I was 26, with a baby and a campsite to turn around.
The Ultimatum
In October 1994, I had just given birth to my son Jean and was finishing a thesis year after business school. A young mother, I was barely recovering from the whirlwind of those first months. My mother announced she was about to start a new life in the United States, in New York. She gave me six months to decide what I wanted to do: either I took over the campsite, or she would sell it.
I was 26. With a baby. A husband still studying. And a life in Paris.
I said yes.
Arriving at the Front
I knew the campsite better than anyone. From the age of 18, I had worked there every season. I had seen every side of it: the reception desk, the entertainment team, the currency exchange… But managing it was something else entirely! And the general audit I carried out upon arrival quickly brought me back to earth: marketing, management… The place was ageing. Everything was twenty years old. The clientele was almost exclusively British and German. French visitors were virtually non-existent. On Bastille Day, the campsite was half empty.
We needed to turn things around – and fast. My mother and I spent a year co-managing together. A turbulent year, to say the least: I would say white, she would say black. A clash of generations, of methods… In 1996, she left. We were on our own, the campsite and I. I had no choice – we had to get back on track. My husband was still a student, I had a baby. To replenish the cash flow and hope to carry out renovations, there was only one solution: fill the campsite. The rest would follow.
Freebies and Pasta Nights
First priority: attract a new clientele. With little to no money. In winter, I would return to Paris – the centre of Europe, I told myself – and I decided to attend every camping trade show on the continent. Brussels, Birmingham, Stuttgart, Essen, Copenhagen, Leipzig… Rarely with a stand, for lack of budget. So we would set up at the entrance. My husband handed out flyers on car windscreens all around the exhibition centre. And for the rare shows where we did have a presence, I had invented my first goodies. Visitors would fill in a form, win a prize in a draw, and we would leave with their contact details.
The stamps on the leaflets? Friends would put them on during pasta evenings at our place: Hall 7, Stand 83. We made do with what we had. And it worked. That year, we had far more clients than in previous years. I had also bought advertising space in newspapers and guides. It was the very beginning of communication at Esterel Caravaning. The first step in a long series.
Between us: A Scorpion, a Slap and a Wedding
The Mimoun family had been coming to Esterel Caravaning since 1977. Every summer, they would stay for two months on one of the Rosaces pitches. One day, Monsieur Mimoun was stung by a scorpion. My father took him to A&E, and from that gesture, a friendship between our two families was born.
I was nine at the time, and on the playground, “the chicken cage” was MY kingdom. Emmanuel Mimoun, all of six years old, attempted a coup. I put him back in his place with a slap. He went off to find his sister. Her name was Yaël, and she became my best friend.
Time passed. The child I had slapped became the man I married and the father of my eldest son.
