At the end of each day, we usually end up in campgrounds, where an otherwise unremarkable patch of ground is quickly transformed into our new home. Surrounded by a mix of fellow travellers using shared facilities, it’s a very communal life: Common areas, a bar, a kitchen, sometimes even a cyclists room, if we’re lucky, where enthusiastic, animated discussions with fellow riders help inform future cycling options. We never know what amusements or ‘animations‘, as the French say, await us.

In a municipal campground on the Seine, not far from Paris, in the midst of a spectacular thunderstorm, the La Buvette (refreshment stand or Kiosk) became a makeshift refuge. This unremarkable wood-panelled shack, with fold-out awning-style windows, had a rusty ancient bicycle hanging from the rafters as an installation. The floor was covered with a mismatch of fraying Persian-style rugs. A scattering of collapsible wooden chairs were spaced around a makeshift stage, faded posters adorned the walls. The entire box-like appearance reminded me of Dr Who’s TARDIS, It was as if the whole thing could be folded up and spirited away at a moment’s notice.

Into this atmosphere of impermanence waltzed a soaked band of local musicians and what followed was an impromptu concert. We had landed in on local music night, where we were transported in space and time to somewhere else, with singing, music, laughter and cheering in a small intimate setting of fewer than 50 people, nearly all of whom seemed to know one another. Without ceremony and in no particular order, folk would jump up from their seats, perform a set of classic songs in a mixture of French and English, to rapturous applause, only to be replaced by another member of the audience.

The camaraderie was infectious, we were enraptured by the whole experience. Making instant friends, easily chatting with Henri the flautist,  a music teacher and self-proclaimed musical ‘Gun for hire’ and the wonderfully gifted Miriam who sang sweetly like a bird. Despite our limited  French we were included and embraced, literally, with cheek kisses and genuine heartfelt au revoirs as the magical musical night drew to its inevitable close.

Cycling out early the next morning from our campground, the little wooden refreshment stand had reverted to type, with no evidence of the wild carousing and magic from the night before. However, I’m sure it was still there, seeping out from those humble wood-panelled walls. All it needs is a few  more torch songs to light the spark.