Your tracks in the sand

Tonight, heavy rain drums on the caravan roof for hours. In the morning, fog rises from the surrounding hills. The vine leaves are wet, the red clay soil has softened and become muddy. In Cannes, cars are swimming through the streets.
The grape harvest must now wait until the conditions are right again.

We leave the green hills of the Lubéron for the sea, passing by the white wild horses of the Camargue, standing with wet, shaggy coats in the vast landscape.
The sun is shining here, but its power has not yet been enough to dry the beach access flooded with seawater by the nocturnal monsoon.
Upon our arrival in the afternoon, we are amazed by the lake that prevents further travel.

Of course, Zappa would dash through the ankle-deep water without hesitation without the Mistral, but the salty brine would not be good for the underside of the caravan. I will refrain from talking about my fear of being stuck at this point.

We find a spot at the edge of the dunes between a few other late-traveling campers and enjoy the September sun.

With their setting, the hour of le moustique strikes. We know this species quite well from our last trip to the beach in the Twingo.
There are small buzzing specimens that cause hours of terribly itchy red welts.

And then there are the elephant-sized ones, with meter-long, bloodthirsty, pointed proboscises, who can suck their victims down to a limp shell in seconds. Only to fly away with plump bodies, as thick as our local bumblebees, and to spawn billions of offspring in the dunes.

But today we can seek shelter in the caravan; two windows have wonderful British fly screens, so my feet can enjoy the evening cooling without being tormented by the pesky creatures.

Right at 7:00 AM, the nearby flight school circles over the beach with its roaring biplane engine to wake the tourists. And since you can't see from up there whether the loungers have gotten up, they circle until the second coffee.

This is a good thing, because Mademoiselle and Monsieur Geo-Recherche have been assigned to measure the beach after the storm today. Mademoiselle not only has the exhausting task of pushing the heavy measuring cart, equipped with countless highly sensitive devices, through the wet sand. She also receives the thankless task of disturbing the international camping community during breakfast and asking them to vacate their beloved spot at the dune and relocate. Because now measurements must be taken.

She keeps swinging around ceaselessly during her rounds, as she is attacked by mosquitoes.
But now the mosquitoes can also turn their attention to the tourists, as they must leave their protective shelters to exit the measuring zone. Every opened door opens doors for mosquitoes, mosquitoes, mosquitoes, not just males, as Zappa loves to claim. Quickly, my feet are bitten!
Today it is cloudy and there is no breeze. Therefore, the bloodsuckers frolic merrily at the beach.

We wrap ourselves in bite-proof coverings and walk along the water towards Fos-sur-Mer, keeping an eye on the thick industrial chimneys. Above us, the biplane roars and here and there it smells of chemicals, gasoline, and diesel. Despite everything, it holds a certain romantic charm, even if you might not believe it.
We escape from the mosquitoes, marvel at the flotsam, and enjoy the views of the Garrigue of the Camargue.

Behind us, a genuine thunderstorm is brewing, initially unnoticed by us. We both attribute the rumbling and booming to the French military from the port of Toulon, which also likes to boom around here.
But a glance back reveals a dark wall of clouds on the horizon that is inexorably approaching us.

Oh no - oh no - oh no, I lament! We are going to get soaked, with no wind and rain protection in sight and the cozy, warm, dry caravan is kilometers away. We will be struck down, lying in the sand, hit by lightning, dragged into the deep sea by the relentless surf, and chopped into tiny fish food pieces by the screw of the next thick container ship. Oh no - oh no - oh no!

Zappa, my hero, takes me in his arms, throws a knowing meteorologist's glance at the deep blue spectacle in the sky, listens to the terrifying rumble of thunder, and now knows that this storm will pass us by. We have nothing to worry about; everything is fine.

The wind blows the mosquitoes into the wide plains of the Camargue. The water in the parking lot is sinking into the dark sand. We can pull the Mistral away from the bloodsucker dunes. Although not as far as we would like, as a new little entrance only allows vehicles up to two meters tall into the depths of Plage Napoléon.

One or two prickly insects have hidden in the cozy corners of the caravan, but we have a secret weapon on board: the ever-hungry, giant web-weaving travel spider!
A story for another time...