The Med coast, Argeles-sur-Mer is France’s ‘capital of camping’
“YOU English,” the taxi driver says, “most of you can’t speak French at all. But you speak it really well!” My chest swells with childish pride, but it doesn’t last. He has something else to add. “But why is Britain leaving the E.U., and who is this Nigel Farage?” I stammer. I stutter. I struggle to remember the French for, “It’s quite complicated. Can we talk about cheese instead?”
In truth, I’m hoping to forget Brexit - and its toxic aftermath - for a few weeks. We are in Argeles-sur-Mer, a sun-saturated town on the French Mediterranean coast just north of Spain, at the end of a long, fractious summer in Britain. We’re on a campsite, La Chapelle, in a place full of them: Argeles is the capital of French camping, with more than 50 sites crammed in around its golden, gently arcing beach.
It’s a good place to forget the real world, and an even better place for kids. This is how I spent two weeks every summer as a child, in campsites all over France. My wife, Claudine, did likewise, and we’re hoping our three children - ages five, two and three months - will enjoy it, too. It’s hard to resist. French campsites are where Northern Europeans come to celebrate the Gallic way of life by eating baguettes, drinking wine (Orangina for the kids) and lounging in ill-advised swimwear.
That’s our plan, anyway. To ensure all goes as smoothly as possible, we’re not staying in a tent. Mobile homes might have an image problem in the United States, but their many conveniences - shower, beds, cooking equipment, air- conditioning, fridge - make them perfect for a young family. Others, I note as we navigate La Chappelle’s neat, tree-lined grid of dusty tracks on arrival, have been braver: Plenty of people are camping or have turned up in motor homes of varying shapes and sizes.
For all its mod cons, though, the best thing about our mobile home is the view of the Pyrenees, green and gently curvaceous as they descend into the Mediterranean. There’s also a small, rather unkempt vineyard right next door. On the first evening, as the sky glows red and the crickets chirp, starlings in a flock rise as one from a row of tall trees at the back of the campsite and swoop in formation towards the sea. When you’ve spent the day corralling two small boys on and off planes, trains, and in and out of taxicabs, that sort of experience cannot be underestimated.
The next day, I head off to the supermarket to stock up on essentials - cheese, wine, a huge variety of charcuterie - before we settle into the rhythm of campsite life. Over the next few weeks, each day will follow a similar pattern.
In the morning, my oldest son Fraser and I walk down to the on- site boulangerie, where we pick up two baguettes for breakfast. Then the beach, one of three playgrounds or, most popular of all, a huge, multi- coloured and inflated trampoline at the end of our road, to while away the morning. The boys take great pleasure in running as quickly as possible across the dark green section, which heats up in the Roussillon sun.
Lunch (invariably bread, cheese, salad and whatever else is in the fridge) is followed by (if we’re lucky) a nap, then a trip to the pool. At about 5pm, we head home for a drink, the kids’ bedtime and finally dinner, which is often fresh fish bought from the Ty’ Breizh fishmonger: Barbecue- grilled, beautifully fresh sea bream, perhaps, or fat pink prawns.