bit of a boules up

Our friends invite us to visit Saint Antonin to play pétanque with them in the village competition.

We punch Saint Antonin into the GPS and she comes up with two places. One is in Provence. We choose the other which is west of Toulouse as we know our friends are about 100kms from there.

We couldn't manage driving in France without the GPS. We call her Joyce as she sounds like a gentle well spoken English woman from a BBC program. The kind you could see reporting from the middle east while bombs explode and yet she stays as calm as if describing a royal garden party.

The drive is uneventful until we pass through Toulouse on a spaghetti tangle of big busy roads. “Have you looked at the map on the the screen?” Dave asks. “Yes, but it's doing my head in,” I reply.

Even with Joyce's calm no-nonsense guidance we manage to take one wrong turn. But the beauty of Joyce is that she is implacable and unflappable. “The route is being recalculated,” she announces in a voice devoid of derision or anxiety, and she firmly redirects us through the network of roads which remind me of the Mad Mouse, a sideshow at the Royal Adelaide show which I foolishly rode once with my son.

Eventually we leave the endless apartment blocks behind and see fields of corn and hay and sunflowers from the busy motorway. The country is flat and uninteresting compared to the Aude region where we are staying. Strange, we think, after four hours, as we neared our destination. Our friends said it was spectacular country. Perhaps it changes suddenly.

Finally Joyce directs us to turn off on a narrow road and after 20 kms announces,”You have arrived at your destination.”

Sure enough, there is the sign, Saint Antonin. “But we can't go into the town,” I say. “there is a fete today and we won't be able to get a park, so we have to go straight to the camping ground to meet our friends for lunch and pétanque.”

But we are already in the village. Not a car. Not a person. Three houses One Mairie. No shops. No bars or cafes. Not even an église. I wonder where our Bed and Breakfast is, but before we can blink we are out of the town. We drive around for half an hour looking in vain for a camping ground

Tired and hungry, it slowly dawns on us. We must be in the wrong place!

How is this possible?

Luckily I have brought the French Road Atlas. I check the index. Yes, Joyce was right. Only two 'Saint Antonins' but I notice five 'Saint Antonin-somethings'. Through a process of elimination we choose two possibilities, north east of Toulouse, but one is too far. We choose 'Saint Antonin Noble Val' because it is larger on the map. We phone our friends, they don't answer, so we may travel for another four hours and still not find them.

I have a hell of a headache. Dave is limp with driving and disappointment. Then I find I have lost the money from my purse, probably when we stopped at the boulangerie. We push on. The sky darkens. I see a lightening flash on the horizon. The traffic is horrendous, as the weather worsens.

We see fruit orchards and almond trees and broad rivers. “I think this IS the region,” I say. We reach the town, gloomy in misty rains and heavy skies. There IS a fete with tractors and hundreds of cars clogging the roads as they leave. Everything is sodden. The light is fading fast.

“At least we know it is the right place.” I whimper.

But we can't find the tunnel or the camping ground. We ask a man walking along the road with umbrella and baguette. “Premier a gauche,” he replies. First on the left. We have arrived.

After a fruitless search of the site, we ask the manager who looks through pages of names in her book of registrations. Our friends are not listed.

“Are there any other camping grounds here?” I ask

There are two more. As we approach the first one I see the landmark our friends had mentioned...a stone tunnel through the hillside. And rising up behind it are the white Les Gorges de l' Aveyron.

Les Gorges de l' Aveyron at dusk.

Eventually we find them, exhausted from traumas of their own. There had been such a fierce storm that it had brought down trees and flooded the office of their camping ground. The fete and the pétanque had been washed out. They have been working all day.

The woman from the B&B has just rung them wondering where we are. Perhaps she hasn't kept our room. We rush in to town. All is well. We settle into Numéro Quinze and flop on to the bed. “I wanted an adventure.” I say. Old Dog doesn't even raise one eyelid.

He is dreaming of the Saint Antonin Noble Val pétanque competition tomorrow!

Old Dog swears someone beat him to it.

It is a brighter world in the morning. We chat over breakfast with a charming Swiss couple, who tell us that we were on the roads on the worst weekend for driving in France. It is called 'Black Saturday'. There were traffic jams up to a total of 175kms at the five main 'hot-spots'.

Tractor fête demonstration the day following the storm.

We are enchanted by the mediaeval town when we explore it on foot. If you are ever in the Tarn, 'Saint Antonin Noble Val' is a must to visit.

Saint Antonin Noble Val city-scape.

Dave enjoyed the pétanque competition, despite the butcher's father taking them into the village to a rough, hilly bituminised lane for a game. 'Très difficile'. The Frenchman had heard about the Aussie fiend!

Saint Antonin Noble Val's river bank is an idyllic site for the pétanque competition.

Only small winnings to celebrate but we have a gourmet meal at 'Le Festin de Babette', a riverside restaurant in Saint Antonin, which leaves a very pleasant taste in our mouths.

It is all research...

The highlight of our return journey is a visit to the 'Toulouse-Lautrec musée' in the artist's birthplace, Albi. Outstanding!

Albi has the Lautrec Musée AND much other grandeur to recommend it.