2002. Part 2A. Trippin'. Europe

TRIPPIN’
May – July 2002, Europe



As a great man once sang, “you gotta have faith”.

Faith is an extraordinary thing.

AJ and I picked up Shirley, our van, a little after 9am on May 7, 2002, D-Day – Departure Day. Day 1 of our trip. We collected her from Mr Julio’s garage, in Putney, West London.

And we began our trip.

Without faith we never would have even got that far. Without faith we would have long before given up on the van, and given up on seeing Europe as freely as we wished. So faith got us there.

So faith is truly wonderful. But sometimes, faith can get you into trouble too.


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The Great Escape


We waved to Mr Julio, as we drove Shirley away from his mechanic’s yard. We waved to smirky Phil, and swearing Scottish guy. No one else was around that early. The mechanics waved as casually as a person could wave, but for mechanics, their gestures were positively exuberant. For guys used to communicating in grunts and shrugs and swear words, their waving was extremely demonstrative. We knew of course that it didn’t mean, “have a great trip!” We knew their waving meant, “Thank God!!! Good Riddance!!! We hope we never see you and that sodding piece of so-called machinery again.”

But we still waved back.

Nothing could spoil our good moods. Nothing could ruin our relief as we finally left all the organising, all the preparing, all the groundwork behind.

Not even the weather.

And the weather was typically English that morning. Grey, misty, gloomy – with that continuous pathetic drizzle that makes you want to scream at the sky: “why don’t you just rain properly for once, or not at all!!!”

To multiply the temptation of despair on this dreary day was the fact that the windscreen wipers hadn’t really been fixed at all. Oh, they worked OK – if you were happy with only one (very slow) speed, and if you had ten minutes spare to jiggle their control level into exactly the right spot to get them going.

But, as I said, nothing could dampen our spirits that morning, or our enthusiasm. Not wonky wipers, and especially not the weather. In fact it motivated us a lot more, buoyed us up, got us going, by giving us just another reminder of why we were getting away from that miserable city.

Of course, this being possibly our last and only chance to drive through central London and past her landmarks, we weren’t gonna be too hard on our hometown as we bid farewell to her. Nostalgic value was running high, so we headed straight for the West End to snap some photos of Shirley out on the town.

We were delirious with excitement. Five months of fun and frivolity was just beginning. Two blokes out to see the world in style. Nothing was gonna stop us now.

Except the cops…

Yep, that’s right. What an auspicious start to our epic journey. We might have recognised it as a bad omen if we hadn’t already been drenched in them. Within ten minutes of leaving the garage, the police pulled us over.

We went through an orange light in Chelsea. AJ though that was a better option that slamming on the brakes in the wet weather and skidding into the parked police car. But apparently, Constable Stick-Up-His-Ass did not.

He waved us to a stop, sneered through the window at us, and said to AJ in a tone that defined “haughty”: “Sir, it’s customary to stop when the light is red!”

So many answers just begged to be given to that remark. “Oh really??? Thanks for the tip! I thought it meant go faster!!!” But pithy comebacks only ever occur to me in retrospect, never on the spot like in movies or sitcoms. And any rebukes we had delivered would have certainly reduced our chances for leaving the city that day. I did feel like telling the cop he looked ridiculous wearing an upside-down, velvet covered, rubbish bin on his head, but decided restraint was probably better. Thankfully too, AJ adopted the contrite – but still innocent – approach.

“Oh, I though it was orange…”

“No Sir, it was RED!”

“Oh OK, I’m sorry, I’m really sorry…”

Constable Stick-Up-His-Ass sighed as if he truly despised having to deal with pitiable human beings so often.

“Oh all right”, he spat. “Just be more careful in the future.”

He ignored our effuse thanks as we puttered away, leaving him to his vital job, standing in the rain.

We couldn’t help but laugh. What a great start. Let off not with a warning but with a snooty, sarcastic remark.


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Paranoid about getting pulled over again, I spent the rest of our drive through London screaming at AJ whenever he strayed into a restricted bus lane for too long: “Bus Lane, Bus Lane!!!”

It seemed almost every lane in central London was a bus lane, so there was lots of screaming going on. But after stopping illegally in front of every landmark in the West End for a photo and not being arrested, I relaxed. After all, AJ was the one driving.

We crossed the Thames from the south to the north, along the bridge upon which Gwyneth Paltrow snogged John Hannah in Sliding Doors. Heading up Bankside past the Tate Britain, we soon arrived at the Houses of Parliament, where we just had to re-enact the classic motoring scene from National Lampoon’s European Vacation when Chevy Chase proudly shows his family the sights of Westminster before getting hopelessly stuck on the large roundabout out the front, without a prayer of “getting left” and exiting.

“Rusty…Audrey…look…Big Ben…Houses of Parliament…Westminster Abbey… Kids…Big Ben…Parliament…”

We had some comical farce of our own when we stopped a few minutes later on Westminster Bridge. AJ jumped out of the driver’s seat and ran behind the van to take a photo of me leaning out of the passenger window with Big Ben in the background. As I smiled for the camera I got the distinct impression of movement – AJ had neglected to put the handbrake on and Shirley and I were rolling back rapidly, about to squash not only AJ, but also a busload of Japanese tourists behind him.

Unfortunately AJ was unaware of the impending catastrophe as he was squinting through the viewfinder of a camera. I decided that a perfect photo of me, Shirley and Big Ben was not worth more than a squished travel companion (at least on our first day), so I launched myself across the van and ripped the handbrake on.

After composing ourselves, we gratefully left Westminster and drove up Whitehall, listening to the Ben’s Big Bell as he tolled ten times in farewell to us. We waved to Tony Blair as we passed Downing Street and the poor Horse Guards still saddled up in the rain. We stopped alongside the Lions of Trafalgar Square and checked our odometer mileage: 1859. Skimming through the traffic of Piccadilly Circus, I waved to Frances in her office high above – although that wasn’t a goodbye wave - I still had one more night with her before we left England. Down Embankment, we circled the Tower of London and crossed my favourite construction all in London: Tower Bridge.

Eager to drive back across, I took over Shirley’s wheel from AJ and whooped and hollered as we girded the Thames in spectacular structural style.

A bit further north, in dingy Islington, I needed to pull over and relinquish control of Shirley to AJ, mainly because I was having zero luck getting her into any gear I required. When I wanted 1st I got reverse, which wasn’t a good look at traffic lights. When I wanted 2nd I found 4th, which was like giving Shirley a punch in the guts just when she needed a shove from behind. Mostly I just couldn’t find any gears at all, and we would sit there in frustration or coast along in neutral.

Yet another bad omen, but AJ seemed to have the magic touch to counteract it, so once he was driving again we became more confident.

Not for long.

Because ten or so miles further on, we broke down. And we broke down good.

On our first day.

And we hadn’t even left London.


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Just Another Reminder

We were about an hour outta town but it just didn’t wanna relinquish us without a fight. I guess London loved us even more than we loved it.

