Sealing off the happy campers

THE LAST STRAW: In former times, French seaside towns built walls to keep the English out. But more recently, there seems to have been a change of tactic.

Having just spent two weeks on a campsite near La Rochelle, I can report that the locals are now building walls to keep the English in.

Not that everybody on our campsite was English; it only seemed that way. In fact, several were Irish, and a few were Dutch or German. But the majority were from England; and the majority of the majority, for reasons I never understood, were from Lancashire. Some evenings at the bar, it was like being trapped inside an episode of Coronation Street.

Nationality aside, the campers fell into two groups. In one, there were people with young families, who needed a safe, quiet, and easily wiped holiday environment. In the other, there were unaccompanied older couples whose children were long reared but who couldn't kick the habit, and kept coming back, possibly while attending Campers Anonymous.

New to this kind of thing, we took time to adjust. The first weekend, in what seemed like a good idea, I secured tickets for an open-air, night-time spectacular - re-enacting highlights from French history - only two hours' drive from the campsite.

The show started after dark and, like French history, went on a bit. But the consolation, as we drove home at 3 a.m., was that the kids were fast asleep (they'd been drowsy since the Franco-Prussian War) and could be transferred from the car to bed. Or so we thought.

It turned out the campsite had a strict 10.30 p.m. curfew. When we got back, the gates were locked and, as we now noticed, the camp had a five-foot wall and a warning about 24-hour camera surveillance. We stared at this in genuine perplexity for a time. Then we realised there was nothing for it but to park the car outside, wake up the children, and form an escape committee with a view to breaking in.

The weakness in the campsite's defences was the recycling enclosure outside the gate. Here, I was able to hoist my wife onto a wheelie- bin, from which she could mount the wall and jump over. It was a leap in the dark; but luckily her fall was broken by the ground, and she suffered only minor scars. The kids were then safely lifted over, and if anything they enjoyed the adventure even more than the highlights of French history.

Chastened, we restricted ourselves, for the next outing, to the one-hour trip to La Rochelle, a fortified port whose ramparts were designed not only to repel the English but, once, the Catholic French. These days, it's a charming city with lots for children to do. We spent an idyllic evening there, strolling the quays, parks and beach, before ambling back to the car, where we noticed the time was - sacre bleu - 10 p.m.! We drove for the campsite as fast as we could, but too late. It was Groundhog Night, as the excited children found themselves woken up again and my wife headed, groaning, for the wheelie-bins.

I began to understand why one of our English neighbours had a flag of St George flying over his caravan. It was as if he'd captured this part of France for the crown, even though I'm fairly sure he was paying rent for his site, like everybody else.

But I think he and some of the older English campers saw themselves as prisoners of war, and organised their compounds along military lines.

As for us, after considering a transfer to a less secure facility, we instead adapted to the pace of the campsite, and confined our excursions to the nearby village. On the last evening, we went out only to a local restaurant. From there, it was a short stroll to the beach where, by way of bidding a fond adieu to our holiday, we gazed at the sunset, drew pictures in the sand, and watched crabs scurrying seawards in the dark.

And then realised that if it was dark, that meant the bloody campsite was locked again! Which, sure enough, it was. But this time the manager, who may have been reviewing his surveillance videos, was still hovering. And while he frowned at us, in French, he opened the gate without comment.

Despite all the problems, I must say we enjoyed our first experience of camping in France, and were treated humanely at all times. So, as far as I could see, were our English neighbours - the man with the flag included - who waved cheerfully as we left. But maybe Amnesty International should investigate their cases, just to be on the safe side.