Thursday, 21st April 2011, Bentlawnt - Dover (250 m)
We had decided that, unlike past escapades, we would leave home in good time, have a nice relaxed drive to Dover, find our usual layby and be ready, fresh as daisies, for the 6.00am ferry and a nice long day in France.
That was until T decided that there were still last minute jobs to do and that we had to call at his mum's in Birmingham because she'd made barra bridd.
The Rosabella purred along the motorway system - well, kind of purred - maybe more of a clatter similar to the noise of the cement machine in "How To Murder Your Wife...." (remember the gerloppitta gerloppitta machine?).
She'd had an oil and filter change before we left, and Harold had also topped up the gearbox oil as the box was a bit whiney. That particular noise had vanished completely and not a beat was missed as we trundled our way to the south coast, this time getting further than Corley services because we'd treble-checked that we had our passports!
We beat all our previous records for arriving late and eventuall got our heads down at 3.00am with the alarms set for 4.30. We reckon that whatever time we plan to leave home there is a vortex around Beltlawnt that speeds up time so that we are ALWAYS late!!
Friday 22nd April, Dunkirque
A lovely crossing (our first with Norfolk Line). Comfy, spacious and worth the extra 40 minutes or so over the Calais crossing.
We still weren't sure where we were heading but decided we would go to Cassel and decide from there. We turned off the motorway after about 10 minutes, at the Wormhault exit, and about half a mile up the hill was a set of traffic lights and a diversion around some roadworks.
T was struggling with what seemed like a very 'puddingy' gear lever. We'd been in fourth gear to get up the hill and as he tried to go down through the box the lever refused to work. We were at the front of the queue at the lights and while they were on red he shoved and pushed, all to no avail. He switched off the engine and tried to engage a gear - still nothing. Uh-oh! Feels like a problem.
On with the hazard lights and a wave to the following traffic to come around us (there was a filter lane which gave a bit of space). T peered under the bonnet but the linkage seemed OK. He wiggled the linkage to no effect.
"Do we need to call the breakdown insurance?" K asked.
"It looks that way. This is a good start - we've only been on French soil for about 15 minutes!"
K had called the breakdown insurance people a couple of weeks ago to confirm the change of vehicle. The paperwork hadn't arrived and she'd called again a couple of days before we left to ensure that the details were on record - she was, of course, assured that everything was OK.
"Hello, Swinton Insurance, breakdown help line - can I have your registration number please?......I'm sorry, we don't seem to have that number in the system. Can we have a credit card number please in case we have to charge you for the recovery - because of the Bank Holiday we're not going to be able to check until next Tuesday."
Grrrrrrrrr......
An hour later a recovery truck pulled up and T jumped out thankfully.
"Do you speak English please?"
"Only a leetle"
"OK. Le boite de vitesse est casse, je crois"
"Oh, right, your gearing box does not work"
"Yes, that's right"
"Have you called anyone?"
"Well, yes, that's why you're here isn't it?"
"No, I'm here because you are blocking the road"
"Oh sorry, yes, there's someone on the way"
"Are you sure"
"Yes thanks"
"Well if you're sure......."
"I am thanks"
T returned to the cab, muttering darkly about French pirates. He rang the breakdown service to find out what had happened to our recovery. Nicolas, on the French desk, told him that they were trying to pinpoint our position. T gave him the Lat/Long from the satnav. "Ah, zat ees 'elpful - someone weel be weeth you in fifteen minyootes"
Half an hour later a big truck turned up. The driver waggled the gear linkage and started preparing his low loader to take The Rosabella. She was winched aboard and we leapt into the cab of the wrecker.
"Stop!" yelled T. "Nous avons oublie the...erm...thing. Le trois thing". The driver stood on the brakes in panic while T jumped from the cab and ran over the road, through the now released traffic, to retrieve the warning triangle.
No more than 5 minutes later we were at the garage and The Rosie was being rolled off on to the forecourt. We sat in the sun and watched three mechanics in turn waggle the gear lever. They disappeared into the garage. Three minutes later K's phone rang. It was the breakdown insurance people.
"The garage have phoned. They've examined your vehicle and there is a problem with the gearbox."
"Yes, we know, that's why we telephoned you."
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| The Rosabella does something bad. In France.... |
"Ah, yes of course. Anyway, they've examined it and it requires a new gearbox. They estimate it will cost 1200 Euros."
"Yes but they've only waggled the gearlever."
