John’s UK bike insurance expired in April, technically 30 days after he braved sleet and snow bringing the bike home at the beginning of March. Since then it has been safely stowed in our hall awaiting French immatriculation. However, having received the Attestation de Conformité Partielle, we could now at least get a temporary cover note to allow us to take a weekend trip to Roussillon.

Even so, things did not run smoothly for our departure. The BMW had a flat battery and refused to start, and John slipped on some algae while trying to take the Triumph off its centre stand. It was lunchtime. The hardware shop was closed, and John announced that he had given away our jump leads. The famous British sang froid was, well, decidedly froid, and humour exited stage right at the first opportunity. Having eventually got the bike going, we stopped just once to buy a cheap pair of jump leads at a Toulouse supermarket. Otherwise, we kept the bike running continuously for 500km, all the way to Alice’s place.

It rained heavily on the way over, so we were a bit tired and soggy by the time we arrived. Still, nothing that couldn’t be easily fixed by a hot shower and a glass or two of wine in front of the fire. We were late, but it seemed the rest of the party had faired no better. There was an unofficial strike by airport staff at Avignon, so all travellers were being diverted to Nice. In place of a sumptuous birthday feast at a local restaurant, the birthday boy, Clifford, and two other guests, found themselves enduring a three-hour bus transfer back to Avignon.

[1] Roussillon, itself, is renowned as one of the most beautiful villages in France. For centuries this tiny bastide was one of the biggest producers of artists’ ochre in the world. But, even if you know nothing about art or painting, you cannot but admire the variety of colour in the local architecture. As you drive into Montréjeau, large brown boards proclaim the town to be a Village Touristique offering 500 free car parking spaces and a driving range. We respect their optimism. Roussillon, on the other hand, is probably a little too touristy for our taste but, we have to admit, does have slightly more to offer. [2] Located in the heart of the Côtes du Luberon wine region, among the mountains of the Vaucluse, the village is surrounded by poppy filled meadows and fields of lavendar. Its steep alleys and cobbled squares are packed with tempting delicatescans, art galleries, craft shops and restaurants. And, if you wanted to venture further afield, the nearby towns of Apt and L’Isle sur la Sorgue have attractive weekend markets. In fact, I loved the area so much I am abandoning John to go back on Tuesday.

I am fibbing, of course. Without wishing to take anything away from my glowing depiction of Roussillon, I would not be going back quite so soon without a very good reason. Actually, I have to collect my bike from the garage in Avignon …

Having passed an extremely agreeable weekend with Alice and Clifford, we aimed to leave for home on Sunday morning. Unfortunately, the BMW had other ideas. We managed to start it with the jump leads, but were only a couple of hundred yards down the road when it died on me, and this time it was terminal. Thus, John and I were forced to leave the BMW (and our dirty washing) in the tender care of Generali’s excellent Assistance and come home two-up on the Triumph.

If you liked my description of Roussillon enough to want to visit, you can rent the Rosens’ cosy 3-bedroom house. Contact them via their website: [3] www.matesratesvillas.com