The end

After nine consecutive days of sleeping in a tent, last night we finally made it to DD's parents' house in Brittany and it was time to doze off in a bed again - complete with normal mattress, duvet, space to move and no ants to greet us for breakfast this morning. Bliss. Saying that, I have to say I did feel a teeny bit melancholic when I realised the mini adventure part of our trip was over. Not that we won't have a lovely time here en famille, of course, but my first attempt to 'rough it' was finally over. And, if I do say so myself, I think I did pretty well.

EVIDENCE THAT I BECAME AN OFFICIAL CAMPER:

1. I found putting the tent up with DD really easy by the end

2. I actually enjoyed getting the camping stove up and running

3. I finally began to sleep through the night on an air bed in a cramped space

4. I remembered to always carry loo roll with me at all times (by about the penultimate day, sadly)

5. I started wearing the head torch (but only in front of DD)

EVIDENCE THAT I AM OFFICIALLY STILL ME:

1. Encountering a wasp/line of ants/winged insect of any kind still throws me into a state of mini hysteria, complete with hopping around, flapping my arms, whimpering and the occasional squeal

2. Getting my shoes dirty never became easier

3. No matter how much I tried to scale it down, getting dressed/undressed/ready to go out/ready to go to bed would always take me an age

4. I like to hang my clothes up

5. While I can completely see the total practicality of Crocs on a campsite - I mean in every way, shape and form, these are clearly the most useful footwear for walking, showering, climbing and clambering over a pebbly surface - I absolutely refuse to put them on my feet

6. In the same vein as above really, while the head torch is one of camping's most essential tools, no question, I still haven't got over myself enough to be seen wearing one in public.

But I've had such a good time! Whether it was the glorious weather, South of France itself, the food, the wine, the people, the company of my camping buddy himself, who went out of his way to ensure I was comfortable and enjoying myself (thus ensuring that he, himself, would therefore also enjoy himself - happy wife, happy life and all that...), it was great fun. And so, as I sign off, I will leave you with a few things I've learned about life under canvas:

CAMPING: THE RULES:

• There will always be dew inside your tent on the morning you need to pack it away to move to another campsite.
• Rubber mallets are about as useful as a chocolate teapot when it comes to sun-soaked and/or stony ground. Take a metal one (or borrow one from your savvy French neighbour, who will be peering at you bemusedly from the tent next to yours as you struggle and swear at the amount of tent pegs that will be bending but refusing to go into the earth).
• No matter how much you warn each other/laugh at each other about it, you will continue to trip over one of the guide ropes every other day, minimum.
• Plastic bags are multitasking items of joy. They transform themselves into gloves for handling nasties, wet seat protectors, wet tent/towel holders, receptacles in which to tie up open milk or juice cartons, bins, wind breaks, the lot. Also extremely useful to carry things with.
• Two words: Wet Wipes. Your best friends.
• Never forget a pen knife - if you've already forgotten a knife to chop veg/cut string with, voila. Also has a bottle opener, corkscrew, nail file - I mean, who knew just how handy these things were? Oh, everyone.
• Never underestimate the power of being able to see in the dark. It really is quite useful to be able to see what you're cooking, whether you're going in the right direction to the toilet, whether you're climbing into bed rather than your suitcase or the cool bag. But I'm not just talking torches here, you need a stand-up light or lantern of some sort. And yes, the ridiculous yet indispensable head torch.
• Never walk all the way up the hill to the showers and toilets to then realise you've forgotten a) the loo roll or b) your flip flops. Ugh.
• The importance of layering shouldn't be underestimated. Even in a hot country, there's always the chance that at some point in the evening the temperature will drop, and while your Designated Driver sits there happy as a lark in his shorts and flip flops, you won't be able to rest until you've wrapped yourself up Michelin-Man-style in every single item in your suitcase, with a pair of his rugby socks pulled on over the top for good measure.
• Camping is not a time for looking glamorous (see above).

