Dismissed as being too Disneyland-esque, Huw hated Carcassonne (very vocally of course, being him, but would we have him any other way..?!) but Suze and I succumbed to its charm nevertheless and enjoyed wandering round the cobbled streets within the old city walls, avoiding the tourist tat and crowds as best we could. In the enormous vaulted church a group of four men sang close harmonies, acappella, and made me cry.
Back at the truck, we found it had worked its magic, as it has a tendency to do, and attracted the attention of passers-by. And it doesn't seem to lure in just anyone either: the people that feel compelled to stop and talk and ogle and peer in are invariably colourful characters. Otto and Lilian were no exception. He was a spritely septegenarian German with the kind of impeccable poetic English that only non-native English speakers can possess, she his clearly-once-stunning French wife with grey hair to her waist. Together they had travelled the world over and over in various vehicles, working as a sewing machine engineer and nurse respectively. They told us of a close encounter just two days into a trip to Russia: a horrific collision with a speeding train which they both somehow escaped from unscathed. I asked if they'd ever had children (they were the kind of grandparents everyone should have) and they smiled at each other, evidently still madly in love, and replied that they'd simply never had the time.
We continued eastwards, munching on the outrageously good chocolate Easter eggs Suzie had bought us. In a Lidl car park more admirers stopped for a chat: David the tour guide on his hefty chopper who insisted that we stay with him if we're ever back in Provence (merci beaucoup monsieur) and a chatty 90 year old tottering back to his car with armfuls of booze who spoke not one word of English but whose appreciation was evident.
I had a turn at the wheel for a while and an hour before sunset, swung off the main road into the Camargue. The low sun threw a warm glow over the river and the bales of straw lined up on its banks, and we all went snap-happy: Huw striding off to seek out that perfect award-winning shot, and Suze and I striking poses behind reeds. Between us we have almost a hundred photos of that brief riverside walk. We wouldn't subject you to them all: only the best have made it to the website.
We cooked and ate a simple meal of tuna/tomato pasta and were back on the road again, Huw driving this time, into the night. Another hour or two and we found shelter with the truckers again, at a service station just outside Aix-en-Provence, and slept soundly, excited by the prospect of a hot shower in the morning.