Somewhere near Enfield, Shirley got up to her old tricks. Hiccuping and spluttering. It was like most of her wanted to move forward, and was moving forward, but something was holding her back. It was like some invisible skip rope was tripping Shirley up - she was moving forward but with a spasmodic, spastic motion. Soon the tripping became so intense there was no point in continuing.

Trying to drive Shirley was like trying to ride an elephant with terets syndrome. Slow at the best of times but pointless at the worst.

So we gave up. But we had little choice. Our much treasured breakdown cover investment was only valid on continental Europe, so it was with great reluctance we forked out seventy credit card pounds for an emergency breakdown callout.

The conversation over the next few hours of waiting for the repair truck was sombre. One my comments was: “Eurail is looking pretty good right now”. AJ’s contribution was - not surprisingly - a reference from one of our favourite movies – Quick Change, a vastly underrated effort in which Bill Murray plays a brilliant bank robbing clown whose efforts to simply leave New York City on traditional transportation prove tougher than actually robbing the bank. As the frustration of dealing with big city obstacles mounts, he attempts to remind his cohorts of the reason they robbed the bank – to get away from it all. One of his classic lines is: “it’s just another reminder…” Part of that line became our mantra over the next few weeks. Whenever anything went wrong, which was often, AJ would pitch in with: “It’s just another reminder…” Quick Change has a happy ending. Back on Day 1 of our trip, broken down, still in London, a happy ending seemed a long way off.

Eventually, two hours later, we met Emergency Serviceman #1 of the trip. He reminded us of J. Peterman from Seinfeld. After performing mechanical surgery, J. Peterman started Shirley up.

We really had no idea why she ran so smoothly. Peterman guessed it was some loosening of the distributor points he’d done. The ultimate explanation – which we realized a few weeks and more than a few emergency servicemen later, was so much simpler. But right then we didn’t care. Shirley was working at that moment. And that moment was all that mattered. One mile at a time.

So we crossed every finger/toe/extremity we could think of and got outta town. Finally…


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If leaving London proved to be tough, then the second day of our trip proved to be so much tougher – if not in practice then certainly in emotion.

It was the day I said goodbye to Frances for five months.

We spent the night before in Meldreth, finalising our packing and stocking Shirley’s larders with food pilfered from my old workplace and with a huge stash of lollies Mrs Meldreth (Frances’ Mum) had presented us with to keep our sugar levels in the stratosphere. After a relatively reserved Farbridge lunch, it was time to make a move.

The tears started flowing the second I presented Frances with a big bouquet of flowers. My sweetheart took one long, sad look at them and burst out crying. All the strength she had built up in the previous weeks or months was finally cracking. All the denial, all the distancing, lifted away and poor Frances collapsed in my arms, sobbing lightly. It was tough to keep it together myself. That was when the notion first penetrated my thick skull that five months apart wouldn’t be a walk in the park, and wouldn’t pass in a heartbeat.

AJ and I presented another bunch of flowers to Lesley (Mrs M.), to thank her for everything (and I do mean everything), and also gave a couple of bottles of wine to her and to Robin (Mr M.) to try to express a hint of our gratitude. Thankfully they did not respond anything like Frances - no obvious tears, not even of joy. Maybe they saved those for after we left.

The minutes before we drove away passed in a blur. I wandered around in a daze, sure that I’d forgotten something. I think subconsciously part of me was refusing to leave the house, and the closest thing I’d had to a home in four years, maybe longer.

But it was time. I farewelled the cats. I wrote “I LOVE YOU” in shaving cream on Frances’ ensuite bathroom mirror. I stashed a special photo album I had bought for her under her pillow; an album filled with photos of Frances lovingly petting or feeding dozens of her beloved animals. With the album I left a note, which thanked her for all she’d done for me, all she meant to me, and which tried to say in ten pages that ever popular sentiment you really just need one line to say: if you ever need me, I’m there.

Yeah, right. Easy for me to say, the guy bailing out. But I did mean it. I left the house.

Out in the driveway by Shirley, AJ was shuffling impatiently. We thanked Lesley and Robin again. I turned to Frances. She was trying to look strong, trying to look brave, and trying to look anywhere but in my direction.

But we had to say goodbye.

I had a coupla little stuffed toys based on the movie Shrek – a little Shrek doll and a little Donkey doll. If you’ve seen the movie then you’d know that Shrek and Donkey wind up as inseparable bosom buddies. A velcro strap held them together now. Frances and I had bought Shrek together in Pizza Hut for a pound-fifty one-day after we saw the movie, and then she had bought Donkey for me a little later as a surprise. They had zero practical value and enormous sentimental value.

I took Shrek and Donkey over to Frances. My heart was breaking as I looked at her, her brave little face all contorted as she tried to hold back the tears. Her lower lip was quivering. I knew what I was about to say wouldn’t help. But I had to.

“You see these two guys, Babe?” I said to Frances.

She nodded numbly. She knew them well. They were like our children.

“Well, I’m gonna give you Donkey…” – I separated Donkey from Shrek for the first time since we’d got him, and passed him to Frances.

“…so you can look after him. And I’m gonna take Shreky here for a little ride with me.”

Frances nodded. She looked numb.

“Now these guys are gonna be apart for a little while, but one day – not too far from now, they will see each other again. If not in Europe, then in Australia. And when they become reunited, so will we. OK?”

Frances nodded again, but she couldn’t speak to respond. She was blubbering uncontrollably. I had set her off again.

I held Frances in my arms for maybe a few minutes. But it only felt like a few seconds. Lesley broke us up eventually. She knew it was no good to prolong goodbyes. I kissed my baby one last time, quickly, but deeply, passionately, and jumped in the van.

AJ already had her started up. We pulled Shirley slowly outta the driveway. Lesley and her best friend Rowena released some party poppers at the appropriate moment, and streamers flew in the air, heralding our departure. Robin stood with the neighbours – all of them waving in a much more delighted manner than they had when the van had first arrived.

And Frances ran alongside the passenger door, holding my hand. We reached the road and as the van turned slowly away, our hands parted, but still reached out towards each other. Frances held Donkey up and waggled him at me. I waved Shrek back at her.

My last image of her was her face, all puffy and all cried out, smiling back at me, with an expression somewhere between a sob and a laugh, like she didn’t know what to feel –happy for me and my trip, or sad for us and our parting.

I didn’t know what to feel either. In one way I was ecstatic. We were on our way to the ferry. Within hours we would be leaving England. I was overjoyed. But I was also heartbroken.

That last image of Frances standing on the road, holding up Donkey, stayed with me for a long time.

It was quite a while before I was able to start talking again.


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The Yellow Brick Road


My mood was sombre for a couple of hours as we headed southwest through Cambridgeshire on the M11. AJ must have picked up on it and was sensitive enough not to engage me in our usual idle chitchat.

