Pavia, Italia.

Woke up on Friday morning on Italy. On the Ligorna (sp?) Coast. Comcerns about the earthquake in Rome didn't reach this far, though flags were at half mast. I headed to Pavia to meet old friend, Elizabetta.

Who took me out, drinking and carousing, for the night. 

Actually, I lie. They barely drink and they don't carouse...well, not above their loud shouty-talk, to which they are most partial. So we drank a bit of spumante and they graciously almost all (who could) spoke English and it was fun.

We went back to hers and slept. Elizabetta had planned a secret surprise for the next day. Well, sort of a secret...the words 'spa' and 'massage' are the same in many languages, it seems and I overheard her telling someone the plan for the next day.   

And it was FABULOUS!! A SORT of country club where they allow dogs! (On a lead) and they have sunbeds in the sun (and shade) and two pools and a cheap bar and nice ladies who do treatments. Oh it was bliss!!

B enjoyed it too...

That evening we wandered home suitably relaxed and chilled out. 

The next day was the walking tour of Pavia. 

A local church, prepped for wedding.

Statue of Garibaldi. 

The joyous lady below him is Italy. She is open armed as Garibaldi has united her (top half with bottom half) and she has decided to pretend to forget Garib's double crossing acts of rape and murder across the country. Hoorah!!

This bit was interesting to me.

Apparently Chaucer came to Pavia quite a few hundred years ago and stayed here. He was tasked with setting King Richard up for marriage with some local beauty. Whilst here he read some book which inspired him to write The Canterbury Tales. 

So they say.

The town is old and pretty and pretty quiet.

A local church.

And a monument to the women of the south bank, who earnt their living washing clothes.

The old bridge. At sunset.

Elizabetta bought a mop.

What a beautiful weekend.

Quaintly Quinson.

Gave a lift to two friends of friend from Montpellier to Aix. Matisse and Pierre-Louis, students heading for Corsica. 'We love your dog and your caravan.' Thanks lads. 

I was heading for a place I'd read about in my aires book. A place with a name I'm not sure how to pronounce. Quinson. 'Hmmm, sounds like a tv detective from 1987', I thought to myself. 

But Quinson had secrets she was happy to reveal. Even older than that, she's prehistoric! 

Quinson has a (cold) lake which leads to beautiful gorges, accesible by canoe. She has little artisanal shops and a prehistoric museum! Quinson also had...a circus. Cue donkeys. There was also a rather large ostrich (No nails-on-blackboard donkey type screech, just really imposing stare).

Betty was underwhelmed. Donkeys obviously no longer a surprise..

St Jean Du Gard.

If Heineken designed aires...

Stayed in St Jean du Gard. A little town in lower, Eastern France famed for the fact that Robert Louis Stevenson passed through there with a donkey in 1879.

A quiet place, it had a beautiful old bridge, a chunky river..

And a street called 'Chemin de Robert Stevenson'. I couldn't help thinking that parts of the route must have looked almost exactly as they did 137 years ago. He liked it so much he even wrote a book about it. 

Betty studies fruit trees.

I followed Robert's chemin for a few kilometres. It must have been pleasant, mooching along with a few francs in his pocket alongside his donkey, Modestine. I wondered what he ate - there are fruit trees and the streams are full of trout - did he 'forage' or buy? Did people take him in a feed him because of his novelty factor? I wondered.

The water was clear, so we went for a dip.

The trail is easy to follow. The track is obvious and well signed (though I had map)...

This way..

Turn right...

There's even an association!! 

All in all we both enjoyed St Jean and the aire where we stayed was (My boast to Lady R and Mission Control) 'The best in France! Shaded, quiet, friendly, peaceful, quaint.' As evening fell I poured myself a glass of vino and settled down for the night. 

At 7am I realised that it's best to check full facts before releasing information. Man next door moved digger. Oh those clanking buckets!! 8am realisation reinforced again as a circus arrived in town (our second of the week. Have you ever heard a donkey braying? Seriously quite scary.). 9am the minature steam train let lose with its whistle. So much for tranquility, sigh. 

I decided to fully check St Jean out and stayed a second night. Tuesday am was even better, with the arrival of the market traders. (Great market, I bought a hat). 

Hmmm, prize for 'Best Aire' still on shelf gathering dust. 

La Grande Motte, Montpellier.

La Grande Motte is a beachside resort, south of Montpellier. We headed to an aire, which at €16 worked out at the same price as yesterday's campsite. But it had showers and toilets and electricty and it was packed and there were kids everywhere... They seemed nice enough though.

Dark clouds threatened so we went out for lunch. Half a carafe of rose and three courses later and we were sozzled...

Went to the beach, it rained. Betty loved it -technically dogs aren't allowed on the beach but there were only English people braving it (obvs) so we shamefacedly took her on. 

This was my last evening with Chantal so Sunday I drove into Montpellier (bit scary) and dropped her off...Well, parked van and lugged stuff to station due to entry height restrictions at Montpel. 

Then headed north. I wanted to check out the Parc de Cevannes. On the way I stopped and splashed out a fiver on 32 of France's finest. 

Life's a peach.