Yesterday Elisabeth announced she was taking her stall to the 'Foire de Fromages' at a village about 20 miles away so we decided to go along and support her.

She showed Bear the poster and he wrote down the name of the place on a carrier bag, but when we were ready to set off he couldn't read his writing or remember what it was - except that it was a double-barrelled name. Unfortunately, every other town, village or hamlet you see has a long, involved title.

Anyway, we set off in the right general direction and every so often he stopped to pore over the map in the hopes that he would recognise where we were going. It was an interesting ride through very attractive country but after an hour my weak bladder began to complain and in the end I had to ask him to look for a suitable place to stop. As map reader I was able to take him down country lanes but there were farm houses round every bend and, although they looked deserted, I didn't fancy taking the risk of being caught 'mooning'. At just about desperation point we came to a woodland path and I set off to find a place out of view of the road. I had just crouched down - like you do - when I realised with horror that ever since my knee problem I had not been able to get up from this position without considerable difficulty. My relief was therefore mingled with uncertainty until I was able to get up with the help of a push off from  a nearby log on the ground.

At last we came to Chenois-Aubencourt and found the market with no problem. Elisabeth had not had much trade that morning and was quite downhearted. She left her stall in the care of her neighbour and we went for a coffee. The chap in charge of refreshments said coffee was free for stallholders but he didn't recommend it so, at his suggestion we tried the local beer, Ardwen, which had recently won a gold medal for it's new 'biere blanche' (white beer). The beer we tasted was 'blonde' as the 'blanche' was being introduced at the brewery during a special open day - today. It looked as though we would be going home via Launois-sur-Vence.

We toured the cheese market where we were offered various tastings, including an aperitif made from raspberries and rosé wine. It was very pleasant so we bought a couple of bottles. As we left, the chap said it was also good with champagne as a kir, instead of using blackcurrant liqueur.

We were overwhelmed by the choice of cheese but finally settled for three kinds of fresh goats' cheese - with pepper, with Italian herbs and 'nature' - from a local lady, some beaufort and tome de Savoie from a lady who explained that her cheeses were made by a co-operative of farmers in Savoie rather than a big factory, and four 'tartes au maroilles' (maroilles is a locally made strong, smelly cheese).

There were interesting stalls selling handcrafted jewellery, glassware, honey and beeswax products, local charcuterie, bread, produce from the southwest - foie gras, tins of duck fat, tapenade, sundried tomatoes etc - and so Elisabeth probably didn't stand a great deal of chance with her British food. It seems the French in this area are particularly suspicious of English cuisine.

We set off in the sunshine to find the brewery and arrived to find the carpark very full. People were having lunch in La Taverne, but we were greeted by a friendly young lady who asked where we were from and gave us two vouchers for a free tasting of the new beer. She explained that the next 'visite' was not till three o'clock but we could have our beer at the bar and look round the 'shop'. We decided that we wouldn't wait for the tour but we did taste the samples on offer and bought some bottles to bring home.

On the way back Bear was driving much more quickly than his usual very stately pace but I knew that even if I did get nervous I was in no fit state to take the wheel.

There is an excellent woodmerchant in the next village. The only problem is getting him to deliver wood. Last year I phoned many times and left messages on his answerphone - when it was working - but had no response. Eventually I started asking around and the chap at the local bar said the woodman was often there so he'd give him a message.

By magic, the woodman appeared at the door the next day and promised me a delivery the following morning. He stacked the logs in the garage (for an extra charge) and pattered on about me being a good customer and I only had to ring the next time etc.

So, just after Christmas, when we thought the stock was getting low, I phoned and was told by his daughter that the price had gone up from 32 to 36 euros a stere (cubic metre), minimum delivery was 5 steres (our garage holds four) and we would have to wait till February.

We thought we could eke out the supply till then, and, anway, the garage would have to be completely empty to get five steres in. So, at the beginning of February I phoned again for news. "My husband will ring you back" was madame's reply.

A week later he telephoned to say he would deliver the following week. I asked him to give me 24 hours notice as there were lots of medical appointments. He agreed but there was no call and no wood. It was time to look further afield.

The problem is that some wood suppliers are crooks and bring the kind of logs that burn up in a few minutes so you need a recommendation. By chance, our physio happened to mention that she had to be at home on Saturday for a wood delivery. My ears pricked up. She explained that he did it 'on the black' but it was good quality so I got his number. "Tell him you know me," she said. 