But it was hard not to start looking on the bright side. Unlike the day before, when we had escaped London, the weather on Day 2 was perfect. Bright sun reflected brilliantly of the miles and miles of yellow rapeseed fields, another reminder that despite the often grey weather of England, the spring blossoms of incredibly diverse colour made up for it. I loved these vast yellow carpets of rapeseed crops that covered southern England in spring, it was as if Mother Nature’s palette had tired of the dull browns and greens and decided to dip into the primary colours for a change. Not everyone was a fan though – Lesley hated rapeseed fields, and not because of their politically incorrect name – I think her distaste was more related to the pollen or the musty smell of them than the stark colours.

But I didn’t really notice the smell that day of our trip; all that mattered was the colour. It was like the Yellow Brick Road, and like Dorothy, it certainly put me in an inspired and excited frame of mind.

My version of Toto though, behind the wheel or the van, didn’t really care about the scenery. AJ was more interested in food than flora, and started chowing down on the ham sandwiches that Mrs Meldreth had packed us off with, like we were a coupla schoolboys. AJ unfortunately hadn’t got his eat-drive coordination in place yet, and dropped the ham straight outta the bread onto the floor. I told him that his culinary loss was coming out of his food budget for the trip. I was being facetious of course, but I’d been on extended trips were money for food was so scarce that such a thing wouldn’t have been a joke at all. I prayed that this Euro trip wouldn’t come down to such serious measures as boiling our boot leather for dinner.

But I had more immediate concerns right then though – like staying within a vehicle moving at 50 mph. Despite being locked, the passenger door decided to be naughty again and flew open at a random moment as we sped down the A120 towards Colchester. Luckily I had remembered my mother’s mantra to always wear my seatbelt, so I stayed attached to Shirley as I leaned out of the cabin to grab the flapping door and pull it shut. Mum’s seatbelt mantra became a divine decree through the remainder of the trip, because this door-flapping problem continued randomly, without obvious rhyme or reason, sometimes at the most inopportune moments. Bloody gremlins.

The gremlins were busy on Day 2 though. Maybe they were just waking up properly.

Half an hour before we were due to arrive at Harwich and our ferry booking, Shirley started playing up big-time – hiccupping and spluttering and missing more beats than Peter Kriss did before he was dumped from Kiss for playing the drums stoned.

At her best, Shirley was shuddering along so slowly we had a long stream of cars behind us – the vibes of frustration directed from their drivers where almost like physical waves of aggression, we could feel them so strongly.

At her worst, Shirley stalled on the roadside a couple of times. Making it to the ferry station in time seemed more and more unlikely. Despite my hysteria, AJ’s patience and perseverance got us there with minutes to spare.

The last few miles were excruciating. Sitting in Shirley as she limped helplessly, hopelessly along, bought back to me that horrific, uneasy feeling I got in 1984 when I watched footage of the end of the women’s marathon event at the Los Angeles Olympics, when poor, distressed, heat-exhausted Gabriella Anderson-Schiess, on the verge of complete physical collapse, heroically, pitifully pulled herself across the finish line. We were cringing in sympathy for what we were asking of our poor van that day, but we had little choice. Our own finish line was almost in sight, and we nudged and nursed Shirley towards it. If we missed our ferry then we would lose the pre-paid fare of 130 pounds. And the breakdown cover we’d bought for Shirley was only valid in continental Europe, not in England. So we had to make it. Just to the ferry station. Just onto the ferry. Sounds like a wish for coming home from a five-month trip, not heading out on one.

But one mile at a time.

We did make it to the ferry station. But the ticket officer wasn’t very encouraging. Of course, why would she be – Shirley stalled twice as we drove her up to the ticket booth.

“Mmm, that doesn’t sound too good”, she said with a cheery smirk.

Thanks for the newsflash, love.

It bought back old memories of that classic, prophetic phrase spoken to us one day in New York by a US immigration official: “You boys are in big trouble!!!”

The customs dudes at the next booth were less concerned with Shirley’s mechanical problems and more interested in her interior. They had a quick look around but were actually more attracted to the astrology mural pattern on the inside of Shirley’s roof than any contraband we might have been smuggling. They invited their colleagues over into the van and made themselves so comfortable inside we half expected them to join us on our trip.

As Shirley coughed and spluttered away from customs, the passenger door flew open to say goodbye in its own inimitable style. I grabbed the door shut and leaned out of it, holding it closed and smiling casually at the customs officials as if everything was fine. I was just praying the van made it the next few hundred meters through the dock onto the ferry.

An hour later we had achieved the impossible. We had left England. Forget about getting around Europe in five months, just the process of getting her across England onto the ferry had all but exhausted our resourcefulness. We thought the moment would never come. It was a major accomplishment and we were very proud. We weren’t even thinking about the Shirley’s chances over the next few months. We were just happy to be away, and travelling under something else’s steam. We relaxed.

The ferry was massive, filled with bars and cafes and TV’s and cinemas and even a McDonalds. Considering we were heading to the Netherlands, AJ and I shared a Heineken to celebrate.

Shortly after we left dock, I left AJ to his beer and the soccer reply on big-screen bar TV, and wandered the ship. I bought some chocolate with the last of my sterling change in the gift shop. Before too long the gift shop was filled with passengers who had not yet found their sea legs falling over and slamming into the merchandise and each other with the swaying of the boat.

But before the seas got serious, I walked out onto the open rear deck. Harwich was a massive port, filled with enormous man-made docks and huge container ships. We weaved our way through the channel and out towards the North Sea, a lone seagull following the huge frothy wake we were churning up. A few people came out and joined me on the small observation deck, but mostly it was just me standing there, watching my home recede in the distance.

I was thinking about one thing, and one thing only. One person, more accurately. I wondered what she was doing right then, how she was. Sitting down to dinner probably, with her folks. Maybe a little quieter than usual, but probably her usual bubbly self, probably dealing with it the best way she could.

Before too long the sun was setting through the clouds in the west, in our wake. Just below them was a dark strip of land that was England.

The bay had turned into an ocean. It had turned from grey to blue to black.

It was almost night. It was cold and windy. I went inside and opened the farewell card that Frances had pinned to Shirley’s notice board that morning, a lifetime ago.

Frances told me in the card how proud of me she was, how inspired she felt by my determination to make the trip happen. She told me she hoped she’d be joining me in Europe, for at least one visit. She told me how sorry she was that we couldn’t be in touch by phone whenever either of us needed the other. She told me how much she was looking forward to our reunion in Australia, and how excited she would be to have me introduce my Aussie home and family to her. She said she was saying goodbye, but not for long. She said we would be together again soon. She called me a wonderful catch. She called me her “precious cherub”.

She made me cry.

She made me realise that the nagging feeling I’d been having all day about leaving something behind in Meldreth was right.

She made me realize what I had left behind.

I had left behind my heart.

But at least it was in very safe hands…


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Flat Track


We woke up the next day in Europe.

Just as simple as that.

Well, almost.

