A New Route
With the car and the mini-bus rammed full of everything that wouldn't fit in the removal van*, we left the Rodmans' house in the early hours of Tuesday morning, trying to make the diesel engines be quiet. It was just after one and a half minutes that we met with our first little complication... the minibus refused to climb Teasaucer Hill to Cripple Street! It just stopped, all out of torque**. We had to reverse the wiggly way we'd come and meander along another route through Tovil. My car was full to the ceiling, so I was forced to rely on just my wing mirrors. It wasn't easy, and I did have a walking postman to navigate, but I managed.
After successfully cruising the M20, we did eventually reach Dover in good time. It was inevitable that we'd be waved in at the port entrance for a security search. When the men saw our vehicles at close quarters, rammed with every kind of clutter and toot, even they decided there was no sense in opening any of the restraining doors. They merrily waved us on after a brief spell in the special warehouse-y inspection garage. I did endure an underside mirror swipe by an eager beaver with a compact mirror on a long stick, but no harm done, and no anomalies discovered.
Kevin and I were granted different lane numbers due to our different 'types'- high-sided and 'with pet'***, but both at the front of our lanes, so hopefully due to leave the ferry straight away. With Kevin's problems with hills, which he shared with the man in the orange jacket, he was allowed to drive on via the low ramp with all of the lorries. It transpired that I was released from the bow doors a good five minutes before Kevin was, so I had to drive at 30mph for ages in France while Kevin attempted to catch me up.
We tried a new route from Calais to Cousein Bas this time. We bought then studied an actual map book of France while enjoying our habitual 'small English breakfast' in the P&O ferry Brasserie. Prisoner-esque, we both wrote our agreed new route on our wrists with biro: A26.1.3.86.10.71.20. This entailed going east of Paris, instead of being enticed onto the Paris Peripherique on the western side by my honey-tongued satnav. Words cannot describe the relief! What a difference- I will go this way for ever more! I did have Madame satnav on, but she was able to reprogram her way each time I strayed from her favoured path. She did become quite agitated around Paris, desperate to enter the arbitrary lane-changing melee once again, but I held firm and followed the van. There was no grumpy Winston Churchill glaring at me this time, instead, two happy Henry faces- the vacuum cleaner and its smiley bag of attachments, grinning despite the horrors of the road.
Polly miaowed from her dog cage most of the way, but, I think, slightly less than last time.
After Orleans, there was very little traffic on the roads, however, I swear that every time we needed to overtake a lorry, suddenly, out of nowhere, there'd be a tail of impatient winkers up behind us! Kevin and his minibus are slow overtakers, but I was the one who received the bulk of the grumps.
Tollbooth trickeries were kept to a minimum. There was one funny episode when the automatic tollbooth couldn't decide what class of vehicle Kevin was driving and kept popping out then withdrawing tickets as he snatched, sometimes from up above at the lorry interface, and then at the car one. I was behind him at the same booth, trying not to laugh. It was like watching that reaction speed lightboard game that used to appear on Going Live, or a TV programme like that. He later experienced a similar low-key drama when trying to pay; the barrier wouldn't lift due to his uncertain dimensions. The machine wanted to think about it. A yellow-clad man appeared briefly when Kevin called, then walked straight past him, probably sensing the impossibility of a conversation in linguistic no man's land. I had gone through ahead of him this time and watched him from the usual little car park that is situated after the booths. A flashing police van irrationally decided to choose Kevin's lane, and he became even more frantic, willing the barrier to lift. When it did, he drove straight past the car park, so I had to make chase. He told me via our walkie-talkies that it said no right turn after the booths, and he didn't want to do it right in the path of a police van he'd already irritated. Fair enough.
The walkie-talkies were Kevin's idea, and he seems to love them. He talked to me frequently during the trip. Sometimes, he found it necessary to share his music with me, James Blunt, Bob Marley, even Witney. This practice disturbed my own listening pleasure: Kaiser Chiefs x2, Killers x2, Coldplay x2 and some ethereal Bowie covers by Seu Jorge from The Life Aquatic. Kevin didn't care.
