In 2013 Brigitte the Camping Car journeyed around Europe for over 100 days – these are our notes from the first ten days!
Tuesday 14 May 2013. Day 1.
With the new herb garden planted up. I spent Monday morning with the pressure washer, cleaning down the tiles around the poolside. The garage got tidied up and all tools put away in the afternoon. We even managed to spend a pleasant evening with Graham and Mary, watching The Hobbit (I might have dozed off once!), after a fish supper at Heraclis, Zygi. That left me with an hour or so to pack my bag and then three hours of sleep before setting off to Paphos to catch our seven am flight to Girona.
So there we were at Caravan Inn some ten hours after rising. Brigitte we were told had been started with assistance the day before because the vehicle battery had discharged. However when I attempted to start her there was nothing happening. A phone call to their battery wholesaler followed and attempt to see if a stock battery would fit. It would not as it was three centimetres too tall. The wholesaler agreed to deliver the battery within an hour. Four hours elapsed during which time we learned that the van driver had decided to complete his route in the reverse direction. At about six pm local time Brigitte responded to the new battery by firing up at the first turn of the ignition key, hurrah! Then the bill, €185 felt eye-wateringly high for a battery but being stuck between the proverbial “rock and a hard place” we coughed up. Little did we know that coughing was to become the theme of the seven or so mile journey to our campsite at Aquarius.
Niki prompted me to drive on the right as I unthinking exited Caravan Inn and took up a road position to the left – oops! The route to Saint Pere Pescador is short and winds through a couple of villages. As I was exiting the first village, Ventalló, I decided to give the engine a clearing burst of acceleration. There was no acceleration. Instead the exhaust started to emit great clouds of black as soot smoke. I dipped the clutch and blipped the throttle a couple of times. Now, to my surprise and dismay, I was getting white smoke alternating with black smoke. Next there was a bang as unburned fuel detonated in the exhaust. I made a quick decision to drive the van at low speed to our campsite in fear that the engine might cut out and leave us stranded at the roadside.
We arrived at Camping Aquarius, booked in and set ourselves onto our allotted pitch. It was early evening and the only thing to do was to get supper at the site restaurant. Niki dined on a chicken curry and I had chicken Catalan. Both were tasty dishes served in the usual efficient Aquarius style. After this we returned to the van and after a quick search around the interweb, went to bed. I had hoped to find answers or probable solutions for “the problem” but exhausted and more than a little worried, I fell asleep thinking that some major engine or immobiliser problem would need to be resolved in the coming days.
.
Wednesday 15th May 2013. Day 2.
I awoke early with thoughts running around my mind. Basically they were best typified as being of the “what shall we do to solve this problem” type of thoughts. Mulling things over with a cup of tea I determines to call Caravan Inn when they opened. My call to them revealed nothing, beyond confirming that one of the team there is less than helpful. I did manage to find out from Sanne where she suggested I took the van, a Peugeot concessionaire near Figures.
In my mind’s eye I could see a huge bill being run up as tests were done and various “possible causes” were illiminated. I thought about phoning a friend. The classic “Who Wants To Be A Millionaire” thing. My first call was to Barry Heard on Cyprus. Initial attempts to connect using Skpe proved useless. I could hear Jan at the other end who quite patently could not hear me. Next I tried the mobile and was immediately connected. Barry’s suggestions regarding finding a dealer where somneone spoke English and where they had some knowledge of Peugeot vans might later come in useful, were I to travel down that road.
We needed to do a shop to provision up the van whose cupboards we had emptied for winter storage. In September, when we were about to drop the van off, we had been given clear warnings from the people at Caravan Inn about the dangers of mice entering the van in search of food and shelter. This was familiar to us as Norman a fellow caravanner had described the problems he was having with mice that had entered his van. He had parked at the field edge here at Aquarius and found that mice preferred his van to life in the field. But back to the shopping. We took the scooter which, despite having been stored, still had some charge in its tiny battery and was eventually coaxed into life. It looked like rain was on the horizon and so we opted to dash into and around the supermarket at Sant Pere Pescador. Fully laden our little scooter bore us back to the van. Yet more tea and more thinking lead me to call Keith Geach in St Austell, Cornwall. Keith had, for the ten years that I owned her, looked after my Audi A6 TDI. A diesel technician with over thirty years experience, Keith had previously been based almost opposite the largest Peugeot dealer in Cornwall, Hawkins Motors at St Stephen. Taking a few minutes time out, Keith listened to my description of the problem and said that in his opinion the engine was either getting too much fuel or not getting enough air. He felt that a lack of air was the problem and suggested that I check the engine bay to see that no pipes or sensor leads had been knocked off and also that I check all of the fuse links in case any had blown, perhaps as a result of a short circuit when the van was being jump started. Keith also suggested that I check the air filter in case a rag or wipe had been sucked in and was blocking the air supply.
