Our first impression of Marans was not a positive one. We had only booked the campsite there because La Rochelle was, predictably for an August weekend, already full and Marans was conveniently close for day trips. We arrived after a hot four-hour drive from our beautiful lakeside pitch at St-Yrieix-la-Perche, and were not immediately impressed. The main road into town from the south pushes brutally through the middle of the town, and we peered silently at the abandoned shops that lined it. Diesel grime coated most of the buildings’ walls up to first floor level. Most of the shops looked almost abandoned, and I could scarcely imagine a time when I might have gone shopping in the long-closed lingerie shop along the street. Even popping into the tabac for a pouch of carcinogenic smoke seemed unnecessary when one could just step into the street and breathe in the air. We came to a pretty little bridge and momentarily spotted some tour boats on the river below, only for that little scene to be suddenly overwhelmed by a massive lorry rumbling dust into our faces. The sense of decline was only exaggerated by the heat. Usually, we arrive in our campsite towns with a few ‘that looks nice’s and ‘we could eat there’s, but arrival in Marans was met with stoney silence.

The campsite, at least, seemed nice enough. We were given a lovely pitch with plenty of shade from the hot sun, only to perplex the receptionist by going back to ask for one with a little more sun. This time the campsite map was produced and we directed to one with a little more midday heat, next to a strange oval structure with a playpark in the middle of it. It was, to my gleeful astonishment, a velodrome. More of that later.

Things were looking up.

We pitched our tent in the late afternoon sun and took a walk back into town. In the meantime, a mobile bar from the local brewery had set up next to reception and I took a vingt-cinq for the walk. By now, there were not quite so many big lorries thundering along the road, and we made our way back to the little bridge to properly take in the scene. It was Monday and most of the shops and bars were closed, but a stroll around the side streets looked promising. There were cobbles and narrow streets, a big market, and a river holding it all together. The national route cuts through the eastern third of the town, and even a hundred metres to the west it was actually quite nice.

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Over the coming days we explored the towns and countryside around. The big draw of course was nearby La Rochelle, the White City; with its old port and beautiful waterfront areas, and at this time of year completely overwhelmed with tourists. It was close enough for us to to take the bus in rather than throw ourselves into the inevitable traffic. Another day, we hired bikes from the friendly Cycles Nadeau-Hubert in Marans and explored the waterways and countryside around the town. And the Vendée region was just to the north, its wide open spaces and miles of beaches a complete contrast to La Rochelle.

In the afternoons and evenings we returned to our site at Marans, and slowly the town’s charms revealed themselves. We sat in the sun and drank wine and swam in the outdoor pool next to the campsite. There was a gloriously French range of food and drink available from the vans that took it in turns to park by reception – my son even had his first taste of oysters there one day! The low-key market and shops gradually opened themselves as the weekend approached and we were met everywhere with smiles and conversation. Christine at Le Chat Ivre (‘the Drunken Cat’) introduced me to a particular variety of 100% shiraz wine; a darkly-flavoured wine with dry tobacco and heavy oak notes that I grew to enjoy. She also told us about the summer fete in the gardens of the nearby Mairie and we were astonished to find a full-on party taking place there, with food stalls and bands, the whole town out in force to celebrate the summer. By the time Friday rolled around, the port had come to life too with another mini-market setting up alongside the Sevre Niortaise and restaurants spilling out onto the streets alongside its banks.

And of course there was the velodrome. I had never even dreamed of having a velodrome attached to a campsite before and I eagerly took my bike out for a few laps. The place has some history. It was first built in the early 1900s and was used by one of the local cycling clubs that used to exist in every small town in France, and was even used to host exhibition races by touring professional cyclists. I was told that Jacques Anquetil and Raymond Poulidor raced there on occasion. The velodrome is named the Velodrome Charles Charriau after a local grain merchant and philanthropist who may have funded the building of a grandstand there, of which only an octagonal changing room and bike store remains. Charriau died in a plane crash just after World War Two but his wife continued supporting the town for decades afterwards. The gradient of the track was lowered in the 1980s or 1990s when it started to be used for roller skating as much as cycling, and it was only used for youth races afterwards. It was a shame to see a place with such community and sporting history falling out of use and I felt privileged to have the track to myself. I would love to know more about it.

In our final evening we strolled once more down to the quay and sat under a starry Prussion blue sky outside the Rozell de Marans and had the most beautiful meal to finish our stay. The owner came and chatted to us and told us how sad it was that people only saw the main road through town. It was obvious how hard everyone is working to change that. Marans is an interesting and, away from the obvious, attractive little town and certainly somewhere I’d love to visit again if we find ourselves back in that part of France.