So for me, the pros and the cons are as follows, and I'll do the cons first, as I'd like to end on a positive note:

What I didn't like about camping:

1. My crumpled first-thing-in-the-morning face

2. Hiking up to the toilets without my loo roll

3. Communal toilets and showers

4. Bugs. Especially ants. And whatever decided to bite the inside of my knee and make it swell up to elephantine proportions and itch like you wouldn't believe

5. Dirty feet. Always. And dry from all the flip-flop wearing. PEDICURE!!

6. Sleeping in a small space on a bouncy air bed.

What I did like about camping:

1. Breakfast and dinner al fresco

2. Compartmentalising everything

3. Tent pockets - genius!

4. Great views, fresh air, starlit skies above your head

5. Sharing the daily chores and chatting away while you do the washing up together

6. Pretending that I'm totally the outdoorsy type now, and that I can handle anything

7. Feeling like I was 10 years old again and building a den with my best friend

And that's how Lulu Went Camping. And lived to tell the tale. I hope I didn't frustrate DD too much, and I really think I might even go again one day (sorry Catherine). Only next time I'll make sure I'm armed with double-strength bug repellant and perhaps a customised head torch that's a little more me (there must be one that doesn't ruin your 'do so much, they're missing a trick there...). Hope you enjoyed the blog, and for now, au revoir!

The last three days: Packing up, bye bye blue skies, hello rain...

So, after a lazy last day at Domaine des Naiades at Port Grimaud, we packed up and got ready for the next leg of the journey on Monday morning. While taking a shower, I realised once again how you really can't afford to be precious when it comes to unisex facilities on campsites. You must be prepared to wipe clean every toilet from drips before using them (despite being born equipped with the necessary instruments, men still don't always manage to aim well, sadly...). Also, one must steel oneself against the noise of men snot-rocketing into the shower every morning. It actually became a source of fascination just how much noise men make when showering. From singing, whistling, coughing and clearing their throats to all manner of blustering, huffing, puffing, harrumphing and snorting, it's like a front-row seat at some bizarre opera of masculinity.

Once showered and the tent put away, we made our way northward, on our trip up to Brittany to stay with DD's parents, where my own parents would be staying for a few days. We broke this long drive up with a stopover in Arcachon, a pretty seaside town split into quarters, each named after the seasons. Arcachon is a short drive from the largest sand dune in Europe, Dune du Pilat, but we decided against popping by to see it, as it would have just been an enormous mound of wet sand this morning, the heavens opening as they did for us last night. Parfait. After congratulating ourselves over pizzas on how we'd found ourselves yet another lovely campsite randomly on the way, thanks to whipping out the iPhone at a service station, our smugness turned to dismay as we saw the lightening rolling in. We got safely inside the tent and fell asleep to the soothing sounds of raindrops thrumming overhead, but my sleep was broken by panic attacks about how dreary it was going to be having to wake up in the rain and pack away a soggy tent covered in wet, heavy sand. And it did not. Stop. Raining. Il pleut beaucoup. Luckily, I'd had the foresight to pack a roll of bin bags. I like to pride myself at my having a placcie bag ready for all eventualities...

So no pics for today's post, as I didn't think you'd want to see a soggy, sand-covered tent rolled up inside a bin bag (although maybe you'd have been amused to see me hopping about in my shorts with my hoodie over my head, wet-wiping anything and everything I owned like an over-zealous mother with a chocolate-covered toddler). But for my last post this holiday, which I'll write tomorrow - as we're now in Guenin, Brittany, with the rellies, and sleeping in a comfy bed, canvas not included - I'll do a rundown of the pros and cons of camping a la Lulu, as well as offer a few tips I've picked up along the way, should you have been inspired by my exploits. Ah, looking forward to the return of the threadcount... (although, already missing our little tentside breakfasts, I have to admit).

Day 9: Antgate and the day of plenty

One of the most irritating things about camping, and one that cannot be avoided, is bugs. At Eze, we were hassled by a bunch of wasps every mealtime and were both bitten by mosquitoes almost the minute we arrived, despite drowning ourselves in Eau de Repellant. A citronella candle soon became our best friend. Now, in Port Grimaud, it’s not the wasps that are the problem, but the ants. We awoke yesterday morning to find the cool bag quivering with a stream of the beasts. They’d basically set up an ant super-highway all around the zip, with A-roads of them trailing to and from the bag to the outside of the tent. Naturally, I reacted coolly to this dilemma. So after shrieking, squirming and hopping from one foot to the next, we spent the next half an hour scraping them off the groundsheet, unpacking the cool bag, disposing of ant-infested food and making sure all food and drink-related products from now on are kept in the boot of the car.


