10 Weeks in a Box - Day 20

Birthdays and Salad Days - 28/07/2007



So we lazily meandered towards Derby on July 28th, for my Dad’s birthday.
As the distance grew shorter I began to see more and more familiar sights from my youth. Driving through well-known brewing town of Burton-upon-Trent, I pointed out to Miki the College I used to attend at the tender age of seventeen, and the memories of those times came flooding back. The famous pub crawl, which involved trying to get from the Bus Station all the way up the Main street to the College over a mile away, having a pint in every pub. Needless to say, with a pub on every corner, most people got lost halfway there. The familiar yeasty smell pervaded the motorhome as we crossed the bridge from the district of Stapenhill, a reminder of the town’s brewing traditions.
Then, it was down the A 38 and a detour past my old school, John Port, in Etwall. My third form classroom is right by the road on a very sharp bend.(It was the “A” Block chemistry lab) and several times during my time there an over ambitious lorry driver would lose his load on the turn. I remember well the schoolkid scramble for bags of sugar to take home for the parents after one hapless driver had misjudged the bend! We passed the bus park, which used to ferry us from Mickleover the three miles to school every day. There were two buses that went near my home, but your bus pass allocated you on one or the other, however, it could be annoying if the No.2 bus arrived at school before the No.1, causing an intolerable delay in getting home, so I set to designing a bus pass forgery that gave you the option of either. Needless to say, it proved very popular!
The reminiscences over, we reached Mickleover, the quiet suburb of Derby where I was brought up and we celebrated Dad’s birthday at my Sister Karen’s house, with her husband Steve and their kids Tom and Rachel, Dad and his partner Cynthia in attendance. I was so happy that we were able to coincide this part of our trip with Dad’s birthday, and a lovely evening was had by all.
We spent the night on the driveway at Dad’s, very odd somehow, but much less hassle for Dad! We used up Dad’s yearly water allowance by filling our tanks, Him pacing around, as though the water meter was eating five pound notes. Hilarious! Plus, we had the lunatic fridge on mains hook up during our stay, so things were looking good.



Text by Kev Moore
Drawing & Photos by Miki
Both on Planet Goodaboom

10 Weeks in a Box - Day 16

Grey Nose and Gravelines - 24/07/2007



7am came and went…we had done it! We are invincible! Even our fridge decided to work today, the lazy pile of junk. Life is good. Through the binoculars, I caught a glimpse of England. Tomorrow, we sail, to paraphrase that singing sedative, Roger Whittaker.
But before we can welcome the dawn of our departure, we had to find a final place to lay up for a nights (hopefully) undisturbed rest. Miki pinpointed a spot near the ominously named Gravelines, and we headed for it. Our journey took us further along the coast and gave us a chance to visit the peculiarly named “Cap de Gris Nez”, literally Cape of the Grey Nose…perhaps some kind of giant handkerchief? The Cap was beautiful and windswept, not necessarily in that order, and under a little duress, Miki persuaded me to walk the cliffs and paths down to the beach. However, the find of the day was “Batterie Todt” an impressive concrete gun bunker that used to form part of Germany’s Atlantic Wall defences for their famously postponed British Invasion.
It had been turned into a fabulous war museum by an enterprising chap called David Davies, owner of the local Normandy Hotel and known in some circles as “The Taffy Frog”, for obvious reasons. The collection housed within this imposing edifice conjured up an era long gone, and the sight of the bunks, mess kits and mannequins in Wehrmacht uniforms caused a chill to run down the spine. Household names like Krupp and BMW were everywhere, makers of mayhem fifty years ago, economic behemoths today.
Curiously, we found a sign stating that the railway track for the giant gun outside had been manufactured in Tarbes, Miki’s French home town. One can only hope the workers didn’t know the use to which their handiwork was put.
Propaganda posters, trying to turn the French against the English and the English against themselves brought home the insidiousness of the failed Austrian painter’s regime.

But the hand painted poster of three allied troops, French, British and American, surging forward, flags proudly flying, said it all with its caption:
“ON LES AURA!”………….”WE WILL GET THEM!”

