Dordogne, where are all the British? Brantome

As we passed the ‘Welcome to the Dordogne’ sign Ju joked the countryside was suddenly prettier. To me it seemed it was actually a truth; the towns we passed through were prettier, the colours in the countryside more vivid and the roads smoother and flowing.

We’re staying for the princely sum of €3.50 in an Aire about 5 mins walk from the centre of Brantome. The place is buzzing with French tourists wandering around the cobbled roads and stone abbey, church and caves. All very well, but where are all the expats we’re reliably informed have flocked to this region? One other British van arrives on the site aiming the 20 French vans and promptly departs. I realise that although I understand some French, in other countries the locals might as well be quacking like ducks for all I’ll understand. I’m not looking forward to that and resolve to learn at least the basics in each tongue.

The move into the Dordogne seems to have prompted a change in weather too. I found myself a little irritable as we drove through the town looking for the Aire and realised I was roasting in my jeans, T shirt, hiking socks and boots. The shorts and sandals are back out, which seems to amuse the well-clad locals.

Ju has just declared we’ll just stay the one night here. Or maybe two. We’ll decide tomorrow. Before that a glass (plastic mug) of vino calls. Happy Sunday evening folks. A demain.