Living Like God In France?

Some wisdom is easy to grasp. Others you have to survive in order to begin to understand them. “Living like God in France” is one of the latter. The destination: Provence. The time: peak season, start of the summer holidays in Bavaria and France.

In the face of the economic crisis, President Hollande called on his people to go on holiday in their own country. They obeyed en masse. I’m still amazed that we make it to Mulhouse, France, in just 3.5 hours in the evening. The traffic jam only comes after driving through the night before leaving for the Rhone Valley near Montélimar. From then on everything goes very slowly. Every 10 kilometres, the French set up altars for Mercurius. They flash in the night.

At dawn, a croissant in Vaison la Romaine. Then on to the old villages of the Dentelles. It’s getting hot. Nothing against Ra. After the filthiest Bavarian summer in living memory, we are grateful for every ray of sunshine. But 14 hours in the car take their toll. The almost 500 racing cyclists who torment themselves up the mountain during our crossing of Mont Ventoux don’t inspire us with any great enthusiasm. Only the shady resting place on a vineyard in the Dentelles shortly afterwards manages that. The Tour de France passes by.

We arrive in Orange in the evening. The Roman amphitheatre lies quietly before us. Minerva is asleep. We stock up for several days in the wilderness and, after a short night, continue on to the Mediterranean the next morning. We just about manage to get through the newly erected campervan barrier in the Carmargue. Numerous cars make offerings in the form of shock absorbers and panelling on the 20 km of pothole-ridden road to the kiting Mecca of Beauduc Merkur. The flamingos can’t stand it and stick their heads in the water.

You can still camp for free on the right-hand beach, even if there are big problems with the local authorities this year. At least the access to the beach is better than ever. Thanks to the good 5 kilometres of accessible beach, thousands of cars and campers get lost surprisingly well. At the very end, just before the start of the nature reserve, we set up camp. It’s unbelievable what we could fit into the car. Aeolus gives me a nice 18 knots all day, I finally get to kite.

The park rangers don’t even care about the beach fires, which are actually forbidden. Everything seems as relaxed as ever. We have a barbecue and pay homage to Bacchus with a dozen Austrians. The next day, the wind is gone, just like 90% of the campers from the weekend. The beach is empty, quiet and hot. We walk a few kilometres to a lighthouse. The salty sand burns our feet. Everything is quiet. The sun is setting. One day later, we continue our journey.

We select “beautiful route” in the sat nav. Bad mistake. The immediate consequence is an hour of meditation exercises in a traffic jam around the old harbour in the chaos of Marseille. A little later we arrive in Cassis. There’s a queue of cars going down and one going up. Everyone stands in between. Anyone who turns round after Medusa freezes to stone. There isn’t a single free car park in the whole of Cassis. It’s cramped and completely overcrowded. Five hotels are fully booked, as is the only campsite. So a boat trip to the legendary azure-blue Calenque bays is out of the question.

On to La Ciotat, an hour’s wait for dinner. Also fully booked. We have to get away from the sea. 180 kilometres up into the Verdon National Park with the glowing blue Lac St. Croix. Three other hotels and five campsites are fully booked. We hardly have eyes left for the beauty, we are too exhausted from 12 hours on the road once again. Shortly before sunset, the pass road north of the Verdon leads us to a small camping á la Ferme with a view over the gorge – and a free pitch.

At an altitude of just under 1000 metres, the night is quite cool. The Verdon, with its gorges up to 700 metres deep, is considered the greatest rafting area in Europe. So I try to organise a tour the next morning. But the water is low in summer. Rafting is only possible on Tuesdays and Saturdays, when the locks in Castellane open. That leaves canyoning. But all the tours are fully booked. Back to the farm.

We hike 8 kilometres down into the steep Verdon valley. The water is cold and clear. For every 100 metres of river, there are just as many tourists on pedalos and kayaks, who have come up from nearby Lac St. Croix. Their cries echo in the narrow gorge. We hoped to be able to hike as far as the lake. But the Sentier des Pecheurs leads back up the slope, 400 steep metres at over 30 degrees. At the top, I try to stop for the others back to the car. Over 100 cars drive past, it’s the shittiest place in the world to hitchhike.