I scrutinised the engine bay and could see no obvious pipes adrift nor any disconnected leads. I knew that removal of the air filter cover was a pig of a job. I had tried to take it off in France in September. I resolved to remove the flexible pipe that fed the air filter. A large jubilee clip held the end that affixed to the air filer box. At the other end two bolts fastened a housing to a hollow cross member. Quite why this design is used escapes me but this is the design. With the jubilee clip loosened I was able to pry the hose free. It was at this moment that I saw a mixture of feathers, grasses, leaves and general odds and ends, poking from the air filter body. Eureka! I had found the probable cause of our problem. I shouted to Niki to fetch the camera. Photos were taken. I redoubled my efforts and found that removing the cover of the air filter was much easier with the fleible pipe removed. When the top came off of the filter there could be no doubt that the inlet pipe was blocked solid as was much of the filter chamber. With the exit pipe blocked to prevent debris falling into it, I removed the filter and then removed the nest materials. I cleaned things up and refitted them. The engine started on the first turn of the key and ran cleanly and sweetly without a hint of black smoke.
What a result. I jumped for joy. It seems that the mice who lived in the Ventallo area knew the design of Peugeot Boxers and were skilled at finding their way into the air intake system with the aim of building a nice comfortable winter home.
The next job – there is almost always a next job – to get the rear lights working properly.
For supper on day two Niki cooked a lovely risotto dish using a leg of chicken, rice, an organic stock cube, onion, local delicious but very pungent garlic and onion.
Thursday 16th May 2013. Day 3.
This would turn out to be a classic “rainy day” the kind where showers come and go and if you were to let them, they would rob you of the day. Breakfasting at nine o’clock meant that it was after ten before we were minded to get underway with the business of the day – washing down Brigitte’s exterior. Having been parked in the open air, in a rural area, Brigitte was showing signs of having been subjected to a fine covering of red dust. The rain during the winter had not served to wash away the earthy pigment, or if it had, there was plenty still adhering to our otherwise white van! Using one of the huge Heiki rooflights I got onto the roof and with Niki’s help had a broom, bucket of soapy water and was cleaning away much to the amusement of passing, mainly German, campers who looked up in wonder at the mad Englishman cleaning atop his van. Fortunately, as far as I am aware, no one took any phtographs! It rained, I cleaned away and when I got down, the sides of the van looked even worse than they had before I had started. They were now streaked with the debris that I had so enthusiastically brushed off of the roof.
Lunch intervened and then it was time to manouvre the van into the wash down bay which is a “feature” at Camping Aquarius. Spacious enough to allow two large motorcaravans to park side by side, the wash down bay provides a place where one can wash one’s van (all apart from the roof – the hoses are too short for that), refill the freahwater tank, empty the grey water tank and also empty the casette loo. All very efficient.
Niki got to work cleaning the interior of the van as I worked my way around the exterior, cleaning and then rinsing and occasionally cleaning and rinsing again until Brigitte started to sparkle. The rain continued of course but once you are wet, and cleaning a van of Brigitte’s size you will get wet, you might as well continue.
It was late afternoon by the time I drove Brigitte back onto our “pitch”. By then the rain had decided to stop and so Niki and I had a walk down to the beach where the decidedly wintry weather made us feel less than welcome. We returned to the site and had a meander around some of the “vans”. This one caught our eye – I don’t know why! (The giant R/V)
For supper we bought half a roasted chicken togther with a portion of patatas bravas from the Aquarius take-away. These were every bit as good as I remembered from the previous year!
Friday 17th May 2013. Day 4.
Mostly relaxing, sitting out in the sun reading and a walk down to the beach to watch the wind and kite surfers at play.
Saturday 18th May 2013. Day 5.
