Best Laid Plans...

To knock the edge off the dizzying night-time temperatures, Anna, my wife, had purchased a machine that looked like an industrial paper shredder. But instead of shredding paper you fill it with water and ice packs from the freezer and listen to its low hum as it blasts cool mist across the bed, similar to the vegetable misters you see at Intermarché.

Our boudoir had become so intolerably hot, Anna had taken to sleeping in the hammock en terrace. Even though her sleep was much improved, her posture had started to resemble that of a banana.

We had guests staying, and being the generous soul she is, Anna had offered them the paper shredder, which they had accepted. So we were back on two fans blasting warm air at us.

Most of our guests are happy to lounge around the swimming pool, drinking and eating to excess...maybe the odd excursion to the supermarket. We had been doing this for two or three days and were going a bit stir-crazy, so a picnic was suggested and agreed upon.

The picnic hamper was prepared with a plethora of cheeses, charcuteries, olives, crusty bread, a bottle of Saumur's finest bubbles and other bits and bobs kicking about the fridge, we wanted rid of. Anna even packed a gingham tablecloth. Ooh, it was going to be like a Merchant Ivory film; if only we'd thought ahead, we could have invited Helena Bonham Carter, Maggie Smith and Colin Firth.

Just to the north of Niort sits the medieval Château Coudray-Salbart, with the river Niortaise snaking around it...an idyllic spot for a picnic.

As we sat alone in the dappled shade, staring into the gentle meandering river, talking like the Sitwells and stuffing our faces...a distant rumble was heard approaching and a convoy of five or six beaten up motorhomes and minibuses pulled into the picnic site. I know how General Custer felt as the vehicles encircled our picnic table.

Van doors flew open and out poured a ramshackle assortment of swarthy individuals, mainly in their underpants...we had gone from a Merchant Ivory film to The Beverley Hillbillies. They seemed very friendly as they hung out their washing lines, lit their primus stoves and released a pack of small dogs, which ran around yapping...I felt a warm, wet sensation on my sandalled foot and when I looked down saw one of the rabid little fellas licking my sweaty ankle.

They produced plastic chairs from the back of their Wacky Races vehicles, waded into the river, and sat, swigging alcohol and shouting about things. I don't remember this sort of thing happening in an E. M. Forster novel.

Anna, who had drank half a bottle of the Saumur's finest was speaking very loudly and started questioning their gypsy heritage...which made me rather nervous.

It felt surreal eating our la-di-da lunch, on our gingham tablecloth, watching a man in the middle of the river lather himself with a bar of soap.

As I say, they seemed very friendly, and no one was bitten, but it did rather knock the edge off the lunch. I felt slightly threatened, but that's just me...I feel slightly threatened walking around an Action, I don't know why that is.

Just as I thought we were about to leave, Anna produced a box of mini Macarons, which prolonged my suffering another twenty minutes.

Before Anna could strike up a conversation with the motley crew, I crammed the remnants of the picnic into the boot of our Dacia Sandero and sat revving the engine. We then drove 200 yards to the château and spent an enjoyable hour exploring the ramparts of this thirteenth century castle. The château has made it on to Anna's spreadsheet of places to visit, although if you have mobility issues...not the place for you.

I lay in bed that night musing over the days events...and drifted into the land of Nod listening to the sweet hum of the paper shredder in the guest room and the gentle snoring emanating through the fly screen from the hammock outside.