We arrived in Gravelines , a nice little town with a quiet estuary providing a home to a host of small boats. A series of small bridges criss-crossed the town, giving it a Venice kind of feel. We found a great spot for the Boomobile, several other motorhomes had parked down by the harbour in a lovely location, but we couldn’t find the service point, so it obviously wasn’t the real spot, but we resolved to return if we couldn’t find the one marked in the guide.
Some time later we found what we were looking for, but the site the service point was attached to looked like it provided half the audience and participants for Jerry Springer, so we decided to do our tanks, and then return to the Harbour idyll we’d found earlier. We pulled into the bay reserved for motorhome service. A strange orange coloured metal machine confronted us, and after some minutes we realised it needed to eat three fifty cent pieces in order to provide fifteen minutes of everything. By that I mean, a door would open and we could a) empty our toilet b) fill our fresh water c) have some mains electricity. But only for fifteen minutes. This was going to be a formula one pit stop kind of thing, so I prepared everything, opened the waste water tanks, set the fridge to mains, got the toilet cassette out ready, put the hose in the water tank, connected the mains lead up, then told Miki to insert the coins…Bam! I was off, running round like a lunatic, throwing unmentionable waste like a dervish down the chute provided behind the previously locked door, getting soaked by a spastic water pipe that insisted on giving me water before my hose was connected, it was organised chaos. As soon as the water was replenished I whipped the hose out and began washing the flies off the front of the Boomobile (it hadn’t been debugged since Spain, and was starting to look like something from Alien) I laughed with maniacal glee as I got this EXTRA service from the confounded machine. Following the debugging, I had a twinge of eco-conscience, and used the hose to direct some of my wayward “grey water” down the appropriate drain, meanwhile the fridge was enjoying a brief respite of “real power”
In my zeal to empty the toilet cassette in record time, I nearly got it wedged in the chute provided, but thankfully was spared any blushes when it suddenly came free and the cleaning hose retracted with a SNAP like some kind of manic reverse-stroke King Cobra. I slammed the door on this three-fold mechanised hell, disconnected, and made for the tranquillity of the harbour, secure in the knowledge that I had certainly got my 1.50 euros worth. Now I needed a lie down. A lovely quiet night was in order, and we relocated back at Gravelines harbour and got just that.



Text by Kev Moore
Drawing & Photos by Miki
Both on Planet Goodaboom

10 Weeks in a Box - Day 15

Rainy-day beaches and Anarchic parking - 23/07/2007



Awakened the next day by the almost continuous rain that had become our constant companion, we consumed our usual copious cups of coffee, battened down the hatches and left the neighbourhood in peace once more, threading our way through a series of villages towards the coast and Boulogne. For me, there is nothing as depressing as a seaside town on a grey, wet day!

Thankfully, as the afternoon wore on, the skies cleared a little, and, buoyed by our earlier triumph in Martigny, we parked on the seafront just past the town of Wimereux, north of Boulogne, with the aim of staying for the night. In a shameless action of biting the hand that feeds, we parked in a car park that banned Motorhomes between the hours of 7pm and 7am, exactly when Motorhomes need to park, and when cars no longer use the car-park. Go figure. Applying our own faultless, if a little twisted logic, we settled in for the night, joined by some brave Belgians.
With several hours of daylight still ahead of us, we clambered down some wooden steps and took a walk on the wild beaches here.Dotted hither an yon, solitary figures could be seen digging in the sand, a lone dog scampering across the glistening surface, its owner, a yellow dot in the far distance, hooded against the wind, throwing a ball to amuse it. Encrusted timbers, the remnants of some forgotten wharf, now haphazard amongst the rocks and seaweed, a microcosm of life, and the lonely posts of a rotting fence, its battle with the sea lost, marking its course down into the sands. A beautiful yet desolate place.
Returning to the Boomobile, our cobwebs having been well and truly blown away, I buried my head in a good book, and Miki painted up a storm. As the hours advanced past the all-important 7pm, we knew we were in “the hot zone”. Would we make it through until morning without being arrested? For the answer to that, dear reader, you will have to wait until tomorrow!