Today we awoke to rain drumming incessantly on the roof above our heads. I wondered to myself how often the area experienced rains like this. I gave meaning to the line from the old song “The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain”.
Morning, slowish start. Breakfast, coffee, shower. FB – Pack up the van by midday and travel to Barcelona Camping via Pals medeival village today. Fuel in SPP, graunch van on exit from garage. Lidl 5km on scooter in howling winds but between rain showers (ponchoc at ready!) Bought distilled water at campsite and filled two cells of leisure abttery. Walked down to ‘beach’ played dix mille.
Sunday 19th May 2013. Day 6.
Barcelona Campsite, getting ready to go into Barcelona for the day and to meet up with Paul at Playa de Catalunya.
Up early and breakfasted on a bright sunshine day. No wind suggesting summers here are hot. We have to be at the front gate for 9.15 to catch the bus. People are there ahead of us when we arrive at ten pat the hour. Many of these folk are Germans. A few stragglers board and we leave a little after twenty past. The bus driver is typical, we careen around curves that Fernando Alonso would take at a slower pace. Why do these guys drive this way? With perhaps sixty passengers on board for a forty minute ride into Barcelona you would have thought that he could drive with care and consideration.
In the city traffic was lihgt but speed limits seemed to be respected. WE pulled up outside of the Hard Rock Cafe on PLaya de Catalunya where everyone disembarked. It was a few minutes after ten and I text Paul. For over two hours Paul and I shuttled messages and phone calls as we tried to find each other. Niki and I spent a pleasant twenty or so minutes at the centre of the Playa chatting with a man who said that he was from Palestine. We took his photo so that he could send it back for his children and family members to see. You know that you are getting old when you keep having to go to the toilet. Niki and I were forced to answer such a call of nature. We chose the only cafe close by that we know, Nuria, to do this. Niki remained there and had a coffee as I went back out to wait and look for Paul.
Once we had found each other we joined Niki. A coffee and a chat revealed much of Paul’s recent story. He arrived on a tourist visa for twenty four days. The visa had cost him twelve thousand euros. To become legal, he will have to live and work in Spain for three years. After three years his papers and claim will be examined. He may be granted leave to stay.
He lives in a shared house where he contributes €100 of the €600 monthly rent. He also pays a share of the food and other bills. His current earnings are €250 per month. He is learning Spanish. Classes are available free of charge. He looks well and seems happy enough. He clearly knows that when he was in Cyprus he was earning very good money for reasonable hours. I suspect that he curses his luck in that regard.
We set off to buy Niki the bag for which she had an eye. That done we headed to the port with the intention of gettin gsome lunch and taking the cable car ride to the mountain. Finding a place that serves a vegetarian option for Paul was nigh on impossible. We looked around and decided to try to get to the end station of the cable car. When we saw that it was a long walk we changed plan and walked to the mid-point station, only to find that for reasons of maintenance it had been closed. Shamefully there are no notices around to explain this. Hundreds of people on a daily basis are likely wasting time and energy doing just what we did.
We scrapped the plan to ride the cable car and headed back to the Ramblas in search of food. There we found a restaurant offering tapas and paella, even a veggie option. Our lunch was enlivened by the antics of two elderly French couples sat at the table next to us. One of the guys succeeded in pouring half a glass of red wine down himself. He took off to the bathroom and re-emerged wearing a woolen cardigan. He had rinsed his shirt through in the washbasin.
Topped up with food we were walking back up the Ramblas when Niki spotted some posters pointing to the Palau Guell – a building designed and built under the direction of Antoni Gaudi for the fabulously wealthy Eusebi Guell. It was at this point that Paul decided to take his leave of us. We said cheerio and wished him well. I think we all wondered where we might next meet. Turning down a side road off of the Ramblas, Niki and I were quickly directed towards our target.
As the son of industrialist Joan Guell, Eusebi was the sponsor that every artist needs to find, in order to realise their fullest potetial. That Gaudi was born into a family of metalsmiths has an influence on his concepts of space. His surviving works are astonishingly brilliant in the way they speak across the years.
