of stocks in
Melissa, is lucky.
Camping de la Plage, Amphion (five mins short of Evian) best so far. Lady
owner smiles! Swimming pool! Sauna! Seats on toilets! And lake 150yd away
through park. From there, looks as if man and nature got themselves as they
wanted some time ago, then settled.
Joys of Camping, No 234: spying on other campers. Lady on next pitch has
caravan installation to welcome G8 summit: full suite of awnings, wooden
outdoor furniture, artificial flowers round base of van. Couple cycle up to
pitch on other side, with professional swagger, helmets, goggles, those
skintight cycling suits that suggest wearers are bound for special-interest
section of local cathouse.
Start erecting tent. Hopeless. Forty-five mins later, looks like bag you’ve
just boiled something in. Thank God for Melissa. Plug her in; she’s ready.
Dinner in lakeside restaurant. Return to site, 11-ish. It’s dark, silent. “
‘Lights out’ has been called,” suggests stepmother, an ex-school matron.
Whatever opposite of night owls is, that’s campers. Tumble into Melissa,
crew discipline loosening. Not quite like coming home, but near enough.
Discover captain’s mate has stowed away bottle of scotch. Instant promotion
to warrant officer. Game of Dingbats round table. Captain wins, with correct
identification of the saying “Rub salt in the wound”. Celebrates loudly.
“Shut up,” says stepmother. “Those cyclists need all the sleep they can get.”
Will attend to her case in the morning.
CAPTAIN’S LOG: DAY FOUR
Evian is enemy territory. Lovely spot, sedate, raffish and well dressed, in
spa-town fashion. Parks. Casino. Cupolas. Lake steamers. Ideal for Edwardian
gentry. But Edwardian gentry didn’t have motorhomes to park. Trundle along
streets and up and down lakefront, like elephant on garden path.
Local populace scowls. Something about motorhomes irks them. Irks many people.
(Could it be size? Self-sufficiency? Fact that many motorhomers are Dutch?)
Of one thing am certain: will never swear at motorhomes again. We are
oppressed minority. But also members of human race, who would spend like
other humans. If only they’d supply us with bloody parking spaces.
Eventually find one (in reality, three normal spaces). Calm down. Wander town.
No longer associated with motorhome, so people smile.
Treacherous Alpine bastards. Melissa looks particularly beguiling against
backdrop of lake.
CAPTAIN’S LOG: DAY FIVE
Transfer operations to soft hills of southern Burgundy: specifically, Cluny,
where long monastic tradition ensures Christian charity – ie, ample
parking.
Later, roll off beaten track, up various lanes. “You’re lost,” says warrant
officer. Busted straight back to captain’s mate. Melissa like ship on sea of
rolling countryside. (“No poetry, we said.”) To Dompierre-les-Ormes –
settlement so small, barely shows up on radar. Just outside, Meuniers camp
site unravels on terraces down slope where cows grazed until village mayor
got big tourism idea. Pitches large enough for rugby league (if could only
persuade crew), abundant trees, bushes, flowers, jolly welcome, civilised
washhouse block. Camp sites weren’t like this when I had no choice.
Park Melissa, so she can share cracking views to other hills. Captain’s mate
is washing something up. Melissa roars. Odd. Everything about her innards is
sleek, except water pump. Even when tank full, crashes into action like
catastrophe at a level crossing. Lovable foible, certainly.
Celebrate last night as only customers in village’s only restaurant.
“Off-season very quiet,” says owner, pointing out blindingly obvious. Talk
motorhomes. “Many people bring bikes, even scooters, so they can go further
afield once parked up in evening,” says man. “Why would they?” asks
captain’s mate. “Your restaurant infected?” CAPTAIN’S LOG: DAY SIX
Clean Melissa, drain her waste water, drive her home, making plans for next
motorhome trip. Have flipped entirely. “Round world, perhaps?” I say.
“Burgundy challenging enough,” says captain’s mate. Leave Melissa at depot,
with final pat on bonnet. Blot on landscape? Come outside and say that.
Travel brief
Eurocamp Independent (0870 366 7572, www.eurocampindependent.co.uk)
this year launches a Fly-Hire Motorhome scheme to seven spots across France,
including Lyons, Paris, Toulouse, Nice and Ajaccio. Fly in, take a taxi to
the nearest Avis CarAway depot and you’re off. Midseason prices (early
summer and September) are from £205pp, based on two adults and two children
in a four-berth vehicle for seven nights. Peak season (July/August) is from
£285pp. Prices include camp-site fees but not flights: fly to Lyons with
British Airways (0870 850 9850, www.ba.com)
from Heathrow, BMI (0870 607 0555, www.flybmi.com)
from Manchester, or Aer Lingus (0818 365000, www.aerlingus.com)
from Dublin, or to Grenoble with Ryanair (0871 246 0000,
www.ryanair.com) from Stansted or Dublin.
Or try family-run SDSA Promotions (01780 482565, www.motor-home-hire.com),
Worldwide Motorhome Hire (00 353 51 303760, www.worldwide-motorhome-hire.com),
or Motorhome Bookers (020 7193 2873, www.motorhomebookers.com).