As dawn broke on Day 3 of our adventure we pulled ourselves from our first night’s slumber within the bosom of Shirley. We were in the Netherlands.

We looked around at the place in which we had stopped the night before, a leafy little parking cove alongside a Dutch highway.

We could see a lot more in the morning than we could the previous night. Then – after docking our ferry at a port called the Hook of Holland - we had just driven Shirley off the boat, through immigration control without them blinking or hailing us, and along very dark, very flat roads for ten minutes until we had found this spot. Shirley had run fine, and despite my paranoia, AJ had managed extremely well driving on the wrong (but right) side of the road.

We had parked at half past midnight in this semi-secluded little bay, near a weird orange light on the horizon, a sort of glowing luminescence that reflected off the fog or low clouds. Despite our fears of alien abduction, we had survived the night.

Well, sort of. Alien abduction might have meant a better sleep. AJ’s snoring had been surprisingly no quieter when it was directly into my ear from centimetres away, and my body size was surprisingly no smaller than the tiny half of the supposedly “double” bed we were sharing. Not long into our trip, we decided that one person on the bed, and one on the narrow floor space below was a much better option for a good night’s sleep. Especially for the person in the bed!

Our emergence from Shirley into the day-lit Netherlands introduced us immediately to two concepts about the country that proved to be indelible:
(1) It was very flat.
(2) There were lots of bicycles.

The morning rush hour on this country road involved bikes whipping past everywhere. We were on a highway, yet there actually seemed to be more bicycles than cars. The insanity just got worse.

The part of the Netherlands we’d arrived in was the most densely populated region in Europe. An easy-to-believe fact, because on the map, there is one town for every millimetre, and in reality, there are many more towns and settlements than they can actually fit onto the map.

However, we seemed to have camped in a relatively spacious and unsettled area. Through the morning mist, we could certainly see evidence of human habitation: windmills, greenhouses, farm sheds. But it was a fairly quiet spot, and actually a lovely, gentle introduction to continental Europe.

We woke up at the same time as few nearby horses, who shared a field with dozens of seagulls – an idiosyncratic view which reminded us how close to the ocean we still were. We enjoyed our breakfast as we watched the bicycles zip by in all directions.

Luckily, we seemed to have woken up beside the only patch of forest for miles around, which facilitated something I like to call “crapping with nature”, always a fun experience. After leaving the first little outdoor deposit of our trip in this bush, I joined AJ as he cranked Shirley up, and we continued for another few flat kilometres, past cows and sheep and green fields and roadside canals and wooden bicycle paths.

The country and suburban homes were small, wooden, box like, and almost identical to each other. Many houses had linear rows of vegetables growing in their front gardens.

We soon arrived in a cute little town called Delft. Here we encountered our first opportunity to be photographed standing with our feet in a gargantuan pair of wooden clogs more suited to King Kong. We later discovered that these clogs are present out the front of every tourist trap in the Netherlands. (Which still didn’t stop us from getting a stupid photo every time). The rest of the town – including its tree-lined canals, its welcoming cafes, its pastel flavoured residential zones, and especially its main square, rimmed with ornate buildings and church spires – seemed very spectacular and photogenic, although I think this was largely due to our virginal tourist status. In retrospect, if we had visited Delft at the end of the trip instead of the beginning, if would not have warranted a second look. But we were still riding the crest of initial “wowness”, and didn’t realise that almost every town in Europe has a gorgeous town centre, so predictably, in Delft, I went through a few of my precious rolls of film. A few of the more unusual snapshots I took included those of a sex shop called “Unicum”; an odd modern art sculpture made out of blue glass that looked like two humungous, lopsided breasts; some colourful toilet brushes for sale personalised with people’s names; and finally one of AJ picking his nose in front of a statue labelled “HUGO GROTIUS” - with his head conveniently blocking the last three letters of the surname.

An hour later we drove through a less intimate town - the massive urban sprawl of Den Haag (The Hague), a messy city with a colossal scale of bypass construction which reminded me of Boston’s perpetual “Big Dig”. We didn’t stick around in Den Haag – just long enough to get beeped at in the confusing city streets and to steal a quick glimpse of the imposing Parliament Building.

Several kilometres north of the Den Haag on Route 44, we resigned ourselves to the inevitable and pulled Shirley over into a highway lay-by. She was playing up big time. Only hours into our first day on the continent, and we were going to implement our breakdown cover.

Not long after this decision, I began to wish I had accepted Frances’ proposal to take a mobile phone with us. Having left AJ sleeping in the van – which, parked so close to the highway, wobbled in the slipstream of every car that went past - I wandered around for about an hour looking for a phone. But the Dutch aren’t too big on phone booths it seemed, so I managed to explore a large chunk of a gorgeous town called Wassenaar. Wassenaar reminded me a lot of some beautiful regional areas of New England in the United States, where I’d worked a few years before in a summer camp. Both areas were filled with expensive homes – palatial mansions to me - but often, I suspected, mere holiday retreats for their owners. Both areas had wide streets and high fences and security patrols. Both areas were filled with thick foresty foliage and the smell of pine. The only differences really were that the homes in New Hampshire had a lot more space between them that those in Wassenaar - although the Dutch residences did come equipped with impressive canals outside. It was a pleasant walk, but I really couldn’t enjoy it too much because of our situation.

I eventually found the modern town centre, again, very similar to an open American “mall”, just much smaller scale. Unfortunately the town was dead. And I mean: -as-a-doornail. Till I arrived in the town’s CBD I thought Wassenaar was just a quiet place. But as soon as I arrived I realised it was almost abandoned, apart from a few bored skateboarding kids who seem so integral to every town centre they could have been the same dudes all round the world.

Despite being a Thursday, no shops were open, no banks available to change money. Just our luck, we’d arrived on Ascension Day, a public holiday. I found a phone booth eventually, and struggled to communicate with the sweet Dutch girl on the other end of the breakdown line. Two hours later, still waiting back in Shirley, we realised the girl was more sweet than smart, and hadn’t got our directions right. AJ wandered off to make the next call, but instead of an hour-long reconnoitre to find a phone booth like me, he managed to charm a girl in the nearby BP Service Station into loaning him her mobile phone. Now that’s lateral thinking.

We shortly thereafter made the acquaintance of Emergency Breakdown Guy #2, who like most of the Dutch people we encountered was charming and amiable in a dull, aloof sorta way. He diagnosed Shirley’s ever-increasing problem with the usual let-her-cool-down-shrug-she’s-ok-now-method. He told us the engine compression was good, he changed all her spark plugs for us, he noticed she was losing a little oil. We later realised none of this made any difference. He did not remind us of any TV sitcom character, perhaps because he was so dull.