We spent over an hour here and could easily have stayed longer. Outside the rain that had threatened to fall, as we had queued to enter, had now begun to wash the roofs, walls and streets of the city. Vendors quick to capitalise on an opportunity we dashing here and there armed with cheap umbrellas that they were trying to sell at €3 each. I paid two euros for one and it was enough to pay. People dived here and there for cover as we powered our way back up the Ramblas to Playa de Catalunya. Our bus was on time at six. We boarded and I ended up sitting with a man wearing a St Austell Brewery baseball cap. Naturally we got talking and he said how much he and his wife enjoy holidaying in Cornwall. they go to Pentewan Sands every year. Hailing from Worcester, he used to be a bass guitarist in a semi-pro band. He now runs his own flooring firm which means that he can take holidays but has to return to keep the business moving along. We cahtted about motorcarvans and I doscovered that he and his wife are the people who were parked, “Billy No Mates” style. Their Autocruise he described as a Friday build, it was one of the last to be built before the firm closed down prior to being taken over by Swift. Their biggest problem has been damp where joint sealing has left something to be desired. It seems that when they return to UK, the van is to be repaired and hopefully that chapter of their troubles will be at an end.
Back in the van I spent the evening responding to FB and email enquiries. Of specialnote: Nicola completed her last day at work today. She will now start her maternity leave of about one month up until baby Renals decides to emerge. Mary replying to my questions about David’s health said that the medics have said that he could either spend the remainder of his life taking medicationto control his heartr rate or he could undergo an operation. David is contemplating the operation. Niki read about Gaudi and Palau Guell. As I finsih writing thsi note of the day the rain is back. Not as hard as it was at Camping Aquarius and not accompanied by the winds of yesterday. The rain now is steadily beating against the body of the van. Tomorrow we set off towards France and Ste Ferriol.
Monday 20th May 2013. Day 7.
As we were leaving Camp Barcelona we were flagged down by a lady who, having spotted our British registration plate, wanted to talk about gas. Like us, she and her travelling partner, had found that two 6kg cylinders of propane are insufficient for an extended motorcaravaning tour of Europe. We discussed options, left them with our business card, her partner had by this time returned, and set off. A delightful couple of ladies, I wondered to myself if we might her from them by email at some future date.
Our travels could have taken us to Huesca. The name has cropped up twice at least in as many days. It was mentioned by the Westcountry chap and his wife at Aquarius, they had passed through there. Now via my twitter account, I connect with a fellow traveller who has very recently, as in two days ago, been to Huesca – serendipity or what? Perhaps we should have gone, the place has such a lot of history.
Eschewing Huesca in our planning, we have driven from Barcelona to a campsite in a little community in the foothills of the Pyrenees. A journey of some 280 km this has been the longest “run” that Brigitte has had to cope with since we collected her one week ago.
Montserrat – defined by its namesake, a towering Her “health problems” seem to have been resolved as she is breathing well and coping with everything asked of her, hurrah. En route to our overnight stop, we passed by villages clinging, it seemed, to life on the sides of precipitous hills. We also covered long stretches of what appeared to be Roman highways, as straight as an arrow and going on kilometer after kilometer. Where there were large areas of plains, these were terraced, irrigated and used for the growing of grains, fruit orchards and industrial scale farming of perhaps chicken and pigs? It is hard to tell what might be in side, when looking at those long agribusiness sheds.
The irrigation is fed by pipelines which are in turn fed from impounding dams that capture the water that falls as a result of the mountains hereabouts.
Tuesday 21 May 2013. Day 8.
We start our days at a leisurely pace. Kettle on at around seven thirty for a first cup of tea. We then need to allow at least a half an hour for Niki’s stomach pill to do its stuff. Then Niki gets to work in the kitchen where it is a case of juggling the kettle and a saucepan on the one electric ring to make our coffeee and porridge.
With two mugs of coffee in me I’m starting to become human, though Niki might disagree. Ablutions and pot washing follow a check of emails and social media accounts. Then, if we are moving onward, there is the business of packing up the van, stowing our orange ubilical cable. Electricity is the only means by which we can heat and cook now that our gas supply has run critically low. Every day or so the cassette tank of the loo needs to be emptied, cleaned and replenished with ‘blue loo fliud’. The grey water tank may also need to be emptied. Windows, hatches and lockers must all be secured and then we are ready for the road – assuming we have prepared ourselves a route.