Text by Kev Moore
Drawing & Photos by Miki
Both on Planet Goodaboom

10 Weeks in a Box - Day 14

Cleres & the Coast; Neighbourhood Watch - 22/07/2007

The next morning, we went out on the bikes to explore the village of Cleres, and more importantly, to get some bread. It was a Sunday, so we thought we should get out early to the boulangerie. Leaning our bikes against the railings that stop drunks falling in the picturesque stream that meanders through the streets, we were greeted with a sight I’ve only seen on TV reports from communist Russia….people queuing for bread! Our hunger winning out over our non-conformist instincts, Miki and I gritted our teeth and joined the masses to wait for our daily bread. It was so nice, we ate it all before we got back to the Boomobile and had to call in at the shop again for some more!
The village of Cleres has a Zoological park, and the council have provided many parking spaces along the main road to accommodate visitors. We took the bikes along its perimeter, surprised at the amount of visitors it was attracting, if the number of cars was any kind of measure. We headed out on the gently undulating country road, and it soon became apparent that Miki was lagging behind. Now, knowing that in the athleticism department, Miki can trounce me, no problem, I realised she was having a problem with the bike. Mine was a gift from my dear, late friend, drummer Keith Webb, Miki’s an altogether more flash piece of kit, had some advanced form of disc brake on the front. So advanced was this stunning piece of technology that it had evolved a mind of its own, and seemed intent on braking when Miki was struggling to get the bike uphill!
We cut our ride prematurely short, before Miki suffered a stroke, and headed back to Cleres, taking time to wander around the old Churchyard on the way.
Cleres is a pretty little place, and it’s truly wonderful that the council haven’t adopted the money-grabbing approach, and allow Motorhomes to use power from the village grid, as well as top up their water at no charge. There are great sport facilities here too, a small football stadium, and some tennis courts. They have given great thought here as to how to attract the tourist, and the well-kept and generous motorhome area, here since 1998, is a testament to that. I hope the village reaps the benefits from this great welcome it offers. A gold star to Cleres!
Leaving Cleres, we made a bee-line for the coast, accompanied by rain, rain, and more rain. The sky became an ominous grey. We finally sighted the sea at a small resort called Quiberville. It was a grotesque parody of a cheap English seaside town, and my heart sank. It was almost as though the kiss me quick, stick of rock council house holiday mentality had seeped across the channel like an Exxon oil spill, contaminating everything it touched. It took an effort of will to focus on the good things we were going to England and Scotland to see.
I was genuinely shocked to see this kind of place in France, but that’s the Global Village for you. A McDonalds on every corner and a snotty nosed kid with an Ice Cream in your face.
We followed the coast as closely as we could, entering the outskirts of Dieppe, as Miki had indentified another rest stop with free electricity! We found it, after much hand wringing and roundabout-negotiating, but it was hardly worth the search. To be fair, it’s great that the town provide these facilities, but with nearly thirty motorhomes parked here in military precision, and only four power outlets, it was always going to end in tears. Like so many giant white battery hens, shooed into our pens for the night, and what now seem to be the obligatory obese motorhome owners lolling around in their “Captains Chairs” we felt the only plus for the place was the electricity, and, as all the sockets were in use, we had lunch and beat a hasty retreat. Call us snobs, but staying there was like joining a council estate on wheels.
We scoured the surrounding villages looking for a suitable spot for the night. “Too quiet” said Miki, “Too noisy” said Miki “Too much!” said Kev… but we took a collective deep breath and found a spot in a little village called Martigny near some nice bungalows. Now this is where the “snob” situation goes into reverse…people look out of their windows and see us set up across the road. “Oooh, Jacques, look at that terrible camping car stuck outside Notre Maison, call the gendarmerie!”
Well, it looked like Jacques, following a haranguing from the missus, did just that. We were tucked up in bed around midnight, watching Millenium, when we heard a car pull up outside. I took an executive decision and sent Miki down to have a look. “It’s the police!” she said, with measured hysteria. We watched. We waited. Suffice to say, they left their vehicle, went off, presumably to find out the nature of the complaint, decided there was no case to answer, came back, and drove off. It’s quite clear they were called out in response to our appearance. But I must take this opportunity to commend the local Gendarmerie for applying good common sense. Had we caused a disturbance? No. Had we parked illegally? No. Were we blocking the road? No. Did we deserve to be interrupted during a particularly fraught investigation for FBI Man Frank Black? Of course not. So we were left alone. Marvellous. Liberty! Fraternity! And…er..the other one!




