With our Mazda MX5 packed to the gunwhales – the boot, the cubby holes, the space behind the seats - there was just about room for a large French baguette, a medium Camembert and a bottle of red next to the passenger seat.
Formidable!
Fully-loaded we set off for Portsmouth ready for our adventure of driving down through France and Northern Spain.
It was tipping down as we pulled into the queue to embark for our overnight Brittany Ferries crossing to St Malo.
Apparently, there was air conditioning in our inside cabin but it was either ineffective or not working as the temperature and lack of air become almost unbearable as the night become day. But fully breakfasted and with copilot wedged back in to the sports car, sunglasses on, roof down we accelerated into France.
This was to be an adventure. We’d booked two ferry crossings with Brittany Ferries and a couple of nights accommodation in Brittany – the rest, we were leaving in the lap of the Gods.
First stop was a fabulous cider farm near Carnac hidden in the beautiful French countryside.
We had a large ensuite room and a glorious French breakfast and facilities to ‘do it yourself’ on the tables dotted around the farm’s grounds in the evening.
But before long, we were back on the road, heading south hugging the coast.
Sitting on the beach just south of St Nazaire chomping our way through a delicious ham and cheese baguette, we booked two nights at a place just down the coast.
Our chosen accommodation was a large bungalow near St Jean de Monts in what was clearly the daughter’s former room – all pink and sparkling – in the converted garage. The ‘window’ was a full-length sliding wall of glass which meant, unless you wanted to be joined in the night by who knows what, no open window.
It was baking hot, airless and verging on the uncomfortable. The room was not en suite. The WC was out through a utility room, up a step, past the dining room and across the hall next to the front door.
A swirling head brought on by the travelling, pitch darkness and me not wearing my glasses, saw me stumbling out of our room to find the toilet. I ended up in madam and monsieur’s bedroom - to say the look on her face was akin to a disgruntled Mrs Slocombe from Grace Brothers is an understatement.
All my O level French deserted me and all I could repeat was ‘I’m so sorry' as I reversed, bowing ever so slightly out of her room.
That evening she’d added a night light to the hallway.
Despite the mishap the stay in this part of France was wonderful. A trip to the nearby island of Noirmoutier saw us eating some fantastic oysters after discovering some wonderful shops.
On the road again we set off to Charente-Maritime.
Booked via Booking.com and featuring some great pictures, the room in what was basically a hostel on an equestrian site was not quite what we were hoping for.
The description and price seemed suitable. The reality, however, was far from satisfactory.
But not ones to let any form of disappointment sour our trip, we gritted our teeth and decided not to cancel the second night - after all, it was only a place to sleep.
We rediscovered the Ile d'Oleron, were convinced we spotted Jim Kerr from Simple Minds in the local Le Clerc and enjoyed picnics on the beach at sunset.
This is a beautiful part of France and at this time of year the beaches are almost deserted - but there was so much more for us to discover, so from here we drove to Royan, hopped on the ferry to Point de Grave and headed once more down the coast.
After the disappointment of the horse hostel, we decided to change tack. Find somewhere on Booking.com and then go and look at it before booking.
That’s what we did with Hotel L’Oceane at Andernos les Baines.
It was a cheapish place with a lovely little pool, right on the bay, with the extra bonus of being right next door to a restaurant packed with locals guzzling wine and doing serious damage to all manner of scrumptious seafood.
It seemed rude not to join them.
At this point we were half way down France and had five days to get to Santander for our ferry home, so we had to keep on moving.
The coastal towns were becoming more ‘holiday-ish’ and less ‘wonderful little French delights’ so we headed inland on the hunt for somewhere to stay.
We found one which looked good online. In reality, it was absolutely stunning.
The Hotel Le Clos Pite at Preach in Aquitaine is a Logis hotel - part of a chain but run independently by a husband and wife team.
Francois does front of house, laughs uproariously at jokes, serves the drinks and doesn’t speak a word of English. His wife, Miriam, cooks the food, is a wonderful hostess and, rather usefully for us, speaks fluent English.
This was just the sort of place you want to stumble across. Packed with French charm and bonhomie.
