Spring awakening . . . do as you would be Donne by

I thinke that sprinnge doeth bee sprunnge. I know this possibly from an unaccountable desire finally to go out and discover John Donne, and more probably from finding myself stuck behind my first camper van of the year.

As you may recall, the mere glimpse of a camper van dawdling criminally in the middle distance is enough to have me reaching for the crucifix and garlic.

On reflection, a stake in the back tyre would be more effective, or even a silver bullet . . . May potent poodles piddle on all their wheels. Naturally this loathsome wraith and apparition occurred on that Golden Road to Samarkand otherwise known as the D117 to Perpignan. In Xanadu did Kubla Khan a stately crétin doing 30km par heure in the middle of la rue decree . . .

It's possible that this is one of the lines famously missing from Kubla Khan because the postman or similar alternative plonqueur turned up and broke the dear old stoner's train of thought while he was writing it.

Or perhaps not, though of course the camper van driver certainly acted like he'd been rifling Samuel Taylor's stash. Some things never change; as Prévert would put it: "Je suis qui je suis . . ." though I'd like to think that exotic, leggy slappeuses from Paris bars would never dream of doing something as profoundly uncool as driving a camper van. Incidentally that's yer man Coleridge pictured, in a moment less smashed.

It has to be said that girlfriend Claire and I are pretty much united in our deep hatred of the D117. One or other of us has to trog up and down it most weekends and it rates high on our Top Ten Linear World Enema Sites. End of rant.

Spring started unconvincingly enough near Canet-en-Roussillon (chez Claire) on Saturday with a howling gale. One became acutely aware of the gathering typhoon while driving Renault's hot contender for the America's Cup. You may not know this but Kangoo is an old French word which means Four-Wheeled Spinnaker. One of these days I may fit it with lifebelts in case I run out of road.

But somehow on Sunday the wild and gleefully thrashing wind died to a still and distant shadow. The seaside morning market filled and swirled with the unbearably-appetising smell of tagine and paella. That cheery Arab guy was again selling great green bunches of fresh coriander for only €1.50 a shot so I nabbed one quick.

With all this food on offer, the traders were clearly expecting someone to turn up. And turn they duly did, even unto the shoe-horning of the car parks for the first time since last October.

And all was no longer frozen even in Fa (40km north of Canet crow flies; if you use the D117, it's another 397). I cautiously shed a layer or two of superannuated jumpers, thus recalling surprising quantities of long-concealed and dimly-remembered flesh.

We're at last getting to that weird time of year when you accidentally open a window and are amazed to discover that it's actually warmer outside; one of our more beloved phenomena here in SW France.

If this goes on much longer, I shall be forced to out out with the disc-grinder and remove the Lloyds'-certificated welding that keeps the kitchen door compulsively, nay even compulsorily, shut . . .