15th August, Oradour-sur-glane to Felletin.

I wanted to find somewhere fairly close to Clermont-Ferrand and a sift through the book of Aires offered Felletin, looked nice enough and a touch over an hour from Clermont, perfect, I arrived around lunch time, parked up in a very pleasant looking car park complete with toilet and free drinking water tap and mooched into the small town centre. It was market day, perfect, my lunchtime appetite would be quelled by various fresh breads, cured hams, sausages, relishes and pickles all locally produced and of course cheese, oh my God the cheese, on one stall alone an offering of 20 or so, it seemed rude not to try a few before plumping for my favourite then off to the next vendor. I collected my wares that not only would see off lunch but also tea and probably both meals tomorrow and sat a large table in the public square, there were about 10 people sat around it but it had room for as many more and they made me welcome. I sat and ate lunch in the pleasant sun and marvelled at the market around me. After the main course I headed to one trader who was selling a variety of dried fruits, the usual raisins, sultanas, pineapple, apricots ect but they had one thing I'd not seen before, chunks of dried melon, I was intrigued and bought a handful, good stuff, I was pleased with my choice of dessert.

I spent most of the day sitting in the sun reading, War of the world's long since dispatched to be replaced by Allan Quartermaine, the day rather drifted by me which was nice, my only real concern being how to stop the van smelling of ripe cheese but then again, why would I want to ? I feel very relaxed today and my surroundings and fortuitous choice of destination have only served to promote this feeling, people describe some small towns as sleepy, this one was and so was I, too much food at lunchtime saw me take a little nap in my chair by the van. When I woke I woke with a grin on my face, today has been a slow-paced but good day with nothing more remarkable to write about than the fact that the van really does smell of cheese.

16th of August Felletin to Saint Pourcain via Clermont Ferrand

I was up early, the morning was fresh and the cold water I washed with really sharpened me up. It was time to drive to Clermont for today the Top14 season started and Clermont played host to Grenoble, the hours or so drive in was pleasant enough and the sun was making an appearance already, it generally seems a little shy in the mornings.

On the way I found myself a little taken aback at the scenery today, it would appear that to get to the Rugby I would in fact be driving through a range of, not mountains but Volcanoes, wasn't expecting that !

I found a place to park for free less than half a mile from the stadium an wandered off to buy a ticket, this was my first Top14 game and I was excited ! The stadium was great and the atmosphere was that only provided by passionate sports fans on the first day back after the off season. Fofana, Parra, Rougerie and Bonnaire all played as did Abendanon on his debut after a move from Bath but the Fox did not, Jonathon Davies one of the latest Welsh imports to France has not fully recovered from the shoulder injury sustained playing for Wales against South Africa, another game I was in attendance. Clermont showed true class at times and their supporters are fanatical to say the very least, Grenoble put up a good fight, better than I expected but were found wanting.

After a drama-free escape from the metropolis that is Clermont I found my way with ease to Saint Pourcain, I learned quickly (mainly due to the massive amount of posters) that the Tour de France passes through the town, they seemed very proud ! The Aire was busy (50+) but quiet and I managed to bag a spot on the river bank and very pretty it was too. After a mild argument with a French neighbour who was questioning if my van was a "camping car"  as it had no toilet and therefore shouldn't be allowed on the Aire, I think he was just jealous of my pitch. I soon learned that good body language and a well executed glare car transcend any language barrier, his wife ushered him back in to their van and shot me a nervous smile. That was the first bit of negativity I've had from anyone in over two weeks and it annoyed me, I've had such a great day and I've had such a great time touring round, I'm determined not to let the little Frenchman rattle my cage. So I did the sensible thing and went for a bike ride, it was dark by the time I returned and there were no lights on in his van so tears before bedtime after all.

14th August, Uzerche to Oradour -sur- Glane.

Thus far I have tried to be mildly entertaining, witty, observational and light hearted. Today has forced to abandon all the former aspects of my writing. I don't know the best way to do this so I'm just going to go for it, cold hard facts.

