France is, of course, a country of rivers more than any other feature. Every region is marked by its rivers. Slow and lugubrious in the north but mighty like the Seine and the Somme. Broad and exciting in the middle like the winding Loire or the charming Charente. Then there is the Dordogne and to the east the Allier, haut Loire, Saone and the mighty Rhone. And here, below the Auverne and fed by the Causses of the Massif Centrale at 800 to 1500 metres there is the Lot, the Tarn, the Jonte, the Dourbie and the Aveyron. These are mostly tributary rivers in reality, the Tarn to the Aveyron and then the Lot which finally meets to the Garonne, soon to be the mighty estuary of the Gironde at Bordeaux. There are many many more, all wonderful. The Lot and the Tarn capture excitement and drama but their best mileage is too high, the winters too keen.
But the Aveyron is a little different. True it starts life at 800 metres near Severac le Chateau above Millau but is soon out of the dolerite chasms of its bigger brothers. A wide valley is formed and the height degrades until now we are at about 200 metres or so and it is a wide and playful river running in the most splendid woodland, with fat farmland and fat farmers all around. And the stone is Cotswold yellow limestone that builds houses to dream for. And making villages and towns that ache to be walked and talked all day long. With lovely chateaux and donjons and churches and abbeys. And ducks and geese and all they make with goats and ewes to give us chevre and brebi. And some of the bext boulangeries in France. And wine. Gaillac may not be the highest grade but there is plenty and it is fine. And there is plenty more paysan reds and even whites to ensure decent Vrac at less than a euro a litre and three or four the picher sur la terrasse!
Heaven must look a bit like these peachy villages against their humpty bridges over gurgling streams and rivers. Winding roads lead everywhere and every village disappears into a couer privee that you penetrate with courage, to be rewarded with a little square, a cool church, some tended plain trees for shade and often a little cafe, apparently closed until you sit for a breather at a table. “Bonjeur, monsieurdame...” and you are off.
For us the pain is duplicated by the fact that where French property, three deaces ago so cheap, but more recently 'discovered' has again fallen back heavily. A fully renovated village house with three bedrooms, the usual fittings and a small garden? Maybe 120,000 euros. Feeling big? Try an old mill cum maison de maitre with corner towers, six bays, dependonces, a hectare of ground and a pool “bord de la riviere et cinq minutes de la ville”. Price? 325,000 euros. Yep, that's right. And you are 30 minutes from the city of Albi and just over the hour from Toulouse with TGV and flights to all parts. Sod it.
But the caravan is a nice alternative and fully flexible. Poop, parp said Toad and off he roared....
(Some details amended later - sorry).
