The aire was quiet and peaceful last night but as usual the French are on the move from 07:30 It feels chilly at only 15C until the sun comes up but it's warmer by the time we use the service point and move on.

We stop briefly in Mur de Bretagne to buy savoury tarts in a boulangerie then go the few miles to Caurel, where we rented a gite many years ago, for another view of the drained lake. Back then the road ran through the village but now there is a bypass so on the old road flower pots and restaurant terraces have brightened everything up. There is now a height restriction on the lane to the gite so no reminiscing there, and the temporary one way system for visitors prevents us driving our known route to the lakeside at Beau Rivage. Event signs lead us to the parking areas but we drive past the MoHo fields down to the blue-badge areas beside the hotel.

What used to be a shady, informal car park towards the hotel is very different from our memories; there are now height restricted car parks on one side and cafe terraces on the other. Mature trees once gave glimpses through to the water but these are gone, giving panoramic vistas across the now empty lake. The hewn rock 'shoreline' now hangs like a rim above the valley, green with new vegetation like the area we saw yesterday. A pleasure-boat landing stage is high and dry, its concrete steps leading to a drop of 50 or 60 feet, and said pleasure-boat is sitting on a gentle slope looking as out of place as Noah's ark on Mt Ararat.

Walkers follow natural paths down the old valley to the river or scramble back up to take refreshments on the terraces. We never imagined the water being so deep when we saw Lac Guerledan all those years ago and we make a mental note to come and see it refilled next time we pass through Brittany.

The one way brings us on our old route back to Caurel where we eat our tarts for lunch and search the Passion book for somewhere to stay tonight. A restaurant to the north looks good, Ali rings to make a reservation and we set off, climbing the steep switchback out of Mur de Bretagne, still covered with Tour de France grafitti, through another old stomping ground, Coray. From there a winding woodland road takes us to the restaurant. Ali goes to confirm our arrival and is told we should park on the edge of the field where the Fest Noz [fete] is being set up. Two hours later a man on a farm buggy, with his English speaking daughter, wants us to move to the sloping bank across the river. We mention the restaurant but she rudely tells us we asked the wrong people, it's the river bank or nowhere. Whether they have the authority we don't know and can't be bothered so we leave without telling the restaurant and head a further 23 miles to a sheep farm at Pluhdaniel.

What a joy! The farm holds a producers' market on Thursdays which means we can buy fresh food in leiu of our aborted dinner out. Fresh lamb steaks and vegetables are purchased and we get permission to use the BBQ. There are 3 other vans here tonight as we sit in the sunshine chomping our tender, juicy meat while its brothers and sisters 'baa' for all they're worth on the other side of the hedge.

Later we are visited by a dopey Dobermann who just wants to roll in the newly cut grass and have her belly rubbed.

Sometimes, it seems, plans that go wrong end up with a better ending.