Camping Park Wildness

by tkos on August 14, 2012

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On day 34, we make our way to the coast. The infamous French riviera. Where the rich, famous and elegant strut, meander and stroll. I never went to the beach for the fifteen years I lived in London, but for some reason, not seeing the sea for the last 34 days has given me some serious withdrawal symptoms. We’re a little concerned that we do not have the glamour to parade on the promenades of St Tropez. So Kimmi has bought a new dress and I have bought a hat to take the attention away from my dirty t-shirt. It’s an exciting time for us.

We have decided to skip Marseille as it is a big city, and despite loving the last two cities we have been in, we just don’t think that we are that lucky. Instead we head to a coastal town called Cassis. It’s in the heart of the wine region and right on the beach. So the theory is pretty good but the reality was a little different. When I think of beach, I usually think of sand. Especially on one of the most famous riviera’s of the world. But this one has rocks. It’s about the length of a football pitch and half the width.

It stunned us a little when we came to the realisation that this town was… well,…. a little bit shit. Worse still, we couldn’t find a wild place to camp and were forced to pay for a camping spot. It’s not the paying that is a problem here, it’s more that it resembled a council estate that rubbed the sea salt in.

“Of course the toilets will have paper!” I exclaimed to Kimmi, silently looking forward to some nice private sit down time. Kimmi grunts. With the tent set and the bikes smiling after some much needed love and attention, we set off from our allotted dirt patch to give ourselves a scrub. Walking through what can only be described as a commune of campers and caravans, I feel like a worker ant amidst a half developed nest. Everybody seemed to be on the way to or from washing either their clothes, pots and pans, their teeth or some other part of themselves.

Travelling to and fro their allotted dirt patch. I thought to myself, this is what prison might be like. As the dusk sets and the mosquitos pounce, we get to the toilet block only to discover that seats or paper don’t exist. You have to use your own. So, now I have to walk past my camping neighbours only to return moments later with my poo flag. A roll of toilet paper in my hand alerting all my fellow campers of my exact intentions. I cross paths with a fellow camper holding his own poo flag on his way back from the toilet. I know what he has just done. He knows what I am about to do. We catch each others eyes and then look away quickly.

Such fun we’re both having.

 

 

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