There are a few children around a large swing farther under a bump we take a shower while away petanque balls slam. Here are some of the memories of Mireille chosen among the thousand photographs as many visitors who came to his domain. Since the beginning of the 60’s, the tenant comes and goes, pushes here a trunk, deforested by there a space. Of his dreams of Provence, of this desire to pursue a life begun in the tenderness of a biscuit plant then threatened by a terrible meningitis, Mireille drew a very real universe. At the time, the latter dreamed with her companion, Charles, is to settle around Marseilles.

At the turn of conversations and like an outbreak, the idea of camping is obvious. Gone on the roads by motorcycle in search of this type of Eden: occasions are rare to own one. In this way, many establishments are visited as an immersion in the world of a sixtieth smallness of camping operators. All are active and sculpt their spaces, adapting to mass tourism. At the turn of a coffee taken under a veranda, along orange canvases, there are first the ralles of a young dachshund then finally an opportunity looms.

On the Aix-en-Provence side, a campsite would be for sale. A case whose rarity is expressed by the seniority observed of the patrons of campground. At the arrival of the couple, the eyes of a pure blue of Mireille sparkle at the edge of the property. The atmosphere is however not at the party. If the high tops of the trees, the chirping of the birds charm the visitors, their older guests are plunged into the insolent sadness of mourning. Memories piled up in the field, of this lost son, there at the bottom of the field near the old transformer: it was necessary to leave.

In the early 60s, Mireille and Charles settled. Their business was taken to the former Horse Post Relay, which served as a residence. Very quickly it is the effervescence on the ground, especially for Mireille who gives body and well while his companion exercises his profession of physiotherapist around. In this momentum, children come into the world and clump to what becomes a family campsite.

Under the trees, the sites of the old "International" are improved, connected by crossings rich of their gravel. As a landmark "the Egg" still sits in central building in the camper area. " The Egg" is an ovoid building which by the way of Mireille recovers its social functions despite its dilapidated state. A few meters away, a health point bears its green doors painfully. The flaked paint is connected with the scratched enamel of the sometimes Turkish toilets. A thousand times soiled, the thrones are now the prey of lush vegetation. In an adjoining room, water used to flow along sinks that laughed at the yellow of their earthenware. Under the dust, Charles' work gives the devastated room a charm of eternity.

If the summer months mark the intense seasons, as of 1965, campers are faithful throughout the year as in this winter 1975 where campers are numerous and present for the Christmas holidays. There is this precious Aix family from its location a few kilometers from the city or this police woman who willingly invests in the life of the campsite. Royal, Ista or Bebelle the dwarf goat, scares the barge out of the zone. The wooden hut in front is reserved for balls which provide a festive atmosphere many days in the summer while another building serves as reception.  Behind the opaque windows of dirt an old fridge recalls the presence of a small store. A few stacked leaflets finish getting wet while the glass walls of a telephone booth wait.

Unloading the packages of the trunk of Amie 8, with his arms weighted, Mireille supplies what could be akin to a bungalow. A liter of chocolate milk drink in the morning here, a bottle of Valstar (beer) whistled there like so many little delights sold at the foot of the tent. In the shadow of an old English bus a regular waits peacefully. In fact, a mound of a few meters, the imperial bus: cut out and then partly freed by a scrap dealer. Between two logs collected or stored in stock, Mireille continues to another toilet block. If the appellation ice the blood, the refinement of the building imposes it. "It is the alveolus" proudly asserts Mireille in the name of her architect husband.

The honeycomb lost in the shade of wild trees, light plants, was once the VIP area of the campsite. The strength of the six pitches lay in the access for each to one of the alveoli like so many showers and toilets. At the end of the path a magnificent tree, stronger than the others, represents for Mireille a magical place.  Under this venerable oak, past and present, Mireille delivers its happiness: the impeccable power grid, the luxury of pitches equipped with private telephone lines. An old tractor at the back of the stage protects a space reserved for relics: some caravans come there in the good days.