Gone with the Wind

The weekend is just around the corner, which means it's flea market time again. After months of winter abstinence, it makes sense to start the season in France.
Unfortunately, it's still too early in the year for the wonderful vide-greniers in the small villages, but there are still the marché aux puces here and there, which shouldn't be underestimated.

That's why our journey takes us on Friday evening with a tiny, unexpected detour through the Gorge de la Nesque to the aerodrome near Carpentras, so that we don't waste valuable time the next morning with a drive or, worse, searching for parking for our 12-meter long rig.

However, when we arrive there, we realize that it is not clear where exactly the flea market will take place.
If we spend the night in the parking lot of the small airfield, it is possible that the first vendors will angrily chase us away from their area at 5:00 in the morning. It is also unclear where visitors can park.

So we settle on an alternate area between the two access roads, where the Chateau can also stay the next day. With the traffic noise, which only stops between 3:00 and 5:00 in the morning, we will now sleep - earplugs in and good night! Sacrifices must be made for the flea market.
In the morning, we see a little tiredly that the stands are set up in the shade of evergreen holm oaks and that we could have easily stayed on the aerodrome grounds.

On Sunday, there is a large Puces in Orange. However, we retreat to the unspeakable silence of the Baronnies for the night. After all, we want to be well-rested and ready to negotiate.

Early in the morning, a brisk breeze wakes us up, blowing around the caravan. By the time we arrive in Orange, it has turned into a full-fledged Mistral. The cunning north wind throws some stands into disarray and tanners and visitors hurry after flying treasures.

I buy some red-striped espadrilles from Madame. That is, at first only one, she has hidden the second one well so that no one gets any ideas and possibly forgets to pay the euro for it. While she tries to remember where the left shoe might be, the storm blows various items like fancy silk scarves, colorful plastic bowls, or glittering collectible cards off her table. After about 10 minutes of collecting her treasures together again, we find the other summer shoe in a bag under the stand.

The Mistral greatly shortens the shopping fun today, before noon, people give up, no one has the desire to chase after the beautiful things anymore. While packing up, a camping table smashes into a female vendor's white van, leaving a big dent. I wonder if the morning was worth it for her?

But today we still want to go to the sea. I'm starting to have some doubts whether it's really sensible to drive in wind force 6 with gusts of up to 80km/h. We've already experienced the Mistral at the beach in the Camargue, where the sheet metal can sometimes fly away.
Anyway, during our last walk to the Rhone delta, we didn't have enough space for beach loot.

https://vakantio.de/chateaugeschichten/ein-tag-am-meer-4 

and with these weather caprioles, there is no fear of mosquito attacks.

Of course, upon arrival at the beach, the gale blows the sand around our ears, into our eyes, and into every crevice. The Chateau gets shaken and rattled, and we decide to drive closer to the dunes for the night, where we hope for a bit more protection and where several campers are already gathering.
And of course, it's on the itinerary: a tiny spot on the track is not as solidly dug in as the rest, and the Kangoo gets stuck in the sand. Actually, no big deal, but the overrun brakes of the caravan jam when reversing and prevent further travel. Oh noooo.

So we get out and uncouple the caravan in the storm wind. The surrounding motorhome owners watch us with curiosity. Mr. Mega-Concorde from the giant luxury motorhome a few meters away is already ready with good advice. And also with action, he pushes and digs with us, and when nothing helps, he kindly fetches the hammer and quickly hits the rims of our caravan, not without commenting that everything has to be well maintained. Zappa remains silent - as the helpful retiree can't know that the brakes were fine-tuned before departure.

Two ladies join us later, but the three of us easily fix the problem: lift the front of the caravan with the tongue and move the wheels twenty centimeters back and forth over the hitch axle, and everything is turning smoothly again.
We have already freed the Kangoo from much worse predicaments, not to mention the Chateau
https://vakantio.de/chateaugeschichten/absturz-im-solling 

Mr. Mega-Concorde notes in the broadest Swabian dialect that he is already surprised that the men in front of their motorhomes continue to sip their beers while their wives offer help.

After freeing the vehicle, we simply leave it standing for the night, with the back facing the Mistral, it won't be shaken as much. Zappa quickly tapes up the forced ventilation on the roof of the caravan with Gaffa tape, so that the wandering dunes that enter through the cracks stay on the beach.

The hero is currently chopping a few onions when the Minicamper, who was just drinking beer, knocks on our door. He urgently needs to know what our license plate means, otherwise he won't be able to sleep. And while he's here, he explains to us exactly how great France is, how well he knows his way around here, and that there is very cheap red wine in 5-liter cardboard boxes at Netto in Port-St-Louis. He has stocked up just to be safe and sounds like he has already consumed a liter or two. His Hessisch dialect is slightly slurred.
Now I remember again why I avoid highly frequented camper areas whenever possible.