Text by Kev Moore
Drawing & Photos by Miki
Both on Planet Goodaboom

10 Weeks in a Box - Day 12

The Magic Electricity Box and Virtual Motorhoming - 20/07/2007


The very next morning we were on immediate cassette toilet alert, and set off to find a suitable repository. Now, nearly all Motorhome facilities, particularly those allied to Campsites, are notoriously expensive in this “Tourist-heavy” region. But we were having none of that, oh no! With Miki’s expert navigation, we found a communal facility in the middle of nowhere, well, Ouchamps, to be precise. It started well. A really helpful kid told us where to get bread, and pointed out where the motorhome stop was, with no prompting on our part. Such a pleasure to see the milk of human kindness still flows in some parts of the world.

Breaded-up, as it where, we wound our way out into the fields and came across the site opposite a small lake, a lovely view. We fed our 2 euro coin dutifully into the machine and pressed for water. Nothing. We fed it another. Held our breath. Even more nothing. On the verge of being seriously fed up, I at least managed to empty the cassette, so life could, at least in a very basic sense, go on. It was then that I noticed the service door to the water/electric unit slightly ajar, and er, broken. I peeked in…

Suffice to say, I discovered the water supply you pay for ultimately comes from the same point as the free one for the WC. So I hooked up to the other tap and began filling, feeling at least we hadn’t been ripped off for 4 euros.
I had another peek….
There were our coins, large as life (The only coins, mind you) sat in a tray. I liberated them. It was time to experiment, and oh, what a wondrous time it was! We had struggled to get our fridge running on gas in the morning, and I thought I’d try the mains supply. Nothing. I put a coin back in (secure in the knowledge that it was perpetually retrievable) Voila! Electricity! Free!
As I write, at my amply powered laptop, we have decided to enjoy the afternoon, “charging-up”. Our well-worn 2 euro coin is going through the machine faster than a dose of salts, and I for one hereby name the facility near Ouchamps as Numero Uno!


While we left the mains running, we set out on a small bike ride, confident I could negotiate a rough circuit along the country lanes that would bring us back to the Boomobile. Some time later, and not a little out of breath, we were deep in the woods on an unmade road, and I suffered an ever so slight dip in confidence….but the tree line cleared and thankfully I got my bearings so I could pretend to Miki that I had known where we were going all along!
That afternoon, we were somewhat concerned at the arrival of a chap with a video camera, who proceeded to film the wayward water/electric point.
Was he a spy for the council? Were we in trouble? Did we give a toss?
All these questions were answered as I sent Miki out to talk to him. (She has to be poked with a stick) It turns out he has a motorhome, but prior to his trip it developed a fault and he had to cancel. But he’s out travelling round, checking out all the sites, watering points, etc and carefully documenting them so that his eventual trip will be problem free. A form of ‘virtual’ motorhoming, if you will. But, I concluded after some thought, he will have already seen everywhere. What’s the point in that? Isn’t it the teeniest bit anally retentive? What price that frisson of excitement when you know you have only three fluid ounces of fresh water, and your toilet cassette is overflowing and threatening a toxic spill to rival the Bopahl disaster? Now that’s Motorhoming!
Anyway, operating on the premise that you can have too much of a good thing, and much to the consternation of an old French couple who had just pulled their motorhome up beside us, we left Ouchamps for Chartres.
After reading and enjoying Labyrinth (No, not the Jim Henson thing, wonderful though that is, the book) by Kate Mosse, (no, not that one, the one with a brain) I was keen to explore some of the locations featured in it. One being the Cathedral in Chartres, so I was full of anticipation as we headed in the direction of this ancient town with a view to getting as near as we could in order to see it the following day. Miki and I being what we are, we ended up parking in the centre, 5 minutes walk from the Cathedral, had our dinner and bedded down for the night!
Apart from the obligatory brain dead French yobbos speaking like Terry Jones as a woman in Monty Python, and hurling rubbish bins into the street (heey, that’s RADICAL boys, I can see how you started a revolution) we passed as near a quiet night as one could expect in a City Centre.





