The hills are alive, with the sound of campervan

Auxonne is a fortified town with a military college which, for just two years back in the late 1700s, was attended by none other than Napolean Bonaparte. And, boy, don’t they make a meal of that fact. If they can’t name a street, square or shop after the diminutive despot, then they simply whack up a bloody great statue of him instead. 

We’d been met in Auxonne by our friend Matt who would join us for the rest of our trip. Once we’d ensconced ourselves in the town’s campsite, the three of us set off on a bike ride along the river to the village of Flamarans, seeking out vineyards that might let us taste their produce. However, despite Auxonne being situated in Burgundy, we found not a single grape. Even more annoyingly, Flamaran’s one and only bar was shut. In fact, the only shop in the village was a taxidermist’s and, given that none of us were in particular need of a stuffed boar, we cycled all the way back to Auxonne, hot, disgruntled and empty-handed. 

 

After our sweaty bike ride, Claire remembered that there was an outdoor swimming pool next to the campsite, so we all trotted off to enjoy a nice cooling swim. At the gate there was a sign showing a picture of some floral board shorts with a cross through them. Thinking that must mean “no awful patterns”, I checked with the woman at the gate to see if my tastefully monotone swimming shorts were acceptable and was told, in no uncertain terms, that they were not. Matt fared a little better, in that he got past this grumpy fashion sentry and made it to the water’s edge – only to be forcibly ejected by a little old man wearing a pair of skimpy briefs and masquerading as a lifeguard. It turns out that, as in much of France, men must wear tight little Speedos if they wish to swim in a municipal pool. As a heterosexual man of a certain age, I don’t own a pair of Speedos. In fact, I’d go as far as to say that nobody with the kind of exotic physique that I possess should ever be seen in Speedos. Certainly not in public anyway. Why do they want to see my man-parts all trussed up in a little pouch? Also, nobody was stopping girls in one-piece swimsuits and telling them to go put on a skimpy bikini. I was outraged. It seems that liberté, égalité and fraternité don’t extend to swimming apparel.

To console ourselves we visited Auxonne’s weekly night market (surprisingly not called Napolean’s Bona-mart or something) imagining we’d be able to partake in some lovely local produce and sample some delicious local wine. It turned out that what was mostly on offer was burgers, cheap electronics and, bizarrely, native American dream catchers. Not quite what we (or Napolean) had in mind.

We left Auxonne and pootled off to Morzine in the Alps. About three years ago, Claire and I worked as chalet hosts for an amazing company called AliKats and we’d arranged to meet up with our Alpine friends for the weekend. Of course the Alps, famously, are quite hilly. I’d go as far as to say mountainous. So our poor little tin van, with its hairdryer-sized engine, struggled a bit with some of the steeper inclines. By the time we were crawling up the hill to AliKats HQ the bread bin was in first gear, moving slower than walking pace and making a noise like a dying walrus.

It was great to see Al and Kat (the eponymous owners of AliKats) and their kids (the AliKittens?!). Five-year-old Ivy was particularly excited to see Claire and celebrated by spending the afternoon colouring in her face. We had a simply brilliant weekend of eating like kings, drinking like winos and hill walking like asthmatics. And after a week of sleeping in a cramped metal box, the joy of an actual bed is something that is very hard to better.

We left Morzine refreshed and revived. It was time to see if the van felt the same way. As the squealing brakes echoed around the valley and the engine coughed and spluttered its way back down the hill, we guessed it hadn’t. Maybe it just needs a holiday…