Today we ignore Siobahn, our TomTom harridan, as we head for Graus and then winding up a narrow but passable route to Campo. It was either here or at Castjon de Sos that we pulled up onto a pieceof unmade ground to have a cuppa. Winding roads demand full focus when driving such a vehicle. Handily the road workers had painted white those hunks of rock that stick out into the path of the unwary. I asked Niki how people coped in the snow when all would be white. We agreed that driving here in such conditions was best left to local folk most of who powered around in large four by fours! We regained the N230, one of the major transport routes, just South of Vilaller, a jolly ski resort town not unlike Luchon but lacking that ‘je ne sais quois’. From here we were heading onwards to the tunnel at Viehla and then the French border. Are you old enough to remember border crossings? Pre the European Union, when you travelled between the countries of Europe, at each of their border crossing points, there were, in duplicate a customs / Police office and so you were checked by both Nations. This generally gave rise to long queues of traffic as there were always too few officers to cope with the demand it seemed. Here as you cross into France you go around a large roundabout which at its centre has the most huge rock. As you come off of the roundabout you can see the old customs buildings, all now disused and becoming mildly dilapidated. By contrast, the tunnel is worth a mention, it boasts three lanes. Two are for the traffic clawing its way up the gradient into Spain. Our lane you could easily freewheel down hill at the maximum eighty kilometers per hour speed limit. Behind me I had the arse in a Merc who thought that we should go faster and that I would be persuaded to drive faster if he positioned his car so close to the rear of our van that the molecules from his paint could chat to the molecules of our paint. I, being the cantankerous old fool that I am chose to maintain a speed of seventy eight kilometers per hour, much to the disgust of Merc man who, when free of the confines of the tunnel and its mandatory speed limit whooshed past us as if on a mercy dash!
At five point seven kilometres long, Merc man had quite a time to wait behind us. I calculaterd that this is the longest tunnel I have ever driven through. I recall that we drove through quite a few tunnels in Italy when we were on the “Kerow to Kypros” run with the Honda Godwing. None as long as this. Rather amazingly the tunnel has a gradient which is quite steep. I’ve no certain idea why they would build it this way except that it most likely has to do with the geology through which it has been cut perhaps? I was surprised to find that there were no tolls for the tunnel – clearly the EU has created a quite a benefit here!
Brown fox at the roadside licking its lips waiting for us to pass.
Deep v tail feathers of soaring bird – kite?
A wood pecker? An abundance of colourful flowering plants.
Lunch was taken in the morbund aire de Fonsac. Here another van, this one full of people, had also stopped for a lunch break. We found what we thought would be a quiet spot and set to with lunch, stale bread and peanut butter washed down with tea. Having just read about the thousands of Polish prisoners taken by the Russians in the 1940’s I had no grounds for complaint about munching through a piece of quite dry bread. They had suffered much much worse. That people not only survived this incarceration and inhuman treatment, but survived with their dignity in tact, is to me an inspiration worth remembering.
Our lunch was almost over when a sludge tanker pulled up alongside us. I had visions of the tank being emptied of its contents into the nearby culvert. I hurried Niki to pack up and we were moving off when I glanced around the front of the wagon. One of the two crew was busying himself filling the tanker from a fire hydrant. We left them to it. A few kilometers down the road we stopped briefly at Super U where we bought essential tea bags. Then on to Saint Gaudens where a major shopping expedition lasting almost two hours ensued. At the end of this I was reliably informed that we would have enough to prepare supper. Since the low fuel indicator had come to life soon after we left our lunchtime rest place I knew that we should sensibly fuel at L’Eclerc. The tank filled with diesel at a recorded cost of ninety euros which had me thinking that it is no wonder that trades people charge what they do these days. Every time you see a white van swooshing along you have to factor the cost of the person driving it plus the cost of fuel, insurance, depreciation and maintenance. Which leads me back to my thoughts about snow and the roads in the Pyrenees. You will doubtless at one time or another have heard UK radio presenters utter the exhortation “Is your journey really necessary?” and there I was sitting at the wheel of our camper van thinking “Whenever could a motorcaravan journey ever be described as really necessary”? And then I thought of those lovely blue Zenon buses criss crossing Cyprus, generally empty barring the driver. My eureka moment was to offer to give a lift to anyone standing at a Pyrenean bus stop – then I discovered that there aren’t many of those. I also wondered about the scantily clad working girls and women whom we saw at the roadside en route to Barcelona. Coastal weather is one thing but up here in the mountains, they would surely freeze!
