Let's start at the very beginning (it's a very good place to start)
In case you're wondering, this is a mango. Harry adores and misses the tropical plants he grew up with. He hopes to be able to grow mangoes in Portugal, hence the title of this log, "Mangoes to Portugal", which my sister came up with.
Three days ago the living nightmare that is never-ending-packing and moving-things came to an end and freed us to jump in to the overladen van (pictured in the background) and drive to Folkestone. It was our first time travelling with 'Le Shuttle' and Ichiro's first time outside the country. The crossing was almost too easy after all the strain that emptying our house in Oxford had been. No-one stopped us, no-one checked us. We just drove on and drove off the large train and then, as the last of the summer light faded, we plonked into the French road system to get to our first stop on the way to Portugal.
I had suspected last-minute shenanigans so booked a flexible ticket which meant we could board the train at any time on Monday. We left Oxford about five hours later than originally planned, still frantically moving stuff and more stuff and wrapping things in industrial cling film until we'd had enough and called it a day. I can't believe how much stuff (crap) we have accumulated. I would have happily poured most of it onto a bonfire and cackled hysterically as it incinerated. Instead, I had to go through thousands of items pushing them around to anywhere that wasn't the inside of the house. The house had to be left empty for the builders who would be coming in to renovate.
A mattress which had been collecting dust in a wardrobe didn't survive our poor planning and remained on the sitting room floor where it had offered us somewhere to sleep our last two nights. The usual mattresses had all been stuffed into the studio by then––only after being wrapped in cling film, of course. We had planned to wrap this mattress and leave it in our neighbour's garage but at the last we gave up on it. The prospect of heaving another heavy object about, moving round it and each other in rhythmical circles with a roll of cling film like some sort of religious procession, was too much.
Our first host, Christophe, was kind in his Airbnb messages, reassuring me that it was ok to arrive late. He lives in a quiet hamlet of about twelve houses some twenty minutes from Calais. When we arrived I thought he was someone from the neighbourhood walking their dog in the night. After parking and before doing anything else, we took Ichiro out of the van and all went on a short walk together in the calm, warm, tranquil night. We then fed Ichiro, then Christophe fed us, then we went to sleep. At some ungodly hour I was jolted awake by a request to take the dog out. I can't quite remember why or what was going on but I think Ichiro had decided that 4.30am was a good time to relieve himself and Harry wanted my company. The next morning we were given breakfast with a small helping of our host's history. Christophe recounted how he came to be an Airbnb host, including the acrimonious departure from his job at the fish factory that came with a change in management, and how a storm and lightening strike many years before had set his house on fire. This last terrifying event, which could have taken his young daughter from him, paradoxically led to the house being built back better and was now more spacious, which was ideal for hosting.
Just after breakfast I took advantage of the internet access and looked to book our next night's stay. Harry was keen to put as many miles (or kilometres, as they are now) behind us and get to our destination asap. I was not but thought better of trying to argue for anything else. I found a place about four hours' drive away but there were no rooms left. Then another, but Harry took a mild dislike to it and suggested I opt for a house we'd have to ourselves without a host. I booked this and we set off to the nearby town of Boulogne-sur-Mer (the first of many multiply-hyphenated places) to get the windscreen wiper mechanism looked at. I found out a few days before that the windscreen washer didn't work and thought it'd be better to get it functioning before such a long journey. We drove to the address on the Renault garage's website but there was only a supermarket there. I searched again online and found it to be on the other side of town, so off we went. The sweet young receptionist said she couldn't help (they operated an appointment-only system) but she picked up the phone and said that someone just down the road at 'Renault Minute' could see us. Off we went again. We were expected on arrival and the mechanic, who looked happy to be at work, concluded that the problem was 'la pompe, pompe, Pompidou', which made me smile. However, it would be a few days to get the spare parts in. We had to move on. He suggested we visit Doucet garage as they might have a pump in stock. This was all with my dodgy French and I wasn't too clear on leaving him that we knew where we were going. This was presently confirmed when we didn't find Doucet garage and decided to just press on to our next destination: Parigné-le-Pôlin.
