Lights out in La Roche

Now the journey takes us south to beautiful Beaujolais. A hilly landscape that reminds us very much of Tuscany, only the cypresses are missing. Tiny villages with babbling fountains, characteristic stone houses and colorful flower beds characterize the picture.

And yes: we are finally in the middle of the long-awaited, romantic vineyards. For me personally, the wine made here doesn't have enough character, which is probably due to the fact that they really want to sell the first wine of the year. However, that doesn't detract from the beauty of the area; we don't want to travel from one tasting to the next, which would easily be possible.

And of course the route will also take us through the regional flea markets this weekend. Yes, we hear our friends' warnings that sooner or later this behavior can lead to hoarder conditions in our own four walls.

In a village on the banks of the Rhône south of Lyon, I let Zappa persuade me at the second attempt to buy the small, already very rickety bureau, which had been eaten by countless woodworms, for a mere eight euros. The hero doesn't take my first rejection seriously and after Madame demonstratively knocks on the little table from all sides to drive every last pest out of the old wood, I can't leave the good piece here.

We uncouple the caravan so that we can take the narrow entrance to the Salle de fête past the Merguez grill, where people are already singing at the top of their lungs, without bumps and invite the new acquisition. The electrical connection from the car to the trailer appears to have been damaged. When we reach the location of the next Sunday flea market in the dark in the evening, we discover that neither the taillights nor the flashing or brake lights on the caravan are working. Bon merde! So there is no thought of continuing your journey.

We won't solve the problem tonight. So in the morning, for the Tour des Puces, we decide to leave the château here under the eyes of the watchful neighbors and just start with the robbers' den. It's very relaxing not to have to find a huge parking space with turning around in the narrow villages. Even if the municipal football pitches are often converted into grand parking spaces. Judging by the horse droppings and sheep and goat droppings, the sports arenas are often used for the annual petting zoo.

After a long Sunday on the surrounding Vide greniers, we return to our mobile home. As the attentive neighbors look on, Zappa tries to fix the problem in the plug with the wire brush he had just purchased for 50 cents. He inspects, he examines, he disassembles, he scrapes off the oxidized material with a knife, he brushes the contacts, he cleans the socket with wire and cotton swabs.

He does everything a man can do. Apparently the plug and socket are not as waterproof as the manufacturer promises. Within three years, moisture that had penetrated covered both of them with a thick green layer that no longer allowed any contact with the mother ship.

Zappa pushes, squeezes, massages the plug and suddenly the indicators light up again! Hurray, we can continue our journey - unfortunately I'm happy too soon. Because the lights only give signs of life when the hero presses hard. And since I refuse to sit on the drawbar and hold the thing while driving, we give up for the day and stay there for another night under the watchful eyes of our neighbors.

In the meantime, I have made myself useful and, with the help of the all-knowing Internet, found out what the local car spare parts dealers are called. And that there are even two of them in nearby Valence.

The caravan is uncoupled again at dawn. And meanwhile the nearest attentive neighbor's gate opens and Monsieur pushes out a trailer. Zappa tells me that I should take the opportunity to ask the man what the French name is for the item we need to purchase.

Monsieur is in a hurry and doesn't really have any nerve when I ask questions or when I explain why we've been camping in front of his house for two nights. He answers me very politely, but I actually knew even without him that the plug is called prise and the pendant is called remorque. Who can suspect that such car parts don't have secret, highly official names that are completely incomprehensible to the uninitiated?

Monsieur throws his brush cutter onto the remorque and speeds away, determined to make up for the precious minutes wasted by my stupid questions by driving too fast in town.

We're going to Valence. We have no luck in the first fire, but another 10km through the congested streets in rush hour traffic and we end up in a branch that is equipped with everything a traveler's heart desires.
We buy a new plug and, as a precaution, also a corresponding socket.

The château is still safe and sound under the eyes of the attentive neighbors and the hero is now starting to repair it. I'm so glad that Zappa can solve such problems himself and that we don't have to go to a workshop, but after the work is done everything flashes and lights up again and we can continue our journey.

We'll find out how good that can be in the next few days. Sequel follows...