The River Loire is familiar to us from numerous luminous paintings made by great artists, and since one of the purposes of this journey is to improve my own artistic style and standards, I had to try to make a record of it for myself. It is a strangely non-existent river, hidden in this central section by massive banks on either side, each carrying two-way traffic. The water lies low in the middle, fringed by shallow beaches, islands, shrubbery, and sands. What is compelling is the light which spreads over the whole broad scene, dragging your eye away and upwards, and into the past too, to imagine how this may have been in the old days, and whether Romans and dinosaurs saw much the same thing or not. I have not been able (in a very quick sweep) to find out what age these huge river banks are. They seem modern - post-war - and in some cases they rise up out of the surrounding marsh right up against the front doors of ancient cottages which are now either abandoned or have succumbed to the ignominy of having a mountain range within inches of their front windows. But from a seat on the southern bank I sat and sketched the river looking north, and then painted it.

Our home in Tours was - this time - a camping site near to the pretty and historic village of Montlouis-sur-Loire, and we had (thank goodness) reserved a tiny cabin or chalet. This is a white plastic box in a village of identical - larger or smaller versions - well supplied tiny homes. We lugged everything in, made the bed, went out to eat at the restaurant which had attracted us back to the area. Of course, as they say, you should never go back. The meal was fine, lovely cooking, but not as good as the one we had there in May. The outstanding exception was a starter chosen by Andrew - a parfait of creme fraiche, filled with a sorbet of tomatoes. Bliss.

It was warm enough for us to sit outside and eat, but during the night, the temperature plummeted - down to 10 or so. And in fact, on the Sunday night, it rained enough to fill the river right up to the top of its banks, or that is what it sounded like. Thank god we weren't in a tent.

On Sunday we explored the area - Montlouis - Amboise - the Chateau of Bordaisière with its rampant collection of tomatoes - and then went home to cook and do nothing.  I made my second round painting - trying to reach into more unconscious areas of my art. It should be called Brexit.

And on Monday, having watched the campsite management extract a family of tiny blue-eyed kittens from underneath the communal washing-up sinks, we set off to my sister's. The new motorways coming down past Limoges and the Dordogne take you through the most spectacular landscapes, and the late afternoon sunlight only filtered through occasionally, giving us a coolish grey day to drive in, which was a blessing.  It was also a blessing to turn away from the 21st century and onto the back roads past Molière and LaFrançaise, down to the Tarn and Garonne rivers, through tiny valleys, past a huge nuclear power station, past horticultural projects and small farms, with betrothal woods planted in the wet ground (perfectly aligned new groves of poplar trees which - when cut in 21 years - afford a good dowry to a daughter). 

Arriving here we swam in the pool, had supper, laughed, retired. Today we go to meet some of her friends and then have lunch. This is the International Ladies Group. Their menfolk have formed a subsidiary independent group called the Drivers and Affiliated Trades or something. They do their own thing but ferry the ladies to their lunches and back again.