Provence

The Sommières tourist board calls me to Provence to create a new website. At dawn, before the first motorway service station, a fox commits hara-kiri on my bumper. As thanks for my toughness, he takes a fog light with him into nirvana and now lights the way home for the hedgehogs.

The journey eats up the kilometres, in a frenzy all the way to Avignon. After 11 hours, we arrive at dusk. The papal palace is dark and the bridge is already closed. In the chilly October, we wander through the almost deserted old town.

I know Avignon as the city of lights, a thousand restaurants and a hundred nougats. All three are on holiday. We spend ages looking for a restaurant. When we finally find one that serves tartines, we gratefully sit down at a table and order cider. Tartines are gratinated cheese sandwiches. They are 7 euros a piece, but at least they are nice and small. We now know, falling asleep hungry.

The next morning, we drive on to Sommières, a small old village in the Pays du Gard. I create www.sommieres-reisen.eu over the next three days, interspersed with evening walks through vineyards, olive groves, over hills, castles and chateaux. Our accommodation is a manor house from the 17th century. www.hotel.delorange.free.fr There is a piano next to the open fireplace, nothing is more than 100 years old. The landlord is a real gentleman. He makes orange marmalade and serves home-baked fruit cake in the parlour.

On Saturday evening, we set off on our journey home. We want to spend another night camping in Beauduc on the Mediterranean near the wild whitefish and flamingos. The wind forecast was already good a week ago. Now it’s too good. On the beach, the sand flies over the flat. Only a few kiters are out in the full offshore and gusty 25 knots. We make do with a stunt kite. Even that takes me away.

We have a barbecue and stoke a bag of wood. It’s not cold, but the wind is getting stronger every hour. The pegs are secured with thick stones, but that doesn’t help either. During the night, the wind turns into a storm. The tent rattles. No sleep. We take it down at six in the morning, but it’s too late: after 20 years, the poles of my tent break in the storm. 20 kilometres of gravel road through the Camargue salt flats back to the mainland. Even the flamingos have been blown away. A little later, I measure 37.7 knots of wind at the mouth of the Rhône.

One last stop in Zurich. Admiring cowhide slippers for 720 SFr, eating practically nothing for infinite coal and asking myself important questions. Where does the saying “Living like God in France” come from? Food in France is fine. Not always better than in Germany, but always at least a third more expensive. Why are the French on strike against a later pension and not for cheaper food? And when the gods were broke, they went to heaven…