The room was brilliant, overlooking the front courtyard and our trusty sports car parked next to our host’s 50-year-old Renault 5. There was even a chic swimming pool in the middle of the back garden.
We decided to eat in that night. There is no menu. Miriam said: “I’ll make something for you.”
As it happened, it was one of the best meals of the holiday.
After stumbling across a wonderful walled town we just had to explore - well, we live in Chepstow with its medieval wall, so it seemed rather fitting - it was onwards to the bustling Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port.
We considered it as a place to stay but it was rammed, so after a quick stop for a picnic we headed out to a hotel in the mountains called Manexenea – another fabulous find and another fabulous breakfast.
From here we took the mountain road up and over the Pyrennes to eventually end up in Spain. We crossed the border right on top of the mountain and only realised when our phone pinged a welcome to Spain.
After a rather nail-biting drive which saw us hit a good few dead ends and have to negotiate a 46-point turn on the edge of a sheer drop, we zoomed past Roncesvalles, a popular stop off for those walking the Camino de Santiago, of which there seemed to be hundreds!
We’ll visit Pamplona, we thought. But as soon as we got there, we decided to take the road straight out again and after driving back and forth across endless wideopen plains we stumbled across what could only be described as a deserted castle in a tiny hilltop village overlooked by sheer, towering mountain faces.
The solid wooden doors were locked but there was an intercom. A fellow with perfect English answered we gave our details, pressed some buttons, the door opened, we picked up keys to a room among a bunch on the front desk. On opening the door to the room we found it had awesome wall-to-wall views across the stupendous valley. It was the kind of place you dream about finding - and we’d found it.
From the outskirts Estella looked most unappealing. But once in the centre, we realised looks can be deceptive. The restaurant was packed with locals, my paella and Jo’s plate piled high with succulent lamb chops were waist-busting joy.
I wanted to stay another night just to wallow in the luxury but the forecast was for torrential rain and we still had quite a way to go, so once more we headed up fabulous hair-pin bends as the views just got better and better.
Then crossing the top of the mountain we came to a nature reserve and decided to stop for a walk.
A knee-testing hike up the steep side of a tree-covered hill brought us to some awe-inspiring views across the valley below. Well worth the stop.
That afternoon, the rain started and just kept on coming in biblical proportions.
After the disappointment of a couple of contenders for our final night – both complete with snarling dogs – we plumped, in slight desperation as it was close to 7.30pm, for a roadside B&B - which turned out to be another fabulous find.
The ensuite room was all hippy chic gloriousness. The breakfast was brilliant.
But this was ferry day – and the rain was still coming down. We opted to take the motorway. The waves of spray were a worry in the low slung sportscar but the gallant little motor never missed a beat.
Arriving at Santander in plenty of time we parked at the ferry port and walked into town.
To those who boast about arriving at Santander and immediately setting off for the costas I say 'Bon Voyage’ – or whatever the Spanish equivalent of that is. Their absence leaves all the city’s Spanish loveliness to people like us.
We enjoyed a wander round the shops, the streets and alleyways and stopped for a lager and tapas to watch the world go by. This is what it’s all about.
On board the Pont Aven along with what seemed like a thousand good natured and ruddy faced bikers, we settled into our four-berth port-holed cabin.
We booked a meal in the restaurant and relaxed with a drink and a book.
The meal was, as expected, magnificent. A buffet of abundant starters followed by mains which were taste bud-tastic and then desserts and cheese to finish, again buffet-style. The service was as you would hope from a top-end restaurant and the atmosphere among the cognoscenti diners was cruise-like.
Our night in the cabin this time was totally relaxed and blissfully comfortable. Perhaps the port hole made all the difference. The hours spent sitting in the sun as the ferry cruised on its way to Plymouth was relaxation with a capital R.
And we even had space in the car for the French baguette, cheese and some wine - but only just!
Comments: Our rules
We want our comments to be a lively and valuable part of our community - a place where readers can debate and engage with the most important local issues. The ability to comment on our stories is a privilege, not a right, however, and that privilege may be withdrawn if it is abused or misused.
Please report any comments that break our rules.
Read the rules here