The Landy on a motorway is neither quiet nor smooth but
somehow it sings and gives you joy. What is nice is how other Landy drivers
flash and wave. It feels like a brotherhood of automotive dropouts in a world
of cruise controlled jelly moulds.
The cross channel ferry between Dover and Calais is now an
additional mode of transport in my commuting repertoire. It’s grim. At any time
of day there are bus loads of school children unloaded into the cafeterias and
corridors swarming like out of control wildebeest. They are interspersed with
endless pensioners ambling about looking for a Daily Mail and a cup of tea.
When the two combine, it’s like a game of skittles at sea.
When you land in Calais, civilisation begins immediately,
you are straight onto a smooth surfaced, traffic free autoroute pointing you
south. I had taped to the dashboard a route mapped out in stages and times for
me to tick off and then congratulate me. I had seen pilots do it electronically
with way points. ie reach Amiens at 11.30, pass Paris at 12.30. All of these
led to a drink and a nice dinner at the end of the day. Olivia Newton John and
myself were dueting all the way down the A16 from Calais with Paris in sight.
Ironically she and I were asking ourselves “Have you never been mellow?” when I
saw the fuel gauge start to move to the left with more speed than it should. Actually
it was sprinting for the left. I glanced in the rear view mirror and saw a
cloud of smoke following me. God works in mysterious ways and right at that
moment she provided an exit to a French motorway picnic area. As I pulled to a
stop and descended from the Landy I
could see diesel flooding from the front of the car. At this point I was hit by
diesel odour so strong that it still gives me a headache thinking about it.
As the Landy stood in a sea of its own diesel I could see
that the car was covered in the filthy slimy, malodorous stuff. I had been
spewing diesel over myself for quite a while. It probably explained the throbbing
headache. Breaking down by the side of the motorway has always filled me with
dread. Doing that in a foreign country has to be up there with being sick on a
rollercoaster or hearing the words, “Ken Dodd will be doing your enema for you
today”
The AA now have an overseas service which ultimately transfers
you to a nice French lady after Vodafone have fleeced you in the process. Nice
French lady tells you (in English) that due to the motorways being owned by the
police (huh?!?!) the French AA are not allowed to come and rescue you. The police have to organise your rescue.
“Please phone 112 at your earliest convenience to speak to them sir”.
Unfortunately 112 is actually the firemen you silly but nice AA lady and not
the police but the firemen are massively helpful and put you through to a
random policeman who gets out a road atlas from his desk, locates the scene of
your trauma and gives you the phone number for the village policeman closest to
you. Who actually turns out to be equally lovely and makes the necessary
arrangements…”Rest assured! Help is on its way!” I didn’t have enough time to
be cynical as within five minutes a rescue truck chugged into the car park.
Monsieur G had landed. Probably the most instantly exuberant, jolly and smiley mechanic
I’d ever met. And probably the biggest Landrover nut France has ever produced.
“Day-phon-daaaaaaaaaar!” (Defender) he half shrieked, half gasped as he yanked
my hand from the wrist and involved me in a moment of impromptu body popping by
way of a greeting. “She’s a beauty isn’t she?!”
“Yes but she’s drowning in a sea of diesel and I need to be
in the Correze by 6.30 this evening!”
I’ve never known anyone express “You’ve having a laugh
aren’t you? But don’t worry we’ll sort it” without actually speaking, conveying
it instead through a waggle of a cigarette, a smile, a pat on the shoulder and
the turning round of a flat cap.
I love how we blame our ridiculous health and safety laws on
being in the EU. The police appointed mechanic smoked throughout a major fuel
leak and his recovery truck didn’t have any seatbelts. It felt bizarrely
liberating and somehow comforting. I think by making ourselves so “safe” in the
UK we inadvertently terrorise ourselves. Bouncing along in that tow truck was
like running with scissors through a forest in a thunder storm.
The Landy was deposited in M. G’s yard. It sat upright and
conspicuously green amongst a sea of miniscule and mangled Citroen going back
to the era of Charles de Gaulle. It was now Saturday afternoon, on my route
planner I should be having a wee stop somewhere near Orleans right now. Olivia
would have made it into the 1980s and there was every chance we’d getting
Physical on the A71 south.
Yes there were mechanics around but they weren’t going to be
looking at this patient in great detail anytime soon. Many Gallic shrugs were
emitted as they all looked under the bonnet. The fumes were too much for me to
get close. My clothes stank enough of the stuff anyway….
M.G walked towards me and shook his head,
“The problem is easy to fix, but we need to remove bits to
get to it… your garage in the UK forgot to tighten the connector between the
fuel pipe and the engine” Basically my dear Landy had eviscerated itself on the
motorway apparently due to the vibrations. Was my singing that bad? I don’t
think Olivia Newton John vibrates much, certainly not as a lady of pensionable age. Thank god it wasn’t Bonnie Tyler
otherwise I might be looking at a new big end.
I must have looked even more despondent than I was feeling
as M. G decided on a course of action to cheer me up. Part one was a tour of
several Landy’s he had in various states of undress. Bizarrely it felt
reassuring.. I might not have a connection between fuel and engine but I did have more than a chassis with a protruding gear stick.
part two was to phone for a hire car... there was much exuberant dialogue going on down the phone, relating to the fact we seemed to be in the French equivalent of rural Kansas on a weekend and options were slim to nil...Finally the Marlboro red nearly dropped out of M. G's mouth, he pounded the desk and excalimed, "I have found the last car in Beauvais! It's not very big but it will get you to the Correze!"
I loaded my gardening kit and expansive travelling wardrobe into M. G's car and we headed to the airport. I still smelled of diesel and was now quite weary having been sustained on Haribo and coffee which was causing a major dip of mood and strength.
The airport at Beauvais is so small a row of houses with neatly tended gardens and bright floral arrangements suddenly stops and becomes the car hire offices. And that's where the nightmare was just about to go nuclear.......
Encore, s'il vous plait!
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