Campsites were chosen solely on the basis of their position on the route, so campsite 1 was an odd choice for us, an enclave of british caravans in the grounds of a loire-valley house owned by a very british retiree. But considering it was 32 degrees when we arrived, somewhere with acres of space and a pitch next to a giant weeping willow concealing a garden swing on which to drink Nathaniel's San Miguel(!) was pretty much perfect. The kids were very happy bombing around on their bikes - there was more space that anywhere else we'd been!
Campsite 2 needed to be somewhere where we could hire a room/bed/caravan/tent cheaply so that we didn't have to strike camp the next morning. And so we ended up at a Normandy Eurocamp campsite! Another unlikely choice. But this one was tiny, provided us with a safari tent (which the kids were desperate to try out) and had a swimming pool and a lake. And despite the fact that it was full of English people making no atempt to speak French, it was actually really pleasant. I'd go again just to watch the sun set over the misty lake from our veranda.
The next morning we got bread and tried to get out quickly so that we could find time during the journey to the ferry to stop and and stock up on cheese and chorizo and other important staples. However, there were some essentials that had to be catered for, such as canoing!
And then it was just driving. Across spectacular bridges at Honfleur. Stopping for a run into a small supermarket for a poor selection of cheese which still out performs that available to us in York. Arriving in Calais in good time, only to be stuck in the slowest moving queue known to man, and just managing to catch our scheduled ferry in the last few minutes of check in. We watched the dark clouds over Dover, and then, for the second year running, drove through horizontal, wet rain along the M20. A perfectly typical journey.
Fortunately, our spirits were revived by Abingdon, picking veg and guttering. A fine end to a fine holiday.
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