The motorways in France are good. The relatively short drive from Oxford to Folkestone had dampened any positive feelings I may have had about the long trans-continental drive ahead. I thought that there was no way I could manage over twenty hours of this. I was not happy with old, noisy, sooty Monty––the nickname I've given the van – his full name is Don Monty João Pastel (don't ask). So it was a great delight to discover that the noise was much less on the French roads and that with the windows down and fan off, the caking soot seemed to disappear. Harry and I would periodically comment on how well Monty was doing. Isn't he doing well? Yes, he's doing very well. Isn't he just? (This is exactly how we speak to each other). With speed limits of up to 80mph in France, we were making good progress. After a couple of hours we needed a break and something to eat. We pulled over into a service station that whilst having a slightly different and more pleasant feel about it than the ones in the UK do, still succeeded in equal measure to perform daylight robbery. The temperature was rising now and we were getting the first taste of the challenge we would face in keeping Ichiro cool as we drove deeper into the inferno that is southern Europe in summer.
About an hour in to our next leg and with an hour to our destination I felt something go and saw a red engine light with STOP written within it light up on the dashboard. Shitsters. I pulled over as soon as I could onto the thin hard shoulder, turned the engine off and switched the hazard lights on (good job we got those fixed before we left). I tried to start up but the engine choked and the battery and a new STOP light glowed at me. What are we going to do now? I have breakdown cover through my bank but can I ever find the number to call? (No, no I can't). So I searched online and to my surprise the process is very different in France. You call 112 (emergency services) and they arrange to tow you to a safe location. Then you call breakdown cover. Well the whole thing has turned into a bit of a faff. The emergency services were very good. I called twice because I thought I had been cut off the first time (I hadn't). "Est-ce que vous parlez anglais?" I tried. "Non," but then an interpreter would appear on the line and we were fine. They were sending someone. That someone was a friendly youngish man who didn't speak English and who I hope I have helped in life by pointing out that his phone's translation of 'tow-truck driver' comes up as 'convenience store'. I think the penny dropped as he remembered how confused German tourists are when he tells them he is arranging for a tow-truck driver to rescue them.
The convenience store arrived some thirty minutes later and precariously loaded our bloated van on to the truck, scraping the spare wheel holder under the van in the process. He asked us to put Ichiro in the van and was happy for one of us to stay in the van with him. Harry stayed with Ichiro and I rode up front, climbing ladder-like steps to get into the cabin. I kept checking the side mirror, terrified that the van would fall off the truck and take my most precious possessions (Harry and Ichiro) with it. The driver spotted me doing this and made the French sounds and gestures of "no chance, mate, don't worry."
Some fifteen minutes later we pulled off the motorway into a lane with a wide metal gate barring passage to the picturesque village beyond the fields. The convenience store got out, unlocked the gate, drove through, then jumped out to lock it behind us before we advanced into the quiet village: Beaumont-sur-Sarthe (I told you there were lots of hyphens). As we turned the first bend we passed another tow-truck. I managed to say in French: ha, this is the village of tow-trucks! thinking that it was odd that there would be more than one in such a small place. It turns out the local garage plays the part of refuge to anyone broken down in that area. The next part is where it starts to get more faffy.
Communication skills? Nul points. After the van is unloaded, I walk into the reception area. It's one of those places where the customer is an inconvenience to be maltreated if at all possible. The lady behind reception seemed a little hostile when I asked if she spoke English. She twisted her eyes (as Harry would say) and got her phone at the ready. Both she and the gentle man at the roadside chose to use the microphone rather than type and both would perform that taken-aback reaction when the phone started spewing out nonsense because they'd not pressed the button at the right time. It was slap-stick. Eventually, between my French and another customer helping out with interpreting, she wants my vehicle document and demands I pay her because foreign companies don't pay up and she won't take that chance. I can tell they've been stung before. I thought better of parting with money I may never see again so went to get the V5 logbook (one good thing about recently sorting and packing every single sheet of paper in your entire life is that you know where each one is. It's a shame this memory doesn't persist beyond a few days) and called the breakdown company. In the end they were very good and acted as a go between, speaking to the demanding lady. They arranged direct payment (twist my eyes, so she was wrong after all...) and ultimately sorted getting us to the Airbnb in Toad-in-the-Hole.
