Camp en France Camping. I mean camping. Faire du camping in fact. No low-grade puns here please, we’re intellectuals. Right, anyway, as you may have worked out, I’ve been away camping avec mes deux amis Anne et Iain, in the wilds of south-eastern France. A map, down there somewhere, shows where. Finally I’ve sat down and will transcribe from my angsty teenage journal certain select teenage-angsty writings, and it's a super-mega-ultra-long post to make up for it.

On arrival, we quickly learnt not to use the French rail network during the rush-hour on a Friday. Hot, sticky, sweating- the aircon broken, and with all the camping gear made for a slightly less-than-pleasant journey. We were headed for Annecy, and on finally reaching the town, went straight for the municipal campsite to put up base.

The second day brought excitement in the form of a hunt for camping gas- our stove was of one type, the gas bottles in France are of another. Argh! An impromptu tour of the town brought luck, with an sports shop stocking just the stuff we needed to gas out the tent with and get high on. Not really, that kinda thing’s bad kids, just buuurn it and cook with it.

Being on holiday, the inclination to do touristy things overcame us, and we headed for the monastery that sat behind our campsite (I guess, actually, that the campsite sits behind the monastery; one assumes the monks moved in before the budget stooodents on their hols). The Monkine residence was found to be the source of our nocturnal disturbance. The bells! The bells! and ye gods, did they ring. Apart from the chiming for the hours, tolls for services, we suffered peals of brutish bruit, assaulting the ears with such classics as Twinkle Twinkle Little Star and, bizzarely, God Save The Queen.

Following the monastery, we visited the regional museum of aquatic life. It had lots of information about fish, and fish. Oh, and fish too. Appended to the museum was the local art gallery, with some stunning blue perspex squares, and pre-cast concrete with pebbles in. So much vision and expression.

Day three was market day- and boy, did we make the most of it. Six euros worth of olives amongst other things, but they were worth it. After the gastronomic excitement, we took to the hills and wandered and wandered, taking in the lush scenery, breathtaking views and stunning surroundings. (Should I stop copying my descriptions out of the tourist brochure? Nah…) Dental dams were the topic of conversation too, not sure how that came up, but hey, high school PSE lessons were full of surprise discoveries.

Day four brought movement, as we up-camped and moved onwards, this time heading for the mountains, the Chartreuse in fact, involving such incidences as being closed in the door by the bus-driver as I boarded. Damn them crazy Frenchies… and it didn’t get any better as the journey progressed. With wildfires to the west and floods to the east earlier this summer, a climatic catastrophe could well have been expected. Luckily nothing of Biblical proportions met us (plagues of locusts? thankfully not), but winding out way into the mountains, the mist was turning into thick fog. I’m not a fan of busses at the best of times, and being on narrow, twisting mountain roads in low visibility wasn’t exactly reassuring.

Arriving in the remote skiing outpost of Saint Pierre d’Entremont, stepping from the bus into fog with less than 10 metres visibility and the air so damp we were washing our clothes just by walking in them, the realisation overcame us that perhaps tonight camping was not such a great idea. Ah-ha! An inn. Or, more precisely, a gîte d’etape, which is basically a lodging-house-inn-type-thing made up of self-contained basically-furnished apartments. Anyway, opening the door to the bar, smoke billowing out from within and mist seeping with us, all grasp of the French language disappeared as we were faced with the silent, expressionless looks of three French farmers sat, cigarette in hand, propping the bar up. The owner was stood behind the bar polishing glasses, with a similar blank expression. “Ehrr, bonsoir monsieur, avez-vous une chambre pour la nuit?”. Scary stuff.

The spookyness didn’t end there. Once we had settled into the room, uncorked a good bottle and got glugging, a slight pinging, cracking sound could be heard. Thinking nothing of it, and with dinner (and the rest of the bottle) to think about, it was ignored. The second time it happened, investigation revealed that a Pyrex oven dish, stowed safely in a cupboard, had cracked, all on it’s own. Dur-durr-dur-duuurrr dur-dur-dur-duuurrr…

Revelations reveal Iain prefers brunettes, and has a stalker in Taiwan.

Day five in the mountains yields an inclination to explore the local hillocks and mountains, and a hike to a château proceeded, with Roquefort, pâté de foie (not foie gras, I should hasten to add, although tasting it I’m sure I could allow for) and mackerel in ancient mustard for sustenance. Us students must allow for multiple lunches, y’know.

Day six was another day of movement, but being a Wednesday and France, we realised the normal bus timetable went out the window. Our early start and packing was instead exchanged for a lazy breakfast, courtesy tours of the two churches, skimming stones, and some fussy fancy French cake action. This was the first day of brightness and sunshine, so it was a shame we had to move on. Zut alors…

Arrival in Grenoble meant a dash to the tourist office to find out where the youth hostel was situated- in the deepest, remotest suburb of the town. But no matter, ‘twas only for one night. When evening arrived, sitting on the terrace allowed for mingling with other budget stoodents (and geriatrics it turned out, did they not read the sign for ‘Youth Hostel’…?), and having a discussion with a giggley French guy about politics, weed, shopping, et cetera et cetera. And crikey, did he giggle; a little oddly perhaps. Hmm.

Going back to the room, Iain and I returned to our room (Anne was trapped in a room with some Spanish women who, bizarrely, were asleep at 11pm. That’s not right. This hostel is suspect.) and, having found out whom one of the people we were sharing with was, thought we’d find out who the fourth person was. Going quietly into the room, and peering at the previously vacant lower bunk, we were faced with quite a sight, meeting a mostly-naked guy lying spread-eagled, face-down, each limb sprawling to each corner of the bed. Cue uncontrollable giggling, and my inability to climb the ladder into the bunk without shaking the whole thing to pieces with my laughter.

Day seven, final day (you may now breathe a sigh of relief there is not so much left to read!), and a day to stock up on little souvenir food items to take home, so a trip to a supermarket occurred. Now, in France, it is customary to leave large bags at the desk to reduce the likelihood of shoplifting. With no obvious place to leave our huge tent-laden bags, we proceeded to shop, carrying them with us. As they didn’t have the item I was after (Kellogg’s Extra Pépites, unavailable in the UK), we left with only Anne’s jar of ancient mustard and a packet of chewing gum on the checkout conveyor belt. That looks suspicious in itself, so combined with our huge bags and dirty student appearance, we were visited by one of the shop managers, asking to see in our bags. Ok, fine, we hadn’t stolen anything. But wait- the night before we’d bought beers to drink at the hostel, and in my bag, I had one left. Mon dieu… and with the receipt not to hand (we did have it, somewhere!) the situation was getting stickier by the moment. Thankfully, a Scandinavian woman in the queue behind us stepped in and argued for us, so the situation did get resolved, eventually. I think I needed some Relax gum by that point.

I think that there brings us to the end of the week’s holiday highlights, and below are a couple of photos to show for our efforts. (I can’t get my photolog to accept them as an upload, so you’ll have to do with the few that are here.) A bientôt, mes amis!

Posted: 28-09-05 11:28 :: Permalink: http://ben.corale.co.uk/archive/v1/204.html

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