When the time came for him to clear our breakdown membership card with his bosses, he made several phone calls, the increasing length of each one was in direct proportion to my feeling of unease. Sure enough, after the last phone call, he confirmed for us that our breakdown membership was invalid, and that the 300 plus pounds we’d spent on it had been in vain. He said – that in the Netherlands at least – the membership wouldn’t cut it, and that to avoid paying in advance for the service, we would have to fax the insurance company in the UK, who would then need to get written proof to their Dutch counterparts that the breakdown fee would be covered. Obviously, not being aware of any of these convoluted legal loopholes, and lacking a fax machine on board Shirley, we were due for another hefty charge out fee. But…Emergency Breakdown Guy #2 turned out to have a heart of gold. He gave us a break and, at no cost, let us drive off through the fields and farms and forests. He probably thought we had enough problems without him adding to them.

We had unfortunately missed the main part of the tulip blossom season – a famous seasonal feature of this part of the Netherlands - so even though we encountered dozens of flat fields, only a few of them were still styled like an agronomist’s rainbow. These looked pretty cool though. However, we soon stumbled across something pretty cool that we were not aware that the Netherlands was even known for – a beach. And not your typical tiny English rock-filled beach-cove. This was a massive, long stretch of gorgeous sand, surrounded by lots of steep grassy dunes, and filled with hundreds of skin-burning and kite-flying Dutch people, many of whom did not seem to have realised that Speedos went out of fashion in the seventies. No one was swimming, but the use of skimpy bathing costumes seemed more to facilitate sun worship than sea worship. The water was a little chilly, mind you. Down by the North Sea’s edge I discovered, among the little shells shaped like wave crests, that the omnipresent Heineken advertising we encountered everywhere in the Netherlands truly was omnipresent – a crushed beer can was pushed in with the tide, brand logo facing up of course.

Deciding against a swim, AJ and I relaxed on sand for the first time in memory and enjoyed everything about the experience – apart from the wobbly Speedos. We left after I took my shirt off to get my summer tan started and AJ trotted out the old “beached whale” jokes ad nauseum. On the way out we realised that there were dozens of push bikes here as well, parked on the beach, on the dunes, everywhere.

The whole area along the coast - except for the beach itself and a small range of high, built up sand dunes - was actually below sea level, an unusual concept to grasp but one which Holland has been comfortable with for centuries. We passed through a nearby beach resort community, nestled in the dunes, away from the coastline for wind protection and tidal flooding reasons, we assumed. This tiny place was bustling with public holidaying Dutch folk, and it was difficult to keep AJ in the van when he spied the usual bikinied-blonde-bimbos strutting their stuff. They could have walked in from Surfers Paradise or Venice Beach. Another incongruous sight was parked on the roadside of this town – not a pushbike, for a change, but a motorbike, an exact replica of Peter Fonda’s Harley Davidson from Easy Rider. Captain America was in town.

A little later we found ourselves broken down in another identikit cute Dutch town called Lisse. Our van repairs – which consisted that day of little more than me sandpapering and WD40ing the contact points in the distributor and praying – were interrupted as we ogled in wonder at a stunning, svelte young blonde who waved and smiled cheerily at us (at us!) before disappearing into a nearby mansion. We decided on the spot that the Dutch were not that aloof or dull after all.

It was tempting to knock on the door of the mansion occupied by Miss Netherlands 2002 and ask for some…umm…help…but we choose to bite the bullet and push Shirley a little further. And so an hour on, we found ourselves broken down on a highway surrounded by not by stunning, svelte young blondes, but instead by black and white spotted cows. Not quite as sexy.

Amsterdam was so close we could smell the grass. But we didn’t quite make it that particular evening. Hazard lights blazing, we limped past more flat, green fields and one of those gi-normous sixty-storey fan-windmill do-dads into a service station rest area a short distance away. I found a public telephone, from which I was hung up on many, many times by the non-English speaking breakdown people on the other end. It seemed wiser to just give up for the day.

We cooked dinner beneath some beautiful trees that actually seem to be snowing. It wasn’t real snow, but basically these trees had this snowy like substance (cotton maybe?) that just kept drifting down into the parking lot. While AJ prepared the meal, I ducked back to the service stop shop and bought him a Playboy magazine. He instantly noted that the Playboy was useless because it was in Dutch, but…well it turned out not to be that useless because the centrefold’s name was Lubja, and AJ was having longer conversations with Lubja than he was with me by the end of our trip. But anyway, on that particular evening, while Shirley may have been giving us the cold shoulder, we had Lubja, we had a hot dinner, we had a gorgeous orange sunset across the highway, and we had snowing trees. Things were not all bad.


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Dirty Dancing


Shirley – acting like a typical female – did a complete back-flip the next morning and drove us perfectly into Amsterdam, without a hint of a tantrum.

We managed to navigate our way through our first major city with ease, the only thing that dragged my attention away from the map was a roadside drive-thru style rubbish bin, designed purely for motorists, set up at some traffic lights. It was an ironic sight in Amsterdam, which is generally a pretty filthy place. The inspirational thinking behind the concept most probably ran along the lines of: “well, if motorists are gonna toss rubbish outta their car windows, let’s try to get them to toss it into these bins, when they are stopped at the lights”. A fine theory, but one which unfortunately failed to recognise that litter-bug drivers are scum-of-the-earth types who don’t care about bins no matter how convenient they are. And anyway most people that had tried to use the bin we saw had missed anyway, there was more refuse at its base than in the bin. Filthy.

Amsterdam was not the picnic spot of Europe. But thankfully, fifth seems to be the reason that most people visit anyway…

Our first campsite experience in Europe was OK. We stayed in a large, modern caravan park called Vliegenbos, the expense of which was negated by its handy location near a bus route into the city. Realistically, all we were really paying 20 euro per night for was the shower, because every other necessity (cooking facilities, bed) we had covered anyway, like if we parked on the roadside.

Unfortunately the showers in Vliegenbos were very disappointing. They were of this new-fangled motion sensor design, whereby you had to move in front of the waist-high motion detector to get maybe thirty seconds of warmish water out. And not just move slightly – you had to basically go into spastic convulsions to get a response. You’d just be all lathered up with soap and the shower would stop abruptly, causing you to dance around manically to try and get it going for another few seconds. Great exercise. But very frustrating. After a few nights in the campsite, I was starting to get the hang of the showers finally, and had worked out the minimum motion and effort required to keep the shower in perpetual cycle – I’d perfected a sort of bump-and grind swivel movement of my tush. I got so good at anticipating the exact moment the water was due to run out, I’d busta-move a moment before that so the interruption of the spray was minimised. A very refined art. And very dirty dancing. Literally.

But, a shower of any quality was not be scoffed at, and besides, it was nice to be camped in a safe and secure – and legitimate – spot, even if the place was so packed we ended up slotted in the only space left, squeezed between the phone booth on one side and a vanload of raucous, perpetually drugged out Aussies on the other.

Of course, we weren’t in Amsterdam to tour the caravan parks, and we spent the next few days checking out the sights, sounds, and most distinctively smells, of the city itself.

Which we loved.

Initially, however, on our first day’s visit, we felt very left out.