Oradour is a small village just West of Limoges in the heart of the Limousin region, in 1944 it had population of a

little over a thousand, most of whom lived in the out-laying areas and only around 400 actually lived in the village. In the early months of 1944 high ranking officers of the Nazi special branch, the SS had taken up office in Limoges, their task to put an end to resistance fighting in the region and quash believe in the cause. It was on this basis and this alone that the following took place.

June 10th 1944 saw Ordour busier that normal, a couple of local schools had closed, swelling the infant school and the all girl primary school beyond capacity and the monthly supply of tobacco rations had arrived bring men from the far reaches of the village into its heart. Armed with this knowledge the SS struck. They arrived at lunch time and quickly surrounded the village, by 3pm they had rounded up all inhabitants of the village and separated them into 5 groups, 4 consisting of men and one large group consisting of women and children, the latter were taken to the church. The four groups of men were moved to various sites across the village and upon the signal from the SS captain in charge, shot, all 250 of them. Of the 200 women and 200 children in the church, one escaped, the rest were forced to stay in the church while the SS soldiers set it on fire, anybody who attempted to leave via the large doors was shot.

The SS soldiers then rounded up all the bodies of the men and burned them before burying them in a mass grave, the same burial that met the remains of the women and children, thus leaving almost everyone unidentifiable.

The town was then scorched and in part exploded before being abandoned by the troops.

A total of 642 people lost their lives that day.

General Charles de Gaulle ordered that the village be left undisturbed and unrestored and in the condition that the SS left it in 1944 so that future generations could experience the devastation.

Today I have seen war damaged buildings, I have seen cars left to rot in garages, no longer tended by their owners, I have seen sewing machines still on kitchen tables and I have seen the gut -wrenching ruins of a school. Today I have stood where innocent men my own age were gunned down and I have stood in the remains of a church where 450 women and children were burned alive all some 70 years previous. They say that war is hell but this is evidence of a new level of hell, wars are fought by soldiers and these were not soldiers, this was slaughter.

I stood in the memorial and looked at the marble walls, each one adorned with the name and ages of each person who lost their life that day. I made a point of reading each one. The youngest was 8 days old.

13th of August, Vers to Uzerche.

My first job this morning was to make use of the shower, so freshly washed and shaved I felt prepared for the 2 and a half hour drive that would see me leaving the midi-Pyrenees and firmly entering the Limousin region of France and a picturesque little town called Uzerche, a medieval town with many complete buildings at the heart of the community. I took some photos while trying my hardest not to look too much like a stereotypical tourist and I set out exploring the old train line, the Aire as per yesterday is the car park of the old train station although not quite as pretty it did have a toilet block ! Running close with Biarritz this is the busiest Aire I have stayed at to date, by the evening it was full with over 30 motor homes. Anyway the disused railway track had been converted to a cycle way not dissimilar to the Tarka trail and ran parallel with the river, there was a handy 25km circuit that proved to be very scenic as well as allowing me to watch some kayakers/canoeists to navigate a slalom course close to a weare.

By the time I had got back to the van it had been flanked by two Dutch vans, I seem to be seeing a lot of Dutch people and I have to say that the more I see the more convinced I am that they are the friendliest nationality on the planet.

As the evening drew on I headed in to the town centre, there was live music at one bar so I stopped, as I did so did they, although only for a break. Unusually for me I was wearing a rugby shirt this evening, an Exeter Chiefs one to be precise and the bar owner struck up conversation with me, it appears that there are three things that the people of Uzerche are fiercely proud of, in ascending order.....their lovely medieval town, their heavy involvement in the French resistance and during WW2 and most of all their 101 year old rugby club, who I'm told famously in the 1970's beat Clermont in a cup game. I explained that Llanelli Scarlets, the team I support, beat the All Blacks 50 years ago and it is still commemorated with a regional holiday in West Wales. The bar owner was convinced his story was better, as he had bought the beer I didn't want to contest it too much !

