Épernay, Simply Superb!

Zagan the motorhome’s occupants have been overwhelmed with the spectacle laid on by Épernay while we’ve been here. Yup, the capital of Champagne country has come up trumps, accidentally gifting us a cracking parking spot before delighting us with one hell of a sound and light spectacular. We’re parked in a temporary aire which was created from a basketball court for a motorhome tour company (GB Privilege) which appears to have gone bust (N49.03620 E3.95246). Cost to stay here: €0, wow.

Who ya gonna call? Ghostbusters!

We **think** this aire at Épernay is temporary, as the guides and tourist office told us there are only 2 or 3 spaces here, and we’re in a basketball court!

Jamie had warned us our planned route to the east of Paris would be flat, a dull plain. Having crossed France more times than I’ve eaten chips, he was of course right. The eye tired of the earthy-green sea of fields, drawn quickly to anything which broke the hedgeless monotony. Signs warning of an ongoing hunt, followed by the questionable sight of two shotgun wielding men in camo gear and high vis jackets. Four deer stood in the centre of a field, each looking in different directions. Ju wondered if they were planning an escape from the hunters. On the plus side, the roads were Roman-straight, carrying Zagan like a speedboat north until, abruptly, the ground grew a crew-cropped hair of vines.

Crossing the plain to Épernay.

Crossing an invisible line, the Champagne vines sprout from the earth.

I love vines. Why, I really have no idea. Even in winter, when the twisted, stunted wood reaches upwards almost dead, the clean regimented lines draw me in, like the mountains attract. Vines here mean money, big money. We met a couple in Rocamadour who held a Franglais conversation with us about Le Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. Talk turned to camping cars, and Monsieur took out his iPhone, swiping past photos of the most enormous Concorde motorhome,  him stood with a button in hand, a car rolling out of a cavern in the back. He was from the Champagne region he said, he used to own vines here.

In among the grapes stood the industrial side of the grape, huge prefab buildings identified as special with the mark of the maison: Moët & Chandon springs to mind, since it’s the only champagne I’ve heard of. Hang on a sec, a classic car rally is driving past the back window, gimme a mo… I’ve come back in, it’s cold! Grumbling chevvies, ancient Renaults and 2CVs, a couple of lowered ratty Beetles, and hundreds of other makes are honking and waving their way past. Ah, sod it, grabbing my coat and going for another go, back shortly… Right, sorry, sorry, where was I?

Down into the town, the aire symbol appeared on the satnav, but as I said above, an entire aire was laid out, with about 20 motorhome’s lined up. We just piled in, parked up, then ummed and arred whether we’d gate-crashed a GB Privilege tour. GB? But they’re all French. The occupants were coming and going indivdually, no group activity detected. Ju checked with the tourist office later and yes, this area is reserved for a tour group. No-one appears to have told the tourist office that the tour company’s gone under though, so every last one of us in here has chanced it. We wondered if our arrival with a grubby GB sticker sent ripples of concern through our neighbours?

So, where are we? Épernay and Reims are basically the two big champagne towns, where the exclusive maisons operate from. Opinion seems to be if you’re visiting one of them, Épernay is the place to come. We’re glad we did, as for once we arrived to see the town at its best. A festival of sound and light was on, get in, and best of all it’s free. We missed one in Chartres by a few days, and the Lyon one we wondered about visiting was called off after the Paris terrorist attacks. Épernay went ahead with their show (well done!), throwing machine-gun toting black-clad groups of frowning fellas into the fray to at least give us all a warm feeling of security.

Our 24 hours here have been a blast, walking the Avenue de Champagne in the day and again in the evening. Sipping champagne made by the vignerons, the smaller grower-makers who craft the same stuff but on a smaller scale to the big names, the maisons. Neither of us like the stuff much, but the town had laid on a superbe show for us in the evening. Wild French imagination had my eyes wide as the town hall was dragged sideways by a green-legged giant, then turned from the Hotel de Ville into the Fusée de Ville, and shot into outer space. Dragons the size of the chapagne houses floated past, cleverly carried by dragonists on the ground who made them walk on strings. A mechanical dragon-cum-dinosaur rumbled about the place preceded by a couple of fellas who were FAR too into their characters as dragon-tamers for comfort! Music pumped from the tents outside the champagne houses and we ambled about squinting a little as we supped from the €5 a glass plastic flutes we’d grabbed.

The best of all? The absolute favourite? We almost walked past it on the way back down the Avenue, but Ju pulled me in. One of the house’s had a few fires going in the front, then we ventured around the back and the grounds were ablaze. Fire everywhere. Volcanoes huffed out orange blazes. Blue-haired balls of fire floated on chains. A gypsy-fella spun an iron wheel in some mystic pattern to generate camera-blinding wafts of flame from a chimney. Even the water was on fire. Ju spotted a single fire extinguisher as we all drifted from cold December air into another pool of red-hotness. I attempted to imagine such a thing in my native Britain, but couldn’t. Even the local Pram Race is long gone due to safety concerns…

This morning 400 classic cars gathered in a mass of admirers at a car park in town. We walked over and absorbed the feel, listening to loud speaker announcements of such-and-such a wondrously old or storied machine rolling in. As you may have guessed, the cars later chose to tour alongside our little illicit parking space, waving and smiling, some of their faces showing undue interest in the gathering of white boxes – a sure sign they’re motorhome-dwellers too, ever on the look-out for a great place to kip.

Right, a million photos follow in no particular order to keep you on your toes.

Time for us to hit the road again guys!

Cheers, Jay