Because (1) We weren’t on drugs. (2) We weren’t rich American tourists. And (3) Because we were bicycle less.


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Pedal Power


The bicycle thing was the worst. Even single local (and most of the tourists) seemed to have a bike between their legs. It was two days before AJ and I worked out the concept of the bicycle lane – it sits between the pedestrian footpath and the vehicular road - so for two days we actually were involved in many near collisions. Bicycles were everywhere. Our world was a Queen song. And not just bicycles being ridden. For every bicycle zipping past in your immediate line of sight, there were literally dozens of riderless bicycles on the streets, either abandoned for good or waiting for their owners to return, tied up to everything from street signs, lampposts, bridge railings…the local drunk….

When our bus dropped us off near the central train station, I looked over and saw what I thought was a huge crowd of people massed together, packed in tight, in this square, and I said “What’s going on over there?”, thinking: Demonstration? Parade? Jailbreak? But no, it was none of these, and it wasn’t people at all, it was bicycles!!! A massive bicycle parking lot.

Don’t get me wrong, I love the idea. I think it’s great. Environment, fitness, yada, yada, yada. I would love to see bicycles take over the world. I just wasn’t expecting them to have taken over Amsterdam already.

But we got used to it, and after a coupla days we were side-stepping outta the way of whizzing bikes like old pros, and never looking twice at millions of spokes together. Like anywhere different, if you stay long enough, it stops being different.

We enjoyed the intensity along the main drag of Amsterdam - Damrak, the hustle and bustle of the bikes and tourists and trams and degenerates and hawkers. Imagine a druggy, dirty, adult Disneyland. We once saw a car drive past that looked like a peanut.

North of Damrak is the spectacularly encrusted Central Station building, from which all activity in town seems to emanate. Behind it and to the west, a small harbour, feeds the Het IJ (river). At one end of the harbour strip is a bizarrely sloped aquamarine modern building, at the other a beautifully domed renaissance church which reminded me of Red Square’s basilica.

At the southern, opposite end of the Damrak from Central Station, is the main, Trafalgar-like square of town, called Dam Square, where street entertainers and buskers and artists and human statues dressed like gladiators hustle their questionable talents amongst the pigeons, surrounded by the ubiquitous selection of extravagant government buildings, royal palaces and churches. One structure had been converted into a tacky Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum, and AJ found it so absolutely hilarious that Sally Spectra from The Bold and the Beautiful was immortalised forever on their balcony that he was tempted to part with 8.50 euro just to get his photo taken with her.

Across the tram tracks was a smaller square centred around a huge concrete monument - white and smooth and proudly erect, which - you guessed it - defined “phallic”. Quite appropriate in a town defined often by sex.

On the day of our visit, this dick monument was surrounded by floral tributes and memorial placards to a recently assassinated politician, an openly gay chap who also happened to be openly racist, a strangely-flighted person of both left and right wings, who despite being in a minority group himself, had actively encouraged the expulsion of non-Aryan races from his country. Until of course, his untimely and tragic death. As well as the memorial tributes, there were lots of people huddled around the phallus erectus reading all the placards and notes. None of them had skin darker than mine.

A little further south were the cheap-cut diamond stores, where we watched some craftsmen at work, briefly enough to obtain a concept of their artistry and precision, but not long enough to feel guilty for leaving the shops without buying anything. Around here we walked past a camera shop with a mannequin in the window, a mannequin which turned out not to be a mannequin, but a practical jokester – a bored shop attendant we thought - who would remain frozen in the window before periodically lurching into motion to the shock and amusement of passers-by. Especially AJ’s amusement. Forget culture and history, this moment - plus spying Sally Spectra - were the highlights of AJ’s Amsterdam visit.

But variety is the spice of life, and it certainly is the spice of Amsterdam. It is a town of extremes. Extreme beauty and culture. Alongside extreme filth and depravity. Damrak splits the city conveniently along a morality axis. West side class. East side sin.

I loved the gorgeous areas around the canals to the west of the centre. Here we found really peaceful, leafy streets, rimmed with narrow, five-storey town houses, and on the corners - bars, florists, cafes, art galleries, gardens. The canals in the centre - the water, the houseboats, the barges - gave these places a beautiful sense of peace, of serenity – the opposite of the intensity, the insanity at the other end of town.

I could have wandered those beautiful canal-side streets for weeks. I think I tested AJ’s patience though with the few hours we spent there one day. The only thing that tested my patience was trying to pronounce their names. Here, try it: Herengracht, Kieizergracht, Prinsengracht. I took several million photographs which could all be titled the same: “Foreground: bicycle on bridge railing, Background: canal.” I took a photo of the house where James Bond met Tiffany Case in Diamonds are Forever. The residential streets were very quiet compared with the nearby shopping malls and Damrak. There was the odd pedestrian or cyclist, and the even rarer motorists. The cars were parked right on the edge of the canals, an interesting sight. The frequent speed bumps along the streets were signalled with signposts proclaiming: “Let Op!!! Drempels!!!”, a phrase we enjoyed mimicking. Perhaps the most interesting roadside decoration were simple, steel, metre-high posts, shaped just like circumcised willies, and highlighted with the slogan “XXX”. It was like the red-light district on the other side of Damrak had refused to let this serene, high-class area get away untouched.

The canal-side homes were fascinating. The lounge rooms were so close to the street that they offered little privacy, but the lovely views I think made up for it. The basement steps of these homes often accommodated a narrow little ramp for bicycle tyres. The multi-storey homes were so narrow they necessitated furniture relocation on the outside of the building, via the windows, and with the help of an always ubiquitous winching beam sticking out from the top floor attic. As with almost every city in Europe, limited space had been the mother of necessary invention. This was never more obvious than in the famous residence we visited next.


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Dutch Courage


Our Amsterdam canal wanderings led us to a beautiful home with a long queue out the front, each person ready to fork out 6.50 euro to enter. This was the Anne Frank Haus, the house where young Anne and her family had hid from Nazi persecution for two years. AJ and I tried to hide from German tourists as we wound our way through the house. The sedate crowd control permitted a referential, poignant visit, as we slipped into the hidden annex at the back of the house through the sliding bookcase, an innovation decades before Maxwell Smart used it. Behind the bookcase was a ladder leading to several rooms – more spacious than I’d imagined, yet unbearably cramped for a family of five. In this area the Frank family survived with the assistance of non-Jewish Dutch on the outside, and by speaking, cooking and bathing only at certain safer times of the day. Anne’s optimism and courage and teenage spirit were obvious from the excerpts of her famous diary in the museum, a spirit which has never been dampened by her family’s ultimate fate.