Text by Kev Moore
Drawing & Photos by Miki
Both on Planet Goodaboom

10 Weeks in a Box - Day 11

French Spaghetti Junction & A Waste of Bamboo - 19/07/2007


After a good night’s sleep we hit the road again, refreshed, only to be reduced to acute mental fatigue and despair when we arrived in the traffic system madness that is known as Tours. When I am confronted with design horrors such as this, I find myself imagining the board meeting where they first float the idea of a new traffic system. (I did a similar thing when I saw the aesthetic abortion that is the Renault Multiplas)
Picture the scene;

“So, Pierre, I ‘ave designed ze main street to spiral round a round a few times, culminating in a six lane catastrophe with no signs, so ze ‘apless motoriste has to take ze spleet second decision on their direction, and almost inevitably gets it wrong!”
The Director replies; “Bravo, Michel! I shall be recommending you for ze Nobel Transport prize! Your road systems are genial! Why, even I myself could not find my own home for three hours yesterday!”

It took us three times of asking just to get the damn Motorhome going parallel with the Loire….only the finding of further cheap diesel avoided our mental meltdown. Upon refuelling, we pulled in at the first opportunity to have a coffee.
We resolved to follow the Loire as long as possible and perhaps take in a Chateau. (God know there are so many along here, the French architects must have been having a “Buy one, get one free” promotion in the Sixteenth Century!)

Having escaped the murderous clutches of Les Rues de Tours, we came and went through Amboise, where we spied a glorious looking chateau, but the town seemed to be overrun with tourists (even one of those damnable trains) and we declined to stop, finally arriving in our final “Cha” for the time being, Chaumont, complete with its own Chateau. The Loire here spreads its banks into a wide flood plain which expands for about 500 meters from its shores, rising up to a gentle mound providing a fantastic natural parking place for Motorhomes. We pitched up here, along with a host of fellow travellers, amazed to find there were no prohibition signs, nor indeed, requests for payment. As I’m sure you’re coming to realise, we like that sort of thing.

Heading up to the Chateau that overlooks the river here, we were subjected to some Spinning wheel like devices constructed from bamboo, a quick twirl of which induces the contraption to emit an initially interesting, but ultimately insanity-inducing, “tune” of sorts. Pandas are dying of hunger for the sake of this so called art….. A personal view, and possibly not true, but, I think valid, nonetheless….

Cresting the hill, we got our first view of the Chateau, a beautifully constructed edifice, complete with drawbridge. Initially more like a Castle, its riverside walls were demolished to give a more impressive view of the Loire. Now that’s what I call seriously implementing open-plan idealism! Originally the site of a fortress to protect the town of Blois, it was razed to the ground by Louis XI in 1465. In that same year Pierre D’Ambrose began rebuilding the Chateau that stands today, the work being continued by his son and grandson and finally being completed in 1510.

Surviving the Revolution, it had a long and colourful history before finally being handed over to the State in 1938 by the ruined sugar heiress Marie-Charlotte Say. I have pondered this. How can you become a ruined sugar heiress? I mean, if you invented the pogo stick for example, one can understand your empire collapsing as the fad wore off, but sugar? It’s practically a staple, isn’t it? Did France have an epidemic of diabetes? After careful consideration, I have reached the conclusion that Madame Say was just bad with money.