It’s not like we were slapdash, though – everything was wrapped in aluminium foil then zipped up tightly in the foil and insulation-lined cool bag – which makes me think that these were Superman ants, capable of smelling food through aluminium, and probably also able to see through solid steel and move faster than a speeding bullet.


As for the ‘day of plenty’, well, we were off to St Tropez, which involved, firstly, plenty of walking. What we thought was a 10-minute dawdle into Port Grimaud to catch our boat to St Trop, was in fact a 40-minute trawl in the heat along a road, down a bike track, under a bridge, along a car park and then, once we got to the port, another hike round to the furthest end of the harbour, where the boat came in. This of course was repeated on our return. Silver lining? More of those French carbs and camembert burned off. Every cloud.


After soaking up the rays and the cool breeze on the top deck of our water bus to St Tropez, we arrived. And then came more ‘plenty’ – as in plenty of money. Like Monaco and Cannes, this place is dripping with cash. From the mega-yachts (some of which we’d spotted in Monte Carlo) to the pricey boutiques along the back roads to the designer stores alongside the market to the moneyed couples trotting along, showing off their razzle-dazzle. No wonder the French refer to the place endearingly as St ‘Trop’ (‘too much’). Whist attempting to celeb-spot, we headed to the famous Saturday morning market on the Place des Lices, where DD bought a hat and an oil painting of St Trop, and I bought a jumpsuit I’ve seen all the locals wearing, and a striped breton top, a la Brigitte.


Once we’d filled up on Moules et Frites and a bottle of something chilled, we headed to Plage les Graniers for some sunbathing, cooling off first in the sea (not as warm as the sea in Nice, I must add). This was all very lovely, and it was lucky that it was after I’d been for a dip that I heard the guy next to us talking about how the bay was full of jellyfish…


We decided to come back into St Tropez in the evening, reckoning that the less-than-ten-minute drive into town wouldn’t cost a lot in a taxi. Wrong. Here comes the plenty again. E30 for the trip in, E40 to come home again later… sheesh. No surprise really that we were hangover-free this morning. On remarking on how fresh I felt today, DD quipped that we couldn’t have afforded a hangover. Too true. The first bar we went to had mathuselems(sic) of Cristal for E14,500. Zut alors! So we went for a more discrete jeraboam instead. Ha! Hardly. Two cocktails each for E50 more like. But this spot was perfect. All the seats were turned to face the yachts lining the port, which were all lit up and filled with their partying owners, amusing themselves by quaffing champagne in front of their eager audience. I must mention here that we nonchalantly waltzed into said cocktail bar (Le Quai), perching onto a couple of perfect-view seats. Then a guy came over to us and asked where we were from and then if we had been seated. Turns out you’re not actually supposed to saunter in and seat yourself, unless you’re a resident or someone special, who has their very own seat, or you’ve phoned in and booked an area in advance. Oops. Luckily, the guy rolled his eyes at us and said he would let us off this once. Result! Best view in the house to watch all the see-and-be-seens swagger past/drive past in their lambourghinis/Harleys.


The rest of the night was spent sipping ridiculously priced drinks in ridiculously look-at-me bars, waiting for the clubs to open (the best ones don’t come out to play until midnight at the earliest. DD was mainlining Red Bulls in readiness). VIP Rooms is one of the most well known, but it appeared to be closed for the season, so we headed for the next best place, Papagayo near the old port, and danced away with the Euro set while trying to make an E18 drink last all night.


Tonight is our last night here in Port Grimaud, sob. Might need to rein in the spending and have dinner a deux by the tent before catching a movie in the car (our trusty BMW plays DVDs. It’s like our very own drive-in movie). Starting the drive up towards Brittany tomorrow morning, via Bordeaux and Cognac, then it’s one more night under canvas before meeting up with the rellies in Brittany to stay in a real bed again. Till then, au revoir!

Top to bottom: Catching up with French Grazia on Friday night after a day lazing by the pool. The language of style is universal, non?; Waiting for the boat in St Tropez on Saturday, trying out DD's new hat; Posing (quelle surprise!) in Papagayo at 2am

Days 7 and 8: Glitzy Cannes and the new pitch

Due to arriving quite late to our new home last night, I didn’t get the chance to post yesterday, so as I sit in front of our canvas porch with a new view in front of me, I’ll catch you up. Yesterday we packed up and left our lovely, scenic Eze campsite to head towards St Tropez, and we stopped off at Cannes on the way (as one does), to see how the other half live. Ooh. I’d like to be in that other half.