One day, this terrible war will be over.
The time will come when we will be people again and not just Jews!
We can never be just Dutch, or just English, or whatever, we will always be Jew as well.
But then, we’ll want to be.
April 9, 1944

As of tomorrow, we won’t have a scrap of fat, butter or margarine. Lunch today consists of mashed potatoes and pickled kale. You wouldn’t believe how much kale can stink when it’s a few years old!”
March 14, 1944

Mother and Margot have shared the same three undershirts the entire winter, and mine are so small they don’t even cover my tummy.
May 2, 1943

The English radio says they are being gassed. I feel terribly upset.
October 9, 1942

I want to be useful or bring enjoyment to all people. And therefore I am so grateful to God for giving me this gift of writing, of expressing all that is in me!
March 25, 1944

On August 4, 1944, Anne Frank and her family were betrayed to the Nazis by an unknown source, split up, and shipped to concentration camps. Apart from the father, Otto Frank, they were ultimately murdered by intent or neglect.

In the concentration camp Bergen-Belsen, in January 1945, Anne Frank watched her mother die of disease and exhaustion. In March 1945, Anne watched her sister Margot die of typhus and deprivation.

A few days later, in unknowable despair, Anne Frank herself died of typhus and deprivation. She was 16.

I wondered if any of the faithful fascists we’d seen at the phallic monument earlier that day had ever visited Anne’s house, or ever read The Diary of Anne Frank.


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Later, in the southwest Museum Quarter of Amsterdam, AJ and I skimmed around the massive Rijksmuseum complex, set in a beautiful open park. This famous European museum, filled with art and history and Rembrandt paintings, was the one every guidebook said was “not to be missed”. AJ and I, short on time and cultural receptivity, missed it.

We did not however, miss the Vincent Van Gogh Museum, and neither did anyone else. Despite a hefty admission charge of 13 euro, the queues and the crowds inside the galleries were excessive, so much so they tended to take away from the pleasure of picture gazing. With a dozen people jostling and shoving for position, it was difficult to get close to the paintings, and almost impossible to assume the classic art poser’s affectation of hand-on-chin-elbow-in-other-hand, while frowning and nodding reflectively with supreme pontification.

But, we still got a kick outta it. Van Gogh is one of my favourite modern artists, all those bright sunflowers and stark positivism don’t really leave much scope for pretentious over-analysis. You either like it or you don’t. When we visited the museum, there was a special and wonderful comparative exhibition, with Van Gogh’s work hung alongside that of his greatest friend and rival, Paul Gauguin. The history of their relationship was just as fascinating as the paintings themselves, but all I could think about was the cheesy movie “Lust for Life”, starring Kirk Douglas as Van Gogh, and Anthony Quinn as Gauguin. I much preferred Van Gogh’s brighter stuff to Gauguin’s vaguer, gloomier work, but it was fascinating to see each painter’s style develop and affect the other’s over the years. I suspect that Gauguin - a dark, enigmatic, judgmental figure who pushed Van Gogh to some of his best work - would not half been half as recognised today where if not for his relationship with the famous Dutch painter. Gauguin was a fascinating character whose repulsive history of taking Polynesian child brides later in life turned my stomach even more than the nauseating and much more publicised historical incident of Van Gogh’s hatchet work on his own ear.

One of the most oft-mentioned bit players in the history of Van Gogh and Gauguin was Vincent’s brother Theo, a Parisian art-dealer. When I mentioned his name in passing to AJ, he blurted, “”Theo”? “Theo” from The Cosby Show???”, which caused another gallery patron, a really cute girl too, to burst out laughing. She was obviously a Cosby Show fan too.

Later, with the Cosby clan inexplicably refusing to leave my mind, I found myself struggling to remember all the character’s names.

“What was the Mum’s name, Charles?”

“Phylica Rashad”. AJ’s useless trivia knowledge was comparable to mine.

“No, I know that, what was her character’s name? Was is Helen?”

AJ guffawed uncontrollably. “Helen Huxtable??? Helen Huxtable???”

By his response, I guessed not.

(For any of you poor suckers that care, we worked out the name a couple of days later. I sat up in bed in the middle of the night and shouted: “Claire!!!” But then we were deeply troubled by our inability to remember the name of the second youngest Cosby girl…)

As you can tell, too much culture had reduced AJ and I to trivia-babbling philistines. It seemed time to escape the culture and class and explore the other side of Amsterdam’s coin. And what a dirty, flirty side that was.


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Sex in the City


Amsterdam’s infamous red-light district lies just a street or three east of Damrak. By day, there was nothing to see, except for a lonely, out-of-place church, and some very unusual porta-loos for blokes. These open-plan, quadruple urinals, required the guy to stand up on a platform shoulder-to-shoulder and almost face-to-face with a few other fellows, with the act of his bodily function (if not the complete view) exposed to the world. I’d never seen anything like these porta-peepees, but by nightfall I realised that they were space saving, not to mention street-saving necessities in the red-light district.

Because by nightfall – 10pm in May – the red lights came on, and the district came alive. It was seedy and saucy, but it was also, in a weird way, festive and fun. Lots of people crowded the streets, and lots of them seemed to be having a lot of fun. I guess AJ and I, in our own wide-eyed, jaw-dropping way, were having a non-participatory-purely-observational-you-understand-of-course type of fun of our own.

The main streets were connected by narrower alleyways, which were filled with sex stores offering every imaginable – and some unimaginable – variety of publication, device or stimulatory material designed to get oneself “off”, so to speak. There was stuff I could barely glance at, it turned my stomach. On the other hand, I had to congratulate the imagination of the cretins who had come with some of those perversities.

On each block there were lots of strip show venues, advertising sex on stage, and that sort of family-fun stuff. One advertised its performers by having a mobile mannequin out the front - a female - sitting on an electric bicycle, and every time the pedals went around, a pole – which took the place of the seat – moved up and down into it’s rider’s…err…you know…netherlandic regions.

I told you they loved their bicycles in the Netherlands, didn’t I? But this was really loving their bicycles.

Another joint was a bit subtler in it’s approach, and advertised the sort of entertainment blokes could find inside by positioning out the front a massive water fountain in the shape of a penis, spurting fluid from the tip.

General debauchery was the name of the game. Drug-peddlers patrolled the streets freely. Bouncers and pimps hustled up business. But there was a convivial, non-threatening air about the place. Everything went on under the watchful eyes of dozens of cops.

And acres of neon.

Neon was everywhere. It illuminated all the multicoloured signs outside the strip joints and sex shops. But mostly it was just red neon. And it illuminated the hookers.

Prostitution is not only legal in Amsterdam, it is one of its main attractions. And it certainly isn’t covered up at all. Red neon lights up dozens and dozens of basement, ground floor, and first floor windows, all high windows about six feet tall. Within these windows are tiny rooms, generally decked out with little more than red curtains and a chair. Within these rooms are the hookers.

The prostitutes stand flagrantly and obviously in the windows, wearing various shades and styles of skimpy lingerie. They sway and they swivel and they try to entice the next customer in. Anyone interested in procuring the services of these neon-lit ladies waves their money at them and goes up to the nearest doorway to negotiate. If a price is agreed upon, the bloke disappears into a tiny room for a few minutes of true international relations.