"Well, that's what they are telling us is the problem."
"OK, the cover says that if a repair can't be carried out in the time available, the vehicle and occupants will be repatriated, so can we go for that option please, because they're not going to find a gearbox or get the job done by the end of our break, and I can get it done for a fraction of that price at home."
"No, I'm sorry. If its possible to do a repair in France, that's what has to be done."
"Its not going to be possible"
"Well, the garage needs to tell us that, and they're going to try to find a gearbox"
"How are they going to do that? Its a bank holiday weekend here as well."
"Well I'm sorry, you'll have to wait until Tuesday."
Sharp exhalation of breath followed by a 'give me strength' roll of the eyes.
"Ok, the policy allows us a hire car and hotel so we'd better get that sorted out"
"Erm...no....sorry. Its a car OR a hotel, not both"
"That's not what it says in my policy document"
"But I'm afraid that's the way it is"
Sounds of suppressed, astounded rage.
"So if we have a car, where are we supposed to stay?"
"The garage have said you can stay on their forecourt in your motorhome."
It was all shaping up nicely. If you like that kind of thing.
"OK, can you sort a car out please?"
Half an hour later, "We've arranged a car for you with Avis in Dunkirque centre, but you do need to pick it up by 4pm as they're closing for the Bank Holiday"
it was half past three.
"You'll have to get a taxi - keep the receipt and we'll reimburse you. And you can keep the car until Tuesday"
The garage administrator called a taxi for us. We were eight miles from dunkirque and he turned up at 3.45. He did manage to get us there but we were terror stricken by the time we arrived.
The next bit of good news was that we couldn't have an additional driver, even though we offered to pay. This meant that K would be doing all the driving whilst T was consigned to the death seat.
We headed in to Dunkirque - what a charming place! We found a nice bar, a great greengrocers and a fab charcuterie. We bought enough food for a celebration meal (well, at least we had a nice cosy Rosabella to stay in, the sun was shining and the coffee was better than on the M6).
Back to the garage and a brief franglais conversation about camping on the forecourt. No problem, and would we like mains electricity, and just help yourself to water from that tap over there, and there's a loo and a shower just there. Obviously, if the mad English people choose to spend their vacances in a garage, they need to be made comfy in case they go berserk.
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| Our home for a week. |
The mechanics had all drifted off by about 7.30, most with a wave to the strange people up the corner, and we were able to take stock of our surroundings. It was quiet, the little ZA was 8 miles out of the town, there were a couple of empty carparks and lots of trees, with blackbirds and thrushes singing their bedtime songs. All in all, it could have been a lot worse.
We had dinner and sorted the bed out. It had been a long, stressful couple of days and we were both worn out. We turned in and slept the sleep of the exhausted and innocent. Until about midnight when a recovery truck turned up with a broken car on the back. There was much crashing, banging and engine revving as the boys put the vehicle into the compound at the back of the garage. This was to become a regular occurence over the next few days and we got used to the disturbance, thanking our lucky stars that we weren't stuck without a car, accommodation or someone to give us a cuddle.
Saturday 23rd April
Do you know that feeling when you wake up, the sun's shining, you're in the Rosie, you're on your hols in France and everything is lovely - until, a nanosecond later, you remember? Well, that's exactly how it was when T's eyes opened on Saturday morning and he really had to have a word with himself whilst making the cuppa. Things could be worse!
We sat in bed and did yesterday's crossword while we came to. It was a beautiful day, too good for lolling around worrying about what was going to happen and how much it was going to cost. We were optimistic - if they couldn't sort the van we'd just go home and take it to our trusted mechanic. No problem. Meanwhile, we weren't at work, we were in France, there was apparently a nice beach (we'd seen pictures of it - covered in tanks and being strafed by the Luftwaffe!), and we were saving an arm and a leg on diesel!
T made brekkie, K tidied up and we decided to be sun worshippers. Up the road, a coupe of wrong turnings, a stop for cheese and wine and then a whole day in the unseasonably warm weather (28 according to the thermometer - pretty good for April). A few hours of sleeping, reading and generally slobbing and we were both feeling a lot better, and planning how to spend our time until next Tuesday.
A big pasta-y thing for supper, an early night and good sleep, broken only momentarily by the boys bringing in a couple of cars.
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| The beach, somewhat quieter than..... |
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| ..........in 1940 |
Much the same as Saturday except enlivened by the addition of Joseph to our garage-bound life.