One word that comes immediately to mind when trying to describe Cannes is ‘sparkly’ – the sparkly see, the shimmering sand (imported to cover up those uncomfortable pebbles should those rich behinds ever decide to rough it on the beach for a change from their becushioned private loungers). Even the pavements seem to sparkle, especially along La Croisette, a see-and-be-seen street running parallel to the beach – but maybe that’s just a reflection from all the uber-shiny boutiques that sit along it (Prada, Hermes, Chanel, Dior…). And of course, the people sparkle – from their super-shiny lipgloss to their diamond-encrusted digits to their Swarovski-laden Louboutins. And that’s just the men. Sparkly, sparkly, sparkly. I loved it.


We took a spot of dejeuner on the aforementioned La Croisette (I was amusing myself with the juxtaposition of dining on one of Cannes’ most exclusive streets while later we would be sleeping in a tent), musing on the fact that the likes of Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald holidayed here in the 30s, and Brigitte Bardot was regularly Papped here in the 50s. Then we did the obligatory amble-with-an-ice-cream along the promenade. Ah, simple pleasures. Then of course we had to have our snaps taken on the red carpet at the Palais des Festivals et des Congres, where the film festival takes place in May, before checking out all the handprints immortalised in the paving stones around it.


While we didn’t spot any celebs, there were enough interesting people and flashy cars to goggle at beneath the palm trees, so we breathed in all the wealth then got back in the car for the next part of our journey. And after getting stuck in a particularly tiresome traffic jam along the way, where I began to get a little OCD about checking the time and started a mini-panic, convinced we weren’t going to get a camping pitch so late in the day (it was nearing 6pm and I was imagining us sleeping in the car), we finally found the site that Designated Driver had come across on the interweb the night before: Les Domaine des Naiades in Port Grimaud, 10 minutes’ drive (or ferry ride) from St Tropez.


Well, it couldn’t be more different to our first home. This place is an enormous holiday resort, complete with chalets as well as camping pitches, an Olympic-sized swimming pool with water chutes, 24-hour bar, free bottle of rosé for your first night, a welcome pack… This would do nicely. It took us half the time to put up the tent this time round, although we got through a few more pegs than before, as the ground seems to be pure sand and stone. And while our view isn’t as jaw-dropping as our Eze vista, this place has a lovely atmosphere about it. We spent all day today just lazing by the pool. Mainly because last night’s free bottle of rosé led to a second bottle, as well as a few beers to toast our good luck. Needless to say, we hardly noticed that the airbed had gone down in the night, and we weren’t feeling entirely fabuleux this morning… Quiet one tonight, hitting St Trop tomorrow to check out all the fuss. Bonsoir!

 

Top: taking in the sparkly bay. Below: making like the A-list

Day 6: The scent trail

Our last day’s camping on the side of the mountain in Eze. So far on our South of France adventure, we have abused a satisfying handful of senses. From the oenological (that relates to wine, for those who’ve already had a glass and can’t be bothered to look it up) to the foodological – chubby little figs, herby olives, le crusty baguette (bien sur!) or trois, risotto with local truffles (hitting the umami spot rather nicely), onion soup, freshly baked meringues the size of your head, camembert so ripe it’s ready to walk off… Needless to say, when we get to St Tropez tomorrow, I won’t be looking as good in my bikini as Brigitte Bardot did back in the 60s when filming there.



For today’s amusement, we drove inland about 30 mins from Nice to a town called Grasse, to cover the olfactory senses. Back in the middle ages, this town was used as a tannery, and it’s hard to imagine the vile stench of animal skins and fat being rendered in a place that’s now as fragrant as it ought to be, being the world’s fragrance capital. We learnt all about it in the perfume museum, then saw how the great perfume houses there actually capture the essences that make up a fragrance. We hadn’t heard of any of these great perfume houses, but that’s because they’re not advertised, as they only produce the essences and absolutes that go into creating a perfume such as Chanel No5, for instance. Anyhoo, suffice to say it was tres interesting, and we came away all the wiser about the processes of efflurage, distillation, parfum versus toilette and the like. We also came away about E100 lighter, after deciding we needed some of these parfums, scented soaps and candles in our lives, so delicieux did they smell.