Feeling slightly under an obligation for my original order, I tried to get through to the first wood merchant but no-one picked up the phone and the answering machine didn't kick in either. So I rang the new man.

He promised to bring two and a half steres at 32 euros the following morning. He turned up on time, the logs were cut into a third of a metre, instead of the usual 50cm. which only just fit our fireplace, and he stacked them without extra charge. Although they took up more wall area, they left more room for the car because they didn't stick out so far. 'Black' or not we will make this man our regular supplier.

This morning at 7.45 the phone rang. It was the woodman from the next village.

"Is it OK if I deliver your wood this morning?"

"No thanks. I got fed up with waiting and had a delivery from someone else a month ago."

On Thursday morning, a few minutes before six, Jay dropped  the Bear and me at the station. An SNCF lady held the door open and enquired whether we were getting the Paris train. 'It's already waiting on platform one,' she said.

The French make a great song and dance about 'composting' your ticket before setting foot on the platform so I dutifully put ours in the machine and then wondered if I'd done it the right end. Just to be on the safe side I turned it round and did it again.

We climbed into the carriage and found our seats in plenty of time before the departure at 6.17 precisely. I must admit to dozing off for quite alot of the journey but the scenery south of Reims was much more interesting than the rather flat countryside between Charleville and Rethel so I started to take notice.

I had never tried a French train toilet before so my first visit came as a bit of a shock. It must have been an older carriage because it's the only one I came across during these few days holiday that consisted of a tube leading directly onto the track. And, boy, was it draughty.

Once at Paris we had two hours to find our way from the Gare de l'Est to the Gare de Lyon, but with a heavy case to carry we opted for a taxi. The driver was more than happy to join in the general melée on the roads and when an ambulance driver hooted him angrily and then drew up alongside at the lights for a bit of verbal abuse he wound down his window and let rip with some choice phrases of his own.

'It's all very well for him', he complained as we drove away, 'It's not his vehicle; he can have an accident and go and get another one.'

All the same, we arrived in one piece at the Gare du Lyon, paid him his fare - a very reasonable 10 euros - and set off to find the TGV. The departures board had yellow or blue rectangles against each destination and there was a notice saying that blue ones meant platforms A to N and yellow ones meant platforms 5 to 23. The lettered platforms were right in front of us but the numbered ones were nowhere to be seen.

'I think we should find out where the other platforms are first', I suggested, but the Bear had seen a vacant seat and went over to claim it. 'We've got loads of time. They must be over there,' he said, waving vaguely to his right.

As time went by I decided to go and have a look, so I left him with the luggage and wandered off. At the end of the lettered platforms there was nothing but the exit but as I turned back I saw a small sign saying 'voies 5-23' with an arrow apparently pointing downwards. There were stairs and escalators but no numbers at the bottom.

I went back to the Bear. 'I think we may have to go down over there, but I suggest we go sooner rather than later in case I'm wrong'. He accused me of being a pain for worrying but eventually he conceded and we went down the escalator.

It certainly didn't look right. The only 'official' looking person was a cleaner so I asked him where the numbered platforms were. 'They're in the other station' he informed us. He led us back up the escalator and pointed to the other end of the station where we had been sitting. Just beyond that, in small writing we found directions to the other platforms - through an archway, turn right and then a long walk but, at least, we found our train. 

Our carriage was right at the front of a double train so it was a bit of a trek. We finally reached number 13 and I literally fell in and landed in a heap on the floor because I didn't see the steps inside the carriage. Our seats were upstairs and conveniently close to both the loo and the buffet car. The TGV's toilet was more upmarket than the regional train's but much smaller than those on a British train. However, it was clean and odourfree and had various buttons and levers to flush it, turn on the tap, or dry your hands.

The refreshments were not too overpriced so we opted for sandwiches, fruit salad and yoghurt, beer and water for under 20 euros, and settled down to watch the scenery unfold. It amazed me that once out of Paris there were no more main towns until Lyon. As we sped southwards the landscape changed from flat, open fields to rolling hills and then  mountains came into view in the distance. You didn't really appreciate how fast you were travelling until the track was alongside a motorway and the cars were left standing.

We arrived at Montelimar exactly on time and our friends P and N were there on the platform to greet us. Our short holiday had really begun.