Wednesday 22 May 2013. Day 9.
At nine twenty last evening I took myself, my cup of tea and my kindle to bed. The rain beat steadily on the van exterior and something was chirrupping away outside. The church bell, a relic of the past, sounds the hour, the quarter and the half hour until eleven at night. There are probably six people including Niki and I within earshot of this. I wonder if the others still hear it or whether it has become part of the background to them, something their brains filter out. I cannot but help hear the bell toll and then find myself waiting for it to sound.
The exhaustion that I had felt after the day of driving whilst intensely concentration to ensure our safe passage along those narrow twisty roads has passed. The rain has not let up and I am concerned that we will struggle to get the van out of our parking spot. We start our day in the usual way, with a mug of tea. I’m drinking Earl Grey and Niki has rediscovered her love of Aloyisa (Lemon Verbena).
Maison Louie seems very different in the rain. Or perhaps it is just how I feel about being here in the rain. I shower and dress. Niki deals with our dishes and I use Henry to vacuum the van carpets and interior. We stow our kit, lock up the house turning off the electricity and water and approach the task of getting the van out of her parking place.
Almost immediately I get a sense of how she had settled into the ground. Ground that in September had been as hard as rock was now wet, soft and rapidly churned into a clay mush that filled the tyre treads and had us in its grip. Brigitte had become as beached as any misguided whale or dolphin. I knew there were no options other than to stop trying. Making matters worse before calling for help was not on!
Fortunately as it was approaching one o’clock Mme Bouase and family were likely to be gathering for lunch. They farm the area around Maison Louie and live just across the road. A knock at their door had three family members coming to our aid, questions flying like raindrops. Mr. Bouase donned his overcoat and went to get his tractor and a cable. Minutes passed and he returned in his tractor. He and I attached the hook of the rather short cable to the van and the eye to a central bar at the front of the tractor. As he took up the slack I engaged a gear and we were moving forwards, the front wheels spun until I made contact with the road and then they gripped. We disconnected the tractor, thanked Mr. Bouase who returned home for his delayed lunch and we set off for BSG.
At the Intermarche we tried to find some warm clothes for Niki. Her packing has been for more Springlike weather than we are currently experiencing! Sadly Intermarche in BSG is not fashion central and we left almost empty handed. We did manage to replensih supplies of porridge and buy denture cleaner whose function I Hasten to add is to clean tanin stains from our melamine mugs!
I enjoy people watching and the car park at Intermarche served as a place for us to be parked up off of the road whilst enjoying lunch. Noting the number of people who arrive and make a small number of purchases I mused that the supermarket is a meeting place for many, especially the elderly, they do a bit of shopping and hope to meet friends or someone to share some newsy tidbits.
We set off to find Andrew and Kirpal’s house at Ponsan-Soubiran. I decided to let Siobahn do the navigating. As we drove down the hill past the abbatoir in BSG I noticed a large cattle truck just about to pull out of their yard. I thought nothing further of it until some minutes later I sensed rather than saw a red blur in my nearside mirror. The cattle truck driver had grown impatient with my observing the speed limit and had decided to over-take me in a tiny country lane. Fortunately no other vehicle appeared and the truck carreened off leaving a wall of spray behind him.
Villages with very long names tend to be very small and this drive took us through a few of these – Mont d’Astarac, Chelan, Monlaur-Bernet and finally to Ponsan-Soubiran. Here I felt as if I had arrived in a Cotwold village, picture postcard half timbered properties, a stream, all positive signs. We emerged from the village turning left and then right into the road that lead to our destination and there it was. A lovely house set in mature grounds filled with trees, grass and colourful planting. The white stone chippings crunched as I nosed Brigitte into the suggested parking place. Dylan, their dog eventually let up from barking. I suspect hat he had never seen a vehicle the size of Brigitte and was doing his guard dog bit, admittedly with his tail wagging furiously.
Breathtaking is how I would describe Andrew and Kirpal’s house. That which lifts it above and beyond is without doubt Kirpal’s art. Every wall and space is filled. There are sunflowers, Pyrenean mountainscapes, Indian brides and great big colourful canvases. In the kitchen Kirpal explains her recent cookery classes as she creates a chicken curry. The scent of frying spices fills the air as a big pan plays host to the ingredients.