On a camping note, I am actually typing this in the dark of our tent – whilst wearing a head torch. Yes, I’ve actually given in to the Godforsaken thing. As hideous as I look in this apparel (sorry excuse for a dalek? Overground miner?), I have to admit the bloody thing is so useful in the dark it actually hurts. Literally. I mean it’s painful to imagine how I look in it (and I nearly found out, as DD slyly attempted to snap a pic while I was unawares, the beast).


Packing up the tent tomorrow ready for campsite two. Will the views be as fabuleux? Will there be hairdryers? Will I ever get a full night’s sleep? Will I dare to wear the head torch outside of the tent in front of the viewing public? Stay tuned.

Inside the perfume museum

Day 5: Scandal sur la plage

Apologies for lack of post yesterday but I've been having dongle issues (oo-er missus), as in I can't always access any wi-fi, so you might have to bear with me. Currently typing this on my iPhone with one finger, which isn't at all tiresome... Also, I can't seem to edit properly or add pics on this, so apologies for lack of colour and any typos while I sort this out. But I digress.


Back to the camping. Well, my main issue so far (with two nights under my belt) is that sleep is kind of eluding me somewhat. First night I was too cold. Last night I was too cramped, and the airbed too bouncy. It's like I'm the Goldilocks of camping and i'm searching for a night's sleep that's juuust right. Let's hope tonight I'm straight off, or these dark shadows under my eyes will put out the sun.


Yesterday we went to Monaco. To sum it up briefly, I'll use these words: mega-yachts (it's a word), flashy cars, great views and stairs. Lots of 'em. Up and down. And up again. Then up some more. Talk about death by gradient. These Monaguese must have thighs you could crack walnuts with. Hats off to Princess Grace, there were buns of steel under those elegant skirt suits.


We won't talk about how I lost the parking ticket at the end of the day.


Today I took to camping like a pro, lighting the stove sans assistance so I could put the kettle on and popping up the little porch thingy - oh, I'm reliably informed it's known as an awning. Piece of cake. I didn't get lost in the campsite on the way back from the loo like last night either. And earlier today.


We were in Nice today, which was lovely. We wandered through the old town and bought lunch at the Cours Saleya market (since you ask: herb-wrapped cheese, cured ham, Provencale olives, fresh baguette and riper than ripe figs, still warm from the Nicoise sun. De-lish. We walked along the Promenade des Anglais before eating our haul on the beach and sunbathing by the sea. If I can post a pic of the sea I will, as it was just the most perfect turquoise. They weren't lying when they named this place Cote d'Azur.


For a spot of afternoon entertainment, and to finally reference the title of this post (you were wondering, I know), an altercation took place between two young French women sat a few metres from us. And when I say altercation, I mean one of them lost it and started ranting at the other one, before kicking her in the back and punching her in the face! Scandal sur la plage indeed!

Top to bottom: Yacht-spotting at Monaco's port; The tomb of Princess Grace in Monaco's cathedral; Just some of the hundreds of fresh spices at Nice's Cours Saleya market; Cheesy grins in front of the uber-turquoise sea in Nice, along the Promenade des Anglais

Day 4: Room with a view

So. I have spent my first night under canvas at Les Romarins campsite in Eze, in between Monaco and Nice. And the verdict? Now this is what I call camping! Of course it helps when you’re perched on the side of a mountain with a glorious view of Cap Ferrat (‘Billionaire’s Peninsula’) below, the warm breeze from the Mediterranean brushing your face and a fig tree for shade while blogging.


Our very first attempt to assemble the tent took around 45 minutes, including tweaking and obsessive attention to angles and guide-rope tension (Designated Driver was very scrupulous, such a good boy scout). My main responsibility was to bask in sunshine while helpfully holding the poles upright. It was quite a crucial role. Our air bed was very comfortable, although I might have to get used to the lack of sleeping space, and I was very pleased to find that our tent has handy little pockets behind your head for your mobile, glasses, emergency Twix, etc. Nice to have these things to hand. Quite enjoying the Dressing Room, too (apparently known as Room Two, but is basically my makeshift walk-in wardrobe). More importantly: a) The showers and toilets are immaculate, b) There is a hairdrier!! I almost choked up with joy, and c) The camping kettle works a treat. Cup of tea while you overlook the ocean, madam? Don’t mind if I do. Today we take on Monaco. More updates tomorrow morning.

Our new home!

The view from the campsite

Our first campsite meal

Tea with a view;

One of life's essentials