I got back to the van quite early this evening as I have something quite important to do tomorrow, I was advised to visit my next stop by my boss although at the time of writing this he is now my former boss, I'm heading to Oradour -sur-glane the site of a WW2 atrocity and I want to to be fully focussed and prepared for what lays ahead.

12th of August, Barbotan Les Thermes to Vers vis Cahors.

I had a bit of a lay in today, didn't get up til gone 9 and it was half ten before the van was stowed and I'd done a lap of the town on the bike to make sure I hadn't missed anything. I hadn't.

It occurred to me as I trundled North East that I hadn't happened upon an interesting bridge in a while and that made me a little sad.

Cahors is a lovely town/city or certainly appears to be, I saw a couple of novelties on my cytour (a new word I'm coining to describe touring a location whilst on a bike) firstly that strung through the main streets of Cahors is a high ropes course, fixed between lamp posts and the tress that line the roads, you can even buy a lofted guided tour. Secondly Cahors is miles from the coast, barely out of the foothills of the Pyrenees and extremely central, it does however have a large river running right through it (with an old and pretty albeit boring bridge) so a local entrepreneur has decided to create a beach only the riverside, importing sand and laying out sun beds, very clever. I greatly enjoyed my short stint in Cahors but I needed to press on.

The route to my overnight stop in Vers ran parallel with the river and slowly made its way towards the head shed of the watercourse. Upon arrival I was immeasurably pleased with the Aire, a grassy, park-like area with not only a toilet but what heaven is this ? a serviceable shower ! I cooked myself a decent lunch, following my own advice from yesterday's downtrodden mood and set about exploring Vers, there isn't a lot of it but what there is needed to be seen. Some amazing views up and down stream, high rock faces that edges the valley carved by the river over centuries stood like impending bookends, a river at the base so clear it puts glass to shame and yet another disproportionately large church. The French do appear to love a big church !

The Aire was, upon further investigation, part of the grounds of the old railway station, the station itself having now been converted into a quirky but very desirable house. The tracks are still laid and not altogether overgrown, I'm not sure when or why they closed the line but as there is only one road along this valley floor it must have dealt quite an economic blow to Vers and almost doesn't make sense. Sightseeing aside there isn't a lot here any more, there are several closed businesses and a couple of others who appear to be struggling, it would be a shame to see this place collapse but it would be even more of a shame, I think, to let it become commercialised.

On a completely different note the van has developed a squeaky brake pedal, I've dosed everything in WD40 and left it soak, I went in search of some free WiFi to poach as I'd been out of contact with the great wide world

for a few days and to my great sadness I learned that Robin Williams has taken his own life. The class clown, the mimic, the frustrated genius both comic and observational, the depressive, the alcoholic, the drug user, the boy who refused to grow up, the sole reason I know where Boulder is, the sole reason I watched a Disney film on my own, the sole reason I understood divorce and visitation rights from a view point other than my own, the sole reason I'm glad we don't have to have 35mm film developed any more and the sole reason I have listened to Martha Reeves and the Beach boys in a 90 minute period and above all a man I could relate to on so many levels, an inspiration, an icon and a man that will be sorely missed by so many.

O Captain, my Captain.

11th of August, Arette Pierre Saint Martin to Barbotan Les Thermes via Pau.

Leaving Saint Martin was actually rather hard, I filled my washing up bowl full of cold Pyrenees water and had a good wash before I packed up the bed and set off, the views to be had on the descent of the French side of the mountains had to be said weren't quite as good and in parts obscured by cloud, I initially headed for Pau, a small city that had been described as an interesting historical town with a chateaux. I arrived after a mundane drive, parked up and hopped on the bike for the customary reconnoitre. I was back at the van within an hour, I found the place dull, dirty and totally uninviting, obviously I hadn't seen all of it but I hadn't got this impression before, not even of the car park at La Rochelle so I followed my instincts and hit the road again, this time headed towards Barbotan.

