I did all theses things, more than once, and somehow always ended up where I started : not far from the tabac and the huge map of the town and surrounding area. If there was a sun I would be able to orientate myself. But grey and cold and wet are confusing states for me.
The little tent icon and the lake were firmly on the map, yet so elusive.
Val St. Jean, A Holiday Camp.
Generally not my cup of tea.
Generally priced out of my humble budget to reflect the amenities- pools with happily screaming children charging down spiraling super slides, gangly legged adolescents leaning heavily on their club for a round of goofy golf with the over keen parents, gyrating discos, off key karaoke, and themed soirees where sometimes, close to midnight, the noise levels rise and it sounds like everyone has abandoned their chairs and are dancing on the tables.
I am a quiet camper.
I don't even like unzipping my tent when all has gone sleepy and peaceful.
( although I do enjoy a little existential laugh to myself/ at myself while listening to the ziiiiiiiip zzzzzziiiiiiipppp, zip as we all shut ourselves into our permeable cocoons)
I wouldn't really define myself as parsimonious, but apart from preferring a simple field with only a flush toilet and a hot shower, I can't afford to camp for seven weeks in the luxury sites. I love the flee market thrill of a genuine bargain and simple municipal camping costing four euro has that bargain edge to it.
The reception at Val St. Jean reminded me of an American resort. There were lots of sparkling windows, soft chairs and racks of tourist attraction leaflets.
I left little muddy puddles as I crossed from the door to the desk.
With a sigh, and the barely perceptible nodding movement of the head that I now remember my father doing in awkward financial transactions, I gave the man 30 damp euro.
Without making eye contact, he returned most of it and even pulled a few warm coins out of the drawer.
Steamy showers.
Toilets with loo paper.
Free wifi in a heated television room.
I dry my boots and gloves on the radiator.
I smile at the children who alternate their stares between a sci fi horror with ooze dibbling monsters and me.
Merci St. Jean, I've landed with my nose in the butter.
Fountain in Muriac
Childebert, daughter of Clovis I, allegedly had a vision of the Virgin Mary,
accompanied by St. Peter, carrying the baby Jesus.
This led her to found a chapel at the side of the Rieu Mauri,
the small stream now known as the ruisseau Saint-Jean.
The little chapel attracted pilgrims and grew over the centuries to become the basilica
Notre-Dame-des-Miracles.
a little beetle-bellied Jesus with a super sized halo
possibly the patron who erected the cross,
barefooted, wearing a full pleated gown
and a headdress which looked like a crown (or Cossacks hat)
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