No rush at all this morning. We cook toast without setting off the smoke alarm having finally cleared the grill of residue from the sausage fire in Limoges.

Ali makes use of the site's washing machine before we set off to explore Le Truel.

The site exits straight onto a bridge which offers lovely views up and down the Tarn. We pass the failed Passion and decide our shady riverbank pitch is the better location despite not being free. Ambling along the footpath we can see lots of trout of all sizes swimming lazily in the current. The water is clear but green from the reflection of all the trees, and varies from smooth to dappled to quite wavy as the breeze funnels down the gorge.

Near the end of town is what must be the prettiest petrol station anywhere; a stone shelter with tiled roof covers three self-service pumps, and is hung all around with colourful flower baskets and the backdrop of river and trees.

As we leave town the road climbs a few feet and narrows. Butterflies of evey colour and huge dragonflies zigzag among the grass and wild flowers while cicadas and grasshoppers rattle and chirp all around.

Every now and then the trees start to whisper as the breeze grows to a mildly strong wind providing a cooling effect in the 32C shade.

Along the bank are stone tables and benches, so inviting Ali walks the 2km back to the site and returns on her bike with a picnic. What surprises us is that there is hardly a soul about; the odd car or cyclist and a couple of anglers, but no canoes or boats. It's like we have the world to ourselves.

After our picnic we wander back and up the hill to the village where the tarmac is melting. At the top where we entered yesterday we look over the jumble of alleyways, rooves and terraces and again there's no-one around. When we get down among the alleys it is a charming as could be. Narrow roads are paved in red and grey stone that glitters with quartz or felspar. Steep step lead up to front doors at head height. Tiny terraces and courtyards are shaded with wisteria, vine and elder. Colonial balconies are laden with potted geraniums and oleander. It's like a little film set of the finest vilage in France.

One larger building, perhaps once and inn, is built of timber frames infilled with drystone walling. It's centuries old but deftly restored and it has a small tunnel leading to a little water garden.

The next alley leads back to the riverside where there are a bar and an ice-cream shop, sadly both shut.

In baking heat we dodge along in shadows then back over the bridge and down to our shady pitch for some ice-crean out of our freezer.

A lazy couple of hours brings us to dinner time a the sun drops behind the hills and finally the air turns cooler.