I pick up Mel, Uli and Thilo in the car and we drive down to the crowded lake. Up to Moustiers-Sainte-Marie, a beautiful old rocky village. Unfortunately, it’s also completely overcrowded. But we get five leaves of salad for just €6.70 and a jar of honey for €14. For the first time in my life, I don’t want to go any further without a hotel reservation. High season in Provence can only be survived with divine assistance. We use our mobile phones to book two rooms in Cannes for the next night. It only takes an hour. It’s long since dark when we heat up the pass road back to the camp.

Early the next morning, we continue through the Verdon valley to Castellane and Grasse, the world capital of perfume. Lilac-flavoured cooling water is sprayed in the alleyways. Unfortunately not enough for scenes à la “Perfume”. On to Cannes, another long traffic jam. We are delighted to discover that our hotel is only 300 metres from the Festival Palace. The joy vanishes when we realise that we can’t get into the pedestrian zone and that the only parking space costs an extra €28 per day.

Our hotel booking via Venere arrived. At least one of two. After half an hour of discussion, we get the last free parking space for just €76 a night. Stretching luxury yachts, vying for La Croisette, circling the festival palace, sniffing the red carpet, sipping a calming cocktail, up to the castle, eating something expensive, off to bed. Cannes. Check.

I organise a campsite on the Cote d’Azur in Sainte-Maxime near St. Tropez for the next day. Thanks to the obligatory traffic jam, we only need just under 3 hours for the 50 kilometres. Mars passes by in his battle wagon. When we arrive in St.Maxime, the campsite manager grumbles: “Yes, what? Just one day? No.”, turns round and walks away. Thanks, arsehole! Onwards. We feel lost. It’s all madness here. Madness at 35 degrees, stirred.

After another two hours, we arrive on the Hyères peninsula. Three campsites are full, one is ugly, the last one is nice and reasonably cheap. Cheap? With prices of up to €60 for a night at the campsite or €180 for a night in a wooden hut, you’re bound to look at it at some point. Set up the tent and off to the sea. It’s hot and crowded. Neptune must have drowned the few thousand bathers long ago. My head is numb. I can’t see anything beautiful anymore, I’m just flat and stressed.

The next morning we have to move to another campsite. Then we take the car for a tour of the Hyères peninsula. Another bad mistake. We can’t go forwards or backwards. I almost run over a dog while I wonder why the peninsula doesn’t sink under the weight of the cars or simply close. Rien ne vas plus. No forwards, no backwards, no car park. Just residential streets and traffic jams. Old town of Hyères, looking for open Wi-Fi for the next day’s booking. Failed for a good two hours.

Without a hotel, we travel to the Luberon a day later. We are lucky once. We find two nice hotel rooms in the old hilltop town of Bonnieux. A brass band plays at the village festival. We drown Bacchus with a view of the sun setting behind the castle of the Marquis de Sade.

Last day. The ochre quarries of Roussilion are world-famous. That’s why parking costs money, as does walking afterwards, of course. We managed to get in halfway, but by 10 a.m. the place is more crowded than a field latrine: as soon as you’re in, you just want to get out. Up to the castle of La Coste. The current owner is Pierre Cardin. The former owner, Marquis de Sade, is locked up in a cage in front of it.

Off to Avignon. Our hotel can only be found after we have entered “41 € living room” into the sat nav. Anyway, the old town is calling. Pope’s palace, overpriced food, shopping. All done and dusted. Get in the car in the morning and drive 1100 kilometres back. On a short stop in Freiburg, we have the best meal of our entire trip to France at Tacheles.

Living like God in France? In high season, you have to be a god to survive that. It was beautiful. Above all, it was exhausting. Without such cosy fellow travellers, it would certainly have been a massacre. Now I’m relaxing at work and ready for rehab.

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