Barbotan Les Thermes, as its full name would suggest is a spa town and a quaint little one at that, the Aire was pleasant, the small "high street" was full of local produce shops and brasseries and towards the lower end of the town stood and impressively large church for the populous, a medieval gate and a extremely well manicured park. For a 33 year old bloke I've spent a lot of time commenting on parks or sitting outside people watching or reading in the sun (I've done most of war of the world's now) I guess this pace of life just infects you, I'm not saying the French are lazy but it would appear that today only half the businesses in town have bothered to open and everybody is in the park, snoozing on benches.

today hasn't been rip roaring, I'm surmising that the combination of the last two days being a sensory overload, the lack of regular proper meals, sleeping in the van and the heat have meant that there were always going to be low spots, I think today was destined to fail but I was always prepared to sacrifice a day or two in three and a bit weeks to the gods of meh.

A nice spell in the public baths and the steam rooms of this historical town would do me good, closed you say, thought so. Only one thing left to do.....un biere si vous plait.

10th of August, Pamplona to Arette Pierre Saint Martin.

After striking a "Bucket list" item off the schedule yesterday I became determined that the way home wasn't an anti-climax or simply the drive home. Nothing could have been further from that notion with what unfolded in front of me today.

N135/N137 the map calls it, the sign posts say Pamplona to Francia. The locals call it the Navarra pass. What it is in fact is a ribbon of high quality asphalt that drapes itself over some of the most breath taking and awe inspiring scenery I've ever had the pleasure to encounter. The road, if such a simple term does it justice, runs over the

Pyrenees and through the heart of the Navarra national park, mountains, valleys, rivers, waterfalls and forests stretching to the horizon that only serves to underline the brightest blue sky you have ever seen, are around every corner and corners there are a plenty. I'm not good enough at this to begin to describe the natural beauty of this place but I will try and describe the man made beauty that is the road. It twists and turns like an unspooled tape from a cassette reel, reminiscent of the Stelvio pass of James Bond and "Italian job" fame couple with the wild imagination of a 10 year old with access to unlimited Scalextric track. The inclines can seem ludicrous and the degree of the hairpins incredible, what I wouldn't have given to be in an E-type, a Daytona or other exotica, as it happened the van did just fine, you can't make a cup of coffee to stop and admire the view in a 1960's Ferrari.

I took nearly 3 hours to cover 70 miles and when I arrived at Saint Martin I found to to be, well, a ghost town. Saint Martin is a notable ski resort barely a mile inside the French boarder how ever as we all know it is smack bang in the middle summer and there is no snow, I don't mean not enough to ski on but none whatsoever. As a result the whole resort is completely empty, devoid of all life except for me and some goats with bells around their necks. I had a good explore of the complex in all its eighties glory and it really is empty although I did find the occasional light on, the place exuded an atmosphere that made it almost eerie, kind of like the Overlook hotel in the Shining only in reverse. As there was little to amuse me except the view I took it upon myself to try and find the best vantage point.....by climbing, OK, walking up one of the ski slopes under the shut down chair lift, it was hard work but worth it.

By the time I had got back to the van a couple of other motorhomes had arrived but only for lunch apparently, they hung around for a while but I was getting the impression by the time the last one left that they knew more about this place than I did. I left Pamplona without restocking my fresh food, eager to get some miles under me and convinced I'd pass something on the way, that was a mistake, no shops and nothing else even remotely open I had to rely upon my secret stash, I took the camping stove and gas bottle up to the balcony of what once appeared to be a very swanky apres ski lodge and cooked my super noodles like a king, a lonely king but a king none the less. They were OK, not really chicken flavoured as the packet suggested but OK. I packed up my kit and headed back to the van, smug that I'd made the best of a scenic but bad situation. And then it came. Fog. Like you'd never seen before, I'm not even sure it wasn't cloud but within minutes I could see no more than 2 foot in front of me. Remote deserted ski resort, fog and already a thought of a Stephen King story in my head, what was I to do ? Climb in the van, lock the doors and watch Xmen (thanks MBK) and hope that a clown didn't come and kill me to complete the hat-trick. I wasn't scared, honest. I got into bed with the sound of goat bells doing nothing to ease the tension.

I've just remembered the bar man in the golden room of the Overlook hotel was called Lloyd.