All this is well and good, and I am ever aware of the weight of history that drips from the eaves of these grand old houses, but we had to pay 5.30 euros to have a quick shufti, and three-quarters of the place was closed!
Chateau, Schmateau!

Well, having done the Cha-cha, we spent a quiet night on the banks of the Loire (our bloody fridge doing its best to interrupt our slumber, deciding to shut down on a whim.) The Fridge, now nicknamed The Lunatic Fridge, would now begin to engage us in a battle of wills that was to last the entire journey…….




Text by Kev Moore
Drawing & Photos by Miki
Both on Planet Goodaboom

10 Weeks in a Box - Day 9

Ain’t no mountain high enough - 17/07/2007



The following day, invigorated by the athleticism displayed in our canoeing trip, we took the bikes out yet again and headed for the village of Domme. A wonderful lazy ride followed, crossing yet another bridge over the Dordogne, and then, a little over 2 kilometres from Domme, the road took a turn to the left, and up. I mean seriously up. This was like climbing the north face of Annapurna. (If indeed Annapurna has a north face.) We got off and walked. Forever. On the verge of requiring CPR, we reached the tiny gate to Domme, noting that our motorhome would have been a tight, if not impossible, fit. This discovery went some way towards placating us with regard to the decision to use the bikes.

The rather tasty chocolate crepe in the first café we came upon notwithstanding, the village itself was a crushing disappointment to this writer, at any rate. Domme seems to have overstepped that invisible line between good taste and rampant commercialism. There are shops selling art from Zanzibar, there are shops selling FBI caps. There is, if you can believe it, a stupid bloody tourist train like something from Benidorm or Blackpool for God’s sake. The simple question is, “Why?” the answer, similarly short and to the point, is of course, “Money.”
These people have sacrificed their soul on the bloody altar of commercialism, and their village is the poorer for it. We left, swiftly (for it was downhill all the way) nevermore to return, and prepared to set off for an altogether more serene village, St. Leon sur Vezere. Before we take our leave in search of the aforementioned village, I feel I must report to you, dear reader, an unseemly incident that took place prior to our egress from our trashy trailer park. As I was evacuating our waste water tanks, a French couple in an adjacent motorhome loudly proclaimed, “OOO, What a stink! Quickly, Jacques, ferme la Porte before it gets in!” (I’ve only translated partly, so as to give you a little bit of local colour) This is as a red rag to a bull for me. These kinds of people always moan loud enough to be heard, but never have the balls to say it to your face. “We all smell the same, missus!” I shouted at her retreating bourgeois back, feeling ever so slightly the Englishman abroad.


A brief and unpleasant flirtation with the traffic system in Sarlat convinced us to push on to St. Leon, and we were not disappointed. We found a spot just a stone’s throw from our new river, the Vezere. We spent an hour or two wandering the small streets, viewing the village from the bridge over the river, and discovering the wonderful buildings, a grand chateau, an imposing Church, and a mysterious large manor house of some kind, set in spacious grounds, our curiosity kept at bay by a pair of large ornate wrought iron gates. A quite delightful sleepy village…and guess what? We’re out in the canoes again tomorrow to conquer yet another mighty waterway. We laugh in the face of aquatic challenges! (Like emptying the waste water tank in front of a**holes)



Text by Kev Moore
Drawing & Photos by Miki
Both on Planet Goodaboom

10 Weeks in a Box - Day 8

Roque and Rolling on a river - 16/07/2007



Arriving just down the river at Le Roque Gageac the following morning, we sold our souls and pitched up with what seemed like a hundred motorhomes at an admittedly cheap Aire du Camping-Car. It resembled some kind of low-rent trailer park, but we hung in there, and walked the narrow pathways up the rocky hillside of La Roque. At first glance, you don’t really notice there is a village there at all, but as you are drawn into its streets you realise there is a hidden beauty, lattice-worked across the stark rock face. This beauty has come at a dear price indeed. In the 1950’s part of the rock face gave way, destroying several houses and killing three residents. The rockfall was so severe it closed the road along the river for two years. But the at the time the President of France declared everything should be done to breathe new life into La Roque and make it rise again, and the results are good to see.