There was a little more drama to the day. We only found out hours later, as we left the garage, that they had refused to carry out a diagnosis and repair it as they already had too much work on. They were just a safe place to hold the van until another garage could be found. Our booked accommodation was 45 minutes' drive away, we had no way of getting there, we had nothing to eat and we needed to feed Ichiro as well. Several calls to the breakdown company later, we agreed to take a taxi to our already-booked accommodation and leave the van at the garage until they could find another garage to take it. Harry was very worried about this as there are so many valuables in the van, including his motorbike.
When we went to lock up the van before leaving I tried to start it up and it started ok. Earlier on, when we first arrived at the garage, the convenience store had taken it upon himself to hook up a computer. I've no idea what he did but the van did start again and he left it running. He seemed to indicate it wasn't a good idea to drive it again until we knew more about what was wrong which I thought was fair enough. But at this point, back in the van, engine purring, we were tempted to just drive off to our next destination and take a chance. Instead, I turned the engine off, we grabbed what we thought we needed and reluctantly went along with the breakdown people's plan.
The grumpy bumhole of an owner of the garage wanted our keys so he could lock up and go home. I went on the charm offensive which seemed to work. He was warmly reassuring about the security of the garage with cameras installed. Looking around, I thought it would be unlikely that a sleepy village in the middle of nowhere would be a crime hotspot, less so within locked, fenced, surveilled premises.
Rejected, ejected and dejected, we stood alone like refugees outside the garage gates waiting for our taxi.
Half an hour later a white Tesla pulls up. It's not one of the big ones. We had already worried that it would turn out that the taxi or Airbnb would renege on having Ichiro and this appeared to confirm our fears. The driver was a laid-back younger man and he made it clear everything was just fine. Ichiro did fit in the boot and off we went with our file of important documents, rucksacks with electronic devices, two scoops of dog food in a dog bowl and any other scraps we could rescue from the van before we left it to fate. A couple of minutes into the journey I panically ask Harry if he had the dog bowl and food. No, I thought you had it. Back we went and there the bowl was, looking a little lonely outside the security fencing of a car garage in a remote location in rural France.
Our second Airbnb hosts were also kind about us arriving late. Once I told them when we would be arriving, they communicated where the keys would be left. I asked about food but didn't initially get a reply so I asked the taxi driver. "My wife works in Toad-in-the-Hole. There's no food there. If you need something to eat, there is a pizza vending machine in the town before and you can cook it in the oven when you get to your accommodation." From the front passenger seat, significantly enjoying my first ride in a Tesla, I turn to Harry in the back and ask about getting pizza whilst simultaneously signalling that we can just skip dinner as though somehow we'll manage. Harry and I dismiss the offer to stop for pizza. My phone then buzzed. It was another message from the host. "Sorry, I didn't see your message about food before. No, there is nothing to eat around here. I recommend you stop off in the town before and get pizza from the vending machine." I thought this was very funny and read the message out to the taxi driver. You see! So we stopped. Harry wanted two. Whatever pizza it is, I want two.
The vending machine was a delight. Much larger than those you find in airports or leisure centres, inside its hidden chambers it adds toppings and then offers to cook the pizza for you! The taxi driver didn't want this to happen on two counts: lost time for him and because in his experience they get cold by the time you get home and need to go back in the oven anyway. At our accommodation we oven-cook three pizzas in series, eat two of them, and save one for breakfast. We discover that towels are not provided (we dry ourselves with tiny flannels) and that we forgot the dog's lead in the taxi.
It's now Thursday night. We've run out of clean clothes and dog food but have bags of good humour with a small dose of worry that our belongings will get stolen from the van. We got the dog's lead back for 20€. The (actual) convenience store in the village is keeping us alive with its mix of fresh and frozen foods, tins of awful dog food ('riche en boeuf' but probably the offal and arse-end of the boeuf) and we go on pretty little walks around the village with Ichiro, spend time online, I read and write, and we wait. The van has been moved to a more local garage but they sound busy too as they haven't yet looked at it. Tomorrow we hope to find out more and be able to get on our way. But what do the next few days hold in store? Is the van repairable (actually, we first hear it's working fine today at the local garage in Le Mans and they plan to test drive it and weigh it, then hear that they want to 'diagnose' it tomorrow). Will we have another breakdown en route? Where else will we stay and what more unforeseeable wonders and disasters await us?