T went into the workshop to fill the water carrier, which we were using to keep our tank topped up. There was a gentleman, probably in his seventies, having a very agitated conversation with one of the mechanics. He was wearing an England baseball cap and as T went past he remarked on it.
"Yes" said the old man in heavily accented English.
"I live in England. My car's clutch broke in the night and they won't fix it unless I pay up front! They don't trust me! They don't know who I am! Not going to Brussels are you, by any chance?"
T apologised that we weren't going anywhere but suggested that he came and had a cup of tea with us.
"Oh, thank God. Some civilised people at last!"
T helped him into the Rosie where he introduced himself. "My name is Joseph and I'm Belgian - NOT FRENCH! My brother was the High Commissioner to (somewhere), my wife is related to (some English Duke or other) and my cousin is a cardinal who should really have been Pope if it wasn't for that German, Ratzinger! And that mechanic doesn't trust me to pay up for fixing my car! C'est une outrage!!"
He went on to explain that he lived in Whitstable and was on his way to visit family in Bruxelles. He said that he could have cried when we offered him a cuppa and that in return we could accompany him to Bruxelles and stay in his five-bedroom family house - all we would need to bring were our toothbrushes. If not, then the least he could do was, next time we were crossing the channel to let him know because as a shareholder he could get us through the Tunnel for a fiver.
He told us his life story, about his mother being a reknowned communist activist in Belgium, his issues with catholicism, his dealings with corrupt politicians. He was very engaging and interesting and we were happy to sit and listen. Eventually he said that he was going to have to call a taxi because if he could get to the station he could get a train to Bruxelles. We, of course, wouldn't hear of it. We were going to Dunkirque anyway and it would be no problem to drop him off at la gare.
The stories continued as we drove in to the town centre and when we reached the station Joseph gave us, once again his thanks, gave us his number in case there was any way he could reciprocate our help, and the last we saw of him he was nattering to a couple of backpackers on the steps of the station, no doubt regaling them with stories of European dynasties to whom he was related.
We continued to the beach and had another lazy day, again formulating plans for the various possible outcomes of The Rosabella's bad behaviour.
Tuesday 25th - Friday 28th April
As the week went on it became more and more obvious that our options were decreasing whilst our blood pressure was rising as a result of the insurance company's continual attempts to not spend any of our premium money. There were some highlights:
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| Well - if we must....! |
Our loo. We had always been a bit squeamish about using the loo on The Rosabella. Yes, we know its silly but we'd never had a toilet on the original Rosie, we'd never needed one and the thought of what is essentially a bucket of....well....you know what sloshing around at the back of the van had never really appealed to us. Nor had the thought of emptying it which K had decided that, because his dad was a plumber, was by default T's job. However, when we'd been sitting at the front of the traffic jam, T, overcome with excitement, anxiety and coffee had announced that he was 'going to have to go'.On the garage forecourt, K, with the option of to-ing and fro-ing from the mechanics' 'facilities', had decided to follow suit. Now, after a few days we were completely happy to use, on a limited basis you understand, our little bathroom. T had had to find the instructions to figure out how to empty it and done so with rubber gloves, apron and waders at the ready, finding out in the process what most other motor homers already know, that it was a more or less painless process.
Decathlon. What a fantastic shop! There's one on the outskirts of Dunkirque, it sells all manner of outdoor sports things at reasonable prices AND it has a free, easy-access wi-fi hotspot AND it had a spotless loo, perfect for the operations that didn't come into the 'limited basis' referred to above. Mind you, we do now have more walking socks than you can shake a stick at.- Paris. K had never been to Paris and T's half a dozen or so trips had all been in winter so we decided to take full advantage of the hire car for a day trip to the City of Light. It was a couple of hundred miles, we arrived at midday and did the whole bit - Arc de Triomphe, Champs Elysee, lunch in les Tuilleries, Pont Neuf to St Germain, Notre Dame (where in an attempt to get out of the way of a rapidly advancing Cardinal, T ducked under a barrier to find himself seated amongst the dignitaries at an Easter service), the Opera House and then dinner in Montmartre. Home to our forecourt, dusty, footsore and tired.
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| Cassel windmill |
Wednesday was murky and we decided to go to Cassel for a mooch. Still no news from Swinton despite calling them and being told they would get back to us. One of the garage boys had told us that a gearbox was 'introuvable' but that the insurance people were very reticent about paying for repatriation. We decided that we would be a bit more proactive and called Tim in Perpignan.