Miki and I exchanged gifts in the form of weird and wonderful clothing, and then the children within us won the day, as we clambered into a canoe and disappeared downriver for nine kilometres, having a whale of a time!
The Dordogne is a beautiful river, wide and fast-flowing, sometimes you sense deep waters, and every now and then your craft is caressed languidly by long green river weed, like a mermaid’s tresses. It is a wonderful sensation, a peaceful calm washes over you out in the middle of the river, and you can watch life passing by on the river bank with a curious detachment.
Picking up the pace and paddling furiously, at times we overstretched ourselves, almost causing my decapitation by a branch from a half-submerged tree as we struggled in vain to steer the canoe. Clearly, slalom was not our forte! Having put on this hazardous burst of speed, we decided we’d reached the prearranged rendezvous point too early, and, much to the consternation of the canoe company staff on the riverbank, we continued on a little way, before coming around and paddling like hell to combat the Dordogne’s swift current and crawl painfully back upstream to their great relief!
The canoe company provide a minibus to ferry the oar-weary customers back to where they started, and needless to say, we’d just missed one. We wandered along the riverbank enjoying a well-earned coke to kill the time, having been assured we could get the next one. In the interim, another bunch of canoeists had made landfall, and as the next bus appeared, they all seemed to imagine it was their god-given right to embark. The driver gave us some half-baked speech about getting the next one which we treated with the contempt it deserved, insinuating ourselves amongst these upstarts and demanding to be taken back. Shrugging in a gallic manner and moaning under his breath, he nevertheless thought better of arguing further.
A word of advice to canoe trip operatives; never argue with a tired, wet canoeist who missed his first bus!



Text by Kev Moore
Drawing & Photos by Miki
Both on Planet Goodaboom

10 Weeks in a Box - Day 7

Beynac and Bicyclettes - 15/07/2007



As we left town the next day, we inadvertently chose the “Longest distance between two points” method of getting from Belves to Beynac-Cazanac, our next port of call, but, it has to be said, we encountered not only impassable farm vehicles on single track roads, but some beautiful scenery and buildings as well.

Eventually, we reacquainted ourselves with the Dordogne river (God knows it’s big enough and long enough, we couldn’t miss it forever) and the simply breathtaking skyline of the Castle and fortress village of Beynac loomed on the horizon in the summer sunshine. This was the seat of Richard the Lionheart between 1189 and 1199, when he held the Barony here. When you see the sheer impassable geography of the place, not to mention the forbidding walls of the keep and watchtowers, it’s a wonder anybody found a way of replacing him. I imagine most would-be invaders, if they had by some miracle managed to evade the hostile and revolting peasants, the barrels of burning oil and rain of arrows, not to mention the new age shops, would have reached the upper slopes of this incredible natural fortress, spied the towering stone walls and deep moat, and simply asked for some oxygen and a glass of beer, on a promise that they would just go away before the Coeur de Lion could, in the immortal words of John Cleese’ French knight, “taunt them a second time.”

Beynac is a medieval marvel, and long may it stand in such good repair to fire our imaginations and transport our minds back to that dark and fantastic age. I scampered around the passageways and staircases of the fortress, and discovered a very small dude had taken it upon himself to follow my every move. Unfortunately, one staircase was a journey to far…I looked down from the top as he cocked his leg to follow me and he couldnt quite haul himself onto the next step. Ah well, little fella, come back when your legs have grown!

Eschewing the “campitalist” approach beloved of many of our fellow motorhome owners, we managed to park illicitly on the edge of a cornfield,
and damn right too, when campsite owners are asking 20 euros just to use a bit of grass and 6 euros if you want to empty your kaka down a hole. They have a grandly titled “Aire du service de Camping-Car.” It’s a piece of wood with a hosepipe nailed to it. Honestly.
Our parking place of choice, in addition to be unencumbered with costs, afforded us a wonderful view of the clifftop fortress, and was dotted with large trees protecting us from the roadway.
As dusk crept upon us, we took the bikes down some country lanes and made for the banks of the Dordogne itself, and watched the quiet waters wind their way westwards for a while, before heading back for the Boomobile, concealed in the cornfields with its promise of a Cassoulet dinner….