Our journey continued without any further struggles, apart from the fact that all uphills were undertaken at 30mph. But we made it!
* Things we didn't want the removal men to see, due to their extreme tattiness.
** I'm guessing with that word- basically, the gearbox (?) couldn't handle the weight combined with the hill...
*** The orange-jacketed one said these words. I cannot take credit.
After successfully cruising the M20, we did eventually reach Dover in good time. It was inevitable that we'd be waved in at the port entrance for a security search. When the men saw our vehicles at close quarters, rammed with every kind of clutter and toot, even they decided there was no sense in opening any of the restraining doors. They merrily waved us on after a brief spell in the special warehouse-y inspection garage. I did endure an underside mirror swipe by an eager beaver with a compact mirror on a long stick, but no harm done, and no anomalies discovered.
Kevin and I were granted different lane numbers due to our different 'types'- high-sided and 'with pet'***, but both at the front of our lanes, so hopefully due to leave the ferry straight away. With Kevin's problems with hills, which he shared with the man in the orange jacket, he was allowed to drive on via the low ramp with all of the lorries. It transpired that I was released from the bow doors a good five minutes before Kevin was, so I had to drive at 30mph for ages in France while Kevin attempted to catch me up.
We tried a new route from Calais to Cousein Bas this time. We bought then studied an actual map book of France while enjoying our habitual 'small English breakfast' in the P&O ferry Brasserie. Prisoner-esque, we both wrote our agreed new route on our wrists with biro: A26.1.3.86.10.71.20. This entailed going east of Paris, instead of being enticed onto the Paris Peripherique on the western side by my honey-tongued satnav. Words cannot describe the relief! What a difference- I will go this way for ever more! I did have Madame satnav on, but she was able to reprogram her way each time I strayed from her favoured path. She did become quite agitated around Paris, desperate to enter the arbitrary lane-changing melee once again, but I held firm and followed the van. There was no grumpy Winston Churchill glaring at me this time, instead, two happy Henry faces- the vacuum cleaner and its smiley bag of attachments, grinning despite the horrors of the road.
Polly miaowed from her dog cage most of the way, but, I think, slightly less than last time.
Brasserie-fuelled (or brassiere, as Kevin announced...) route-planning underway.
My number.
Doubly happy!
Nearing 'home'.
Tollbooth trickeries were kept to a minimum. There was one funny episode when the automatic tollbooth couldn't decide what class of vehicle Kevin was driving and kept popping out then withdrawing tickets as he snatched, sometimes from up above at the lorry interface, and then at the car one. I was behind him at the same booth, trying not to laugh. It was like watching that reaction speed lightboard game that used to appear on Going Live, or a TV programme like that. He later experienced a similar low-key drama when trying to pay; the barrier wouldn't lift due to his uncertain dimensions. The machine wanted to think about it. A yellow-clad man appeared briefly when Kevin called, then walked straight past him, probably sensing the impossibility of a conversation in linguistic no man's land. I had gone through ahead of him this time and watched him from the usual little car park that is situated after the booths. A flashing police van irrationally decided to choose Kevin's lane, and he became even more frantic, willing the barrier to lift. When it did, he drove straight past the car park, so I had to make chase. He told me via our walkie-talkies that it said no right turn after the booths, and he didn't want to do it right in the path of a police van he'd already irritated. Fair enough.
The walkie-talkies were Kevin's idea, and he seems to love them. He talked to me frequently during the trip. Sometimes, he found it necessary to share his music with me, James Blunt, Bob Marley, even Witney. This practice disturbed my own listening pleasure: Kaiser Chiefs x2, Killers x2, Coldplay x2 and some ethereal Bowie covers by Seu Jorge from The Life Aquatic. Kevin didn't care.
Our journey continued without any further struggles, apart from the fact that all uphills were undertaken at 30mph. But we made it!
* Things we didn't want the removal men to see, due to their extreme tattiness.
** I'm guessing with that word- basically, the gearbox (?) couldn't handle the weight combined with the hill...
*** The orange-jacketed one said these words. I cannot take credit.
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