We asked him if he would have a word with Fabrice, the fellow who had looked after the old Rosie in St Laurent, to see if there was a gearbox anywhere around. We had a message to say that Fabrice was going to call the garage in Dunkirque to see if there was anything he could do.
On the way back to Dunkirque we visited Belgium - for about three minutes. Travellers or what!
When we got back to the van K called Swinton again. Again, we were told that the mechanics were still trying to sort us out but that repatriation was now an 'option'. Then we were told it was only an option because if the cost of bringing the van home outweighed its value, then they wouldn't do it.
This was the point at which the normally kind, understanding, tolerant T lost his temper, took the phone from K and demanded to know exactly what we'd been paying our premium for, for all these years. They'd kept us waiting for recovery, they'd decided we couldn't come home at the start of this episode despite him advising them that the repair would not be effected, they'd decided we couldn't have accommodation and a hotel, just one or the other and they'd not kept us informed to the point that we'd had to spend a fortune on phone calls to them. And now they were going to try to wriggle out of getting the van home. And how exactly were they planning to put a value on a 1989 Tabbert in excellent condition when they hadn't even got the name Tabbert on their database when we'd set up the cover?
There was a silence at the other end of the line.
"Of course sir, I understand how you must be feeling......."
Another barrel from T along the lines of "so you're stuck on a garage forecourt are you," etc, etc, etc.
"OK sir, I take your point"
Round 3 from T about how they may well be taking something much more effective than a point if they didn't get something sorted..
"Yes sir, I promise I'll call you in thirty minutes and let you know what's happening"
Which is why, from that point on, we received phone calls approximately once an hour with updates as to what they were doing - its a wonder they didn't let us know when they were going to the loo, or phone us to wish us night-night and godbless!
On Thursday we went for a mooch around Dunkirque and visited the great little museum housed in the former headquarters of the Allied forces. It really brought it home to us how, in those dark days of 1940, it was such a touch-and-go situation for the future of Europe.
Walking back to the car our now-regular phone call informed us that The Rosabella had been valued at £1000, and as the recovery cost was £980 it was 'touch and go'. T responded that it was obvious that they'd valued Rosie as a Ducato panel van - they confirmed that that's what they had done. T told them that they would have to do better than that and that the insurance value was much, much higher than that. They asked for details of the insurance company, which we gave them, but again it was down to T to point out to them that next day was a bank holiday in the UK (a wedding apparently) so they wouldn't be able to check it out and that our ferry was booked for the Monday. Then the bombshell...!
"Oh, you and your partner can go back to the UK as foot passengers - you could have done that last weekend............."
T almost ate the 'phone. We'd been sitting on a garage forecourt when we could have been at home sorting things out!
"Yes sir, just book yourself on to a ferry - it will have to be from Calais because Norfolk Line don't take foot passengers - and send us the bill. We'll arrange for you to drop off the French hire car at Calais and we'll have a car waiting for you to pick up in Dover. Oh yes, you could have done that earlier and we would have paid for you to go back to France and collect the vehicle if it had been fixed....."
We decided w would save the row for later, when The Rosabella was safely home. And, after all, revenge is a dish best served......... so on.
Straight back to our Decathlon hotspot and a booking for the Saturday morning ferry. Back on to the insurance company and suddenly everything is running smoothly (the only hiccup - well, apoplectic attack! - was when T was told it would take anything from two weeks to a month before The Rosie would be trucked home) - cars sorted, everything!
Friday, another day on the beach and a listen-in to the wedding. The French commentators were very excited, which is more than could be said for T, although with our kids' big day approaching (T's son is marrying K's daughter - keep it in the family we say!), K was in a very gooey mood.
We stocked up on wine (20 bottles of Villageoise) and found various safe places in The Rosie to stash it and spent the evening tidying up, putting things away ready for Rosie's piggy-back ride home, emptying various tanks (T's job!) and packing whatever we could in to rucksacks and our little wheeley case.
We still weren't clear about whether they would actually bring The Rosabella home and T was wondering what the response would be when we said that we needed to recover clothes, kitchen equipment, bedding, bathroom stuff and so on.
A quick drive to Calais, dump the car, an uneventful crossing and there was the guy waiting with the one-way hire car.
We arrived back at Bentlawnt mid-afternoon, feeling bereft when we saw the space on the drive where The Rosabella should be, wondering what would be the next hassle in this saga.