Text by Kev Moore
Drawing & Photos by Miki
Both on Planet Goodaboom

10 Weeks in a Box - Day 6

And the Band played on - 14/07/2007



We awoke to arguably the most important day in France, July 14th, Bastille Day, and just a few feet away from where we’d parked for the night we were privileged to witness a small, intimate homage to the birth of France that brought tears to Miki’s eyes. All in all, Montpazier has good reason to be proud.

Even as Miki and I were wandering round the town in the sunshine today, filming and photographing, an old lady interrupted us and made us pose for her camera! And there was I, thinking we were travelling incognito….
Exploring the backroads and alleys, we found many weird and wonderful things, ranging from spanking new Ferraris parked outside the city walls to decidedly antique Peugeots in hidden alcoves.
As we left for our next destination, we took away fond memories of this lovely town.

Arriving in Belves mid-afternoon, after a short drive from Montpazier, we witnessed their preparations for a great Bastille Day feast in the town square. There was a band unloading equipment onto a makeshift stage, so it looked a party was on the cards. Belves was yet another of the Perigord region’s seemingly inexhaustible supply of beautiful towns, most of which have an enviable Medieval history, rivalled only by their splendid hilltop locations. We parked in the town car park, bang in the centre of things and completely free! We wandered around its narrow streets and alleyways, following the old city wall, and browsing the colourful shops, before making our way back to the Boomobile for “dinner and a movie” as the Americans say. By late evening, the band was giving it what for and the car park was choc-a-block. Miki and I, unruffled, watching TV and bedding down for the night, as the revellers came and went, leaving us in peace at around 2am with the car park to ourselves. (But not before we had leafleted every one with our website address!)



Text by Kev Moore
Drawing & Photos by Miki
Both on Planet Goodaboom

10 Weeks in a Box - Day 5

Entering the Perigord - 13/07/2007


We awoke the following morning to find the Donkeys had lost interest in us, wandering over to the far side of their field. Fair-weather friends! We quickly fell into our usual routine, Miki out of the Boomobile and painting boats on the water, Kevin lounging about eating breakfast. By way of my defence, can I just say, it takes me a little longer to ease into functioning mode…Anyway, we took our time, eventually packing up and heading off,
lazily following a rural route passing into the Dordogne, which is in the greater area known as the Perigord, on Friday, 13th. Unlucky for some, but not for us, as we found the cheapest diesel so far, and the first branch of Lidl since we left Albir, allowing us to stock up on necessities, like chocolate!
You will hear occasional mention of the retailing marvel that is Lidl throughout this journal. In the UK, it is generally synonymous with the patronage of the “council house” great unwashed, indeed, I even published a poem on the site called Lidl Dreams which says it all! But I must confess, on the road it provides for pretty much all our needs, and here on the continent it is visited by princes and paupers alike.

Early evening found us in a beautiful walled town called Montpazier, known as a “Village D’Art “, according to Miki, and indeed it was aptly so, with craft shops and artisans abounding, and concerts of every style from Celtic folk to John Mayall’s Bluesbreakers. I even saw posters advertising the Russian ballet performing Swan Lake, and an English rendition of Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night. It felt like the town was bursting with talent! I love to see a town give itself over so completely to this celebration of creativity. There were very few normal shops here, the premises instead given over to antiques, soaps and perfumes, traditional wooden toys,
all beautifully presented. Each was an artistic statement in itself, a way for the owners to make their mark on this colourful and creative town. Indeed, the attitude of the folk here can be summed up by the car park attendant, who, when asked by Miki if it was okay to stick a 7 meter motorhome in the town centre car park, said “yes, no problem, its 2 euros, but pay me when you want, if you stay until tomorrow and go in the morning, then it won’t cost you anything.” What a guy! Vive la France!



Text by Kev Moore
Drawing & Photos by Miki
Both on Planet Goodaboom