I first went camping in France in 1970; there were maybe half a dozen of us who went to La Rochelle because some of us were at a French language summer school. We had a tiny little tent, and a bigger tent which we lived in and some of us slept in. We had a camping stove with two burners and we lived simply and as cheaply as possible; the facilities in those days were not very salubrious – but I don’t suppose they were fantastic on camp-sites in Britain at that time either; there were the famous French ‘squatter’ toilets, two tiles for your feet and a hole in the ground, and cold showers.
The following year, and for many years after that we went further south, to Menton on the Italian border and stayed on a little camp-site in the village of Gorbio; it was seemingly idyllic… to us then it certainly was. The facilities were slightly better and cleaner, but what counted was the view down the valley to the sea and the site surrounded by pine trees which scented the warm nights. There was mimosa and bouganvillea, the people were friendly, the sea was a mile away and Menton itself even nearer.
I remember the holidays on the beach, but I remember the camp-sites, sitting on the floor round the gas stove cooking the fresh vegetables we had bought in the market; the air was full of the garlicky smells of the mostly French people’s cooking… they would be eating meat and fish, an expensive treat for us. There was the sound of French voices, mothers calling their children, the children playing with their friends, the fathers laughing and socialising with each other. We would lounge there, full of sun, a glass of vin ordinaire – or maybe a plastic cup of vin ordinaire, waiting for our dinner and thinking about going down into town later to one of our favourite bars.
That’s what I think of when I think of camping in France.
Lois Elsden 