Andrew is busy de-veining cooked prawns that Niki has shelled as we sit at the kitchen table sharing news. Salad leaves, tomatoes and dressing combine as a base for the prawns, our opening dish. Kirpal has turned her attention to making a vegetable pullao.
As things simmer we enjoy cocktails. Cocktails give way to a robust red wine, a Rioja that Andrew speaks highly of. Supper is in the dining room, across from the kitchen. Candles sit atop his and hers metal candle holders, quirky and interesting. Food, delicious. Individual tarts aux pommes with clotted cream. More wine.
Adjourning upstairs to the lounge we chat about this and that. Friends, people from the past, events, politics and the ex-pat life. A wood burning stove heats the room as compensation for the unseasonal weather. Brandy and malt whisky. Kirpal mentions that they are going to visit some ex-pats they have taken under their wing. As soon as Kirpal says Bernadette I interrupt and say “Not Bernadette and Howard Thomas from Bristol?”. And it was, Blinking Lamps. Howard who had made a million and lost it when his ship had broken down and salvors from the first vessel on the scene had to be paid out. Howard who still bought and sold. Buying from Emaus, a charity, all items are given and staff at the centres are low paid employees who are getting back into work.
It seems that family members emigrated to Australia and there was talk of Blinking Lamps being re-created there. The husband of B’s daughter became unwell, to the point of being a paraplegic it was said. Then there was a marital problem and the amrriage has been dissolved. B’s daughter is said to choose ‘wrong un’s’. H is estranged from his six children and presumably their offspring. H is siad to have dementia but is fit enough at seventy plus to turn out for the TrieVets and ex-pat footie team. I’m gladened that his ‘heart condition’ has inproved.
Thursday 23 May 2013. Day 10.
I woke at six, made tea at seven fifteen and by eight thirty was in the house to have a shower. In between waking and making tea I heard Dylan who on venturing out of the house had seen Brigitte and let out a few muffles woofs.
Breakfast was a leisurely affair in the kitchen coffee and pastries. We recapped the day before. I decided that I liked one of Kirpal’s paintings and should by a print. Small enough to travel, large enough to convey a sense of the magic of the mountains.
We said our farewells and were away heading back down those narrow country lanes towards BSG. In the middle distance I could see a large lorry descending towards the valley. We, in open countryside we similarly descending into a valley. Niki reassured me that she thought, having checked the map, that the lorry was on another road. We soon found out that it was not. Like the two village bakers that meet on the bridge and won’t back up, I found myself facing a double decker cattle lorry pulling a drag trailer of similar design and size. There was no way that he could reverse especially as there was no where for him to go. Behind me a car pulled onto the verge beyond which was a ditch. Remembering the episode of the previous day I had no intention of going off road in any way. I reversed for about a half kilometer until I came to a farm entrance. I shuffled Brigitte off of the road into the farm lane and waved to the lorry driver. The industrialisation of farming increasingly means that huge vehicles are, on a daily basis, clogging the small roads that crisscross the countryside both in UK and across much of Europe and indeed Cyprus. Cyprus is where the madness is at its peak. There the combines have become so big that they can scarcely turn in the postage stamp patches of land that some small farmes cultivate. It must take the machines longer to travel to the field than it does to cut said field.
We got underway again and before we had exited the lanes, a woman in a small car came heading at us so fast I was expecting her to loose control and go under our bonnet. Fortunately her nerve held and she whistled past us with millimetres to spare. I’d begun to have my fill of rural roads when we picked up the major road via Lombez and on to Toulouse.
Our journey was pretty much uneventful until I heard a beeping alarm noise whcih Niki tracked to the electronic control panel by the main door. The panel defied all attempts at isolation. When we stopped for a cuppa, the screwdrivers came out and I took the panel out and disconnected its umbilical cord. That stopped the noise. I reconnected it and everything started to work as it should. Phew.
Getting to our campsite near Carcassonne became a bit tedious when our first choice site had no availability with an electric hook up. Our second choice site was more expensive but very down at heel. We were of course, making comparisons with Aquarius which is a stellar site. They had electricity and we could get an internet connection so all was not lost.
The view that we had had from the ring road towards Carcassonne ‘Cite’ left us feeling excited about the visit we planned for Friday. If the weather would be kind we were in for another interesting day.