Red red wine

Our last week of travel is inevitably upon us, as the favorable weather seems to be expanding in other places. 

On Saturday morning, to everyone's dismay, Zappa's favorite weekly flea market is canceled, all due to the still strongly blowing Mistral. After a night spent on the well-known and romantic square in front of the small airport in Carpentras, we aren't ready to give up that easily and continue with a coffee in hand towards the gates of Avignon.

Here, in a dusty square between train tracks and once again an airport, various bulk goods are traded. Mainly people with North African migration backgrounds haggle, stall, and display their wares against the sounds of landing sports planes, test-started chainsaws, and the high-speed TGVs whizzing by. Wow, the German railway could learn a thing or two from this!

Right at the end, fruits and vegetables are sold, and Maghrebi market criers loudly promote everything that is green, colorful, and vibrant. Fully loaded with salad and red onions, but without parsley, we encounter a massive traffic jam at the camper van. A thick bottle neck clogs the narrow entry and exit street, and the two boys who are supposed to manage the traffic are completely overwhelmed, desperately clearing the field. 

At this point, there's no way we're getting out of here anyway. It's noon, we settle in the Mistral, and observe the show around us with great interest. Multilayered and multilingual cursing, loud honking, and wild maneuvering make the morning entertaining. 

In the afternoon, there is also a program offered at the banks of the Rhône. Two young women with many tattoos and dreadlocks unload chainsaws and heavy equipment from their trunk and start cutting the driftwood at the barrage for winter and their home stove.

A little later, a young man with many tattoos and no hair joins them. He arrives with a trailer and chainsaw, quickly taking on the thick trunks. He also has a splitting axe with him and shows off his muscles.

Meanwhile, Monsieur Soleil tries not to be distracted by the sound of the machines during his sun dance. He stands on the lowest step of the facility, clad only in swim trunks, and for a moment we fear he might jump into the roaring water. All five gates of the dam are wide open, the river is raging, swimming here would be akin to taking a bath in the jaws of hell and is strictly prohibited. But then again, we are in France... 

We both stand ready to stop Monsieur from his intent! But he continues his sun worship unfazed, flailing his arms, swinging his hips, lifting his leg elegantly. In the meantime, he gives Monsieur Splitting Axe priceless tips and extremely valuable advice on how to handle the tool.

With sunset, the spectacle by the river comes to an end and tranquility returns. Only the wild roar of the water rushing from the barrage can still be heard. But we’re heading further north.

On Sunday morning, a flea market takes place near Valence, where we unearthed countless treasures last year. The sun shone warmly from the blue sky, people were in a good mood, and even late in the afternoon there were still some delights to purchase.

The weather outlook isn't so promising today, but a true enthusiast will not be deterred by such trivialities. And so, in the early morning hours, the things, trinkets, and treasures are unpacked. 

As we set off around 8:00 AM, it drizzles lightly from the dark, cloudy sky. A decent wind blows around the corner and makes me shiver. The mood at the stalls is still optimistic and cheerful. But it doesn't take long before we realize that the weather forecast is right today, and after an hour we are all quite wet and chilly. In no time at all, everything is packed up again, the lovely items have disappeared into the cars, taken home to the cellar, and won't be displayed again until next year. This is very dramatic for all of us, and I brew a warming tea from the elephant box from the last flea market.

It's slowly time for us to head home. The weather forecasts put a bit of a damper on our spirits, but we shan't let it ruin our mood as we roll along the wine roads in Beaujolais and Burgundy through lovely landscapes. The wine turns yellow and red, the foliage in the forests slowly turns colorful, swallows have already gone far south, autumn is here.

Very French villages with typical houses made of the thick local stones alternate with wide vineyards and dense mixed forests. A château follows another, not all in the splendid condition one might expect from the Loire. Missing roof tiles, sagging gutters, and crumbling outer walls bear witness to a significant backlog in renovations here and there. 

It is unavoidable that Zappa pulls the caravan up the rough and uneven path to the chapel in Fleurie. The narrow alley is really very steep, and luckily I don't notice the no-entry sign for caravans until the next morning on the way back. Some have probably already gotten stuck halfway and had to roll back down. 

But the Kangoo pulls the Mistral up the hill to the saint, and we are rewarded with an unparalleled panorama. The view over Beaujolais all the way to the Saône is breathtaking. And in the evening, we are treated to an overwhelming alpine glow. The Mont Blanc, located 250km away, shines in the blazing evening red, proving its might even over such a distance.

Our Château Mistral does justice to its name on this journey. After the cold north wind from the Rhône Valley has buffeted us, Exhurricane Kirk hits us with the strongest gusts.

For a whole night, rain drums on our metal roof, after an intense thunderstorm with strong lightning and rumbling thunder announces the low-pressure area early in the evening. Kirk shakes our rolling home one more time at 90 km/h, making it shake and rattle.

After a day of wind and weather, we want to spend the evening by the banks of the Saône. But the lovely sunny spot from last year is completely flooded, and on the river meter-high waves are rolling in like recently at the Mediterranean, and Monsieur Dog Walk believes it would be safer for us to look for a spot on the surrounding hills for the night. But not under trees, the storm has not passed yet, and thunderstorms are on the way again!

We are really happy on this tour to be traveling in the Mistral. Only in the robber's den would we have probably succumbed to the weather caprices two weeks ago, taken down the tents, thrown in the towel, and given up altogether. Storm, rain, thunder, clouds, cold, a lot of bad weather, that can only be faced on the cozy Elddis sofa with Maxol Monte Carlo 3000.

The Kangoo reliably takes us over all mountains, through any hurricanes, every giant puddle, and all muddy farm paths, as you have surely noticed. Trust has been restored unequivocally. 

But suddenly: Ooooh no! Not no - not no - not no! On a deserted forest and meadow road in the middle of nowhere in Burgundy, suddenly that awful wrench lights up! We widen our eyes and can't believe it. The miserable, cursed, dreadful wrench!

But before I have to call upon the ADAC app, it quickly clarifies that the oil level is simply too low. Phew! One must be lucky sometimes, right?

In the end, only our heavy losses are to be regretted: a leg of a sensational, phenomenal, incomparable high-end Yamaha professional amplifier for full and perfect sound in the home cinema, two valuable, sinfully expensive stamps that would almost weigh the same as gold, a crisp-fresh, healthy, delicious leek stalk from Monsieur Persil, and the lid for the caravan battery, which Zappa finds at dawn in the rain, fog, and dirt and can reattach to the device. 

Now it's time to head home as a lot of work awaits us. But first, the Twingo needs a few new fuses...