I say “international”, because the customers AJ and I spied were almost always tourists, and most of them (we cringed) seemed English. There seemed to be a lot of Pommy buck’s nights out on the evening we visited, all the lads cheerily encouraging the groom to be to enjoy one last unmarried lay for England. They would greet the poor sod when he came out a few minutes later with lots of blokey backslapping and teasing.

The prostitute’s patrons weren’t necessarily all Poms though. They could have been from all four corners of the western world. They all had in common one thing though, lack of inhibition.

They all varied in one thing: taste.

Because the hookers could not have been more varied. They came (no pun intended) in every size, shape, colour, and age. They also varied massively in attractiveness. AJ and I agreed that several of the prostitutes could have easily worked as supermodels, boob-jobs or no. On the other hand, we also agreed that we could not walk past a few select windows a second time due to extreme repulsion factor. There were absolutes stunners, there were absolute bow-wows and there was everything in between. But, there’s no accounting for taste, because they all seemed to be doing equal business.

The only thing more interesting (to me) about the hookers than the variety of physical specimens on display was the only thing they all had in common: the expressions on their faces. Ninety-nine out of a hundred hookers carried a look of pure, unadulterated boredom, although sometimes this was mixed with a hint of vague disgust. The pros didn’t even try a come-hither expression; they just looked out blankly into the tide of surging male testosterone, scanning for their next pay cheque. Many of the prostitutes danced a little bit, swaying or strutting. But most just leaned or stood. I saw one sitting down munching distractedly on her dinner (of food, not a patron, that is). Lots of them were chewing gum. Some were smoking. Some were yawning. They all looked supremely bored. They all probably looked exactly the way they looked when their customers used their bodies. They all probably looked exactly the way most of us look when we go to work!!!

The only girl I saw who really looked like she was enjoying her job was a humungous and grotesquely made-up fat lady, about whom the nicest thing I can say is that I’m sure she’s beautiful on the inside. She was bumping and grinding and waving and smiling at the crowd with real gusto, her hand gestures meant only one thing …”Come and git it, boys!!!”

I’m sure some boys did. They were stronger men than AJ and I though.


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The flip side of Amsterdam’s cultural coin from the Rijks and Van Gogh museums is the Sex Museum. That’s right, you heard right: the Sex Museum, a museum devoted entirely to sex.

Again, here, was the Disneyland component, with motor-motioned mannequins moving around on their steel axes for guests’ enjoyment. But the Pirates of the Caribbean, they weren’t. These grotesque figures flashed and fornicated and ejaculated fluids, all in the name of fun. It’s a small world, after all…

But the sex robots were only the attendants to the sleaze, they weren’t the main attraction of the sex museum. This was found in the staggering variety of paintings, statues, sculptures, furniture, books, comics, cartoons, drawings, magazines, videos, and novels…all dedicated to showing or representing the huge role sex had played in our society. And not just our society. There was stuff here from every era, every country – Greek, Roman, Chinese, Japanese, English, Egyptian, African – all which suggested that everywhere in the world, across the span of history, sexual representation has played a gargantuan role – whether it is called pornography and kept on the top shelf of the video store, or whether is has taken the aesthetic and more socially accepted form of classic art or literature.

Some of it was quite beautiful. Some of it was quite graphic. Some of it was both.

And some of it, unfortunately, was truly gross. Here’s a couple of gallery signs: bestiality, sadism, trannies, curiosities, fat mamas. It was often rather nauseating, and we moved through some parts quickly. There was nothing I hadn’t seen before mind you (should I admit that?), but the effect of it all in one place was rather overwhelming.

Some of the best stuff was the artwork shaped creatively into genitalia. There were birthday cakes where you could blow out the candle in a less than literal sense. There was a birdbath sculptured with dozens of upturned willies around the edge. There were toilet seat lids painted to depict the exact view the toilet bowl would have when a lady sat on it. Best of all there was a bench with two huge dickheads on it. Well, that was just the two Japanese guys sitting in the middle who refused to move for our photo. But on either end of this bench were seven foot high dicks, curving down to the armrest of bulging testicles. Maybe even Austin Powers’ interior decorator would have drawn the line at that one.


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Brewin’


Another visit of cultural questionability in Amsterdam was to the famous Heineken Brewery. This was situated a little further out from the central rings of canals, were the streets widened out a little to become a bit less intimate, a bit more imposing. The Heineken Brewery is no longer a working brewery, production is carried out elsewhere, but we enjoyed our visit nonetheless. There was no overload of scientific functional information, but more of a hands-on experience: literally hands on, because you could feel the hops in its raw, smelly state, and knock on the massive copper brewing kettles. Interaction was the name of the game, and we were whirled through a ride-type-movie in which we “became” a Heineken bottle from it’s arrival in the factory, through the processes of bottling, capping, labelling, and delivery to the shop…then to a party…where we were finally…drunk…

We discovered something I had never noticed before – that the three “e” letters in the famous Heineken logo are titled back slightly – and why – because Alfred Heineken felt that the word normally looked too angular, and that by titling the “e’s” back a bit, it looked a lot friendlier – like it was smiling at you. Who knew subliminal advertising had been around for so long?

Speaking of advertising, the entire place was (like Coca-Cola™ World in Atlanta), an overdose of marketing propaganda, but it was all fun. We waved through Heineken holograms, we posted Heineken e-mails and v-mails, we failed Heineken quiz tests, and we escaped a store selling everything from Heineken ties to Heineken cuff links to little Heineken spy cameras hidden in Heineken beer cans.

Best place of all were the bars, which lubricated our interest and marketing receptivity no end. Our 5 euro entry was a bargain really, because it included a couple of half pints each – of Heineken of course. And this is where the bars were extremely surreal: they were fully outfitted, fully size bars, full of happy patrons, and yet…they only served one drink – Heineken lager, on tap. Well, that’s not strictly true, non-alcoholics could order soft drink if they preferred, but this seemed frowned upon. One innocent lady ordered a Coke and was told with a wry smirk by the barman, “Soft drink? Here? That’s like ordering a pizza in a Chinese restaurant!”

The Heineken logo was everywhere, we were bombarded with it. We started to feel green, black and white after a while. Maybe that’s because we somehow charmed the barman into multiple rounds of Heineken.

We were feeling quite pissed – and after several alcohol free days, AJ was feeling quite himself again - when we were approached in the bar by a young Polish bloke, who seemed a lot lonelier and a lot more lubricated than us. He was a Citibank executive, in Amsterdam for work (and a few Heinekens). He was balding, bespectacled, and very jolly. His English was limited, but he tried hard enough to make the incredibly original comment: ”Ah, Australian!!! You must have kangaroo jumping down the main streets, yah?” (Who is spreading that damn rumour?). After our last scammed glass of beer, we left him after telling him we were off to the Van Gogh Museum.

“Ah, be careful of your ears”, he said with a wink. Poland’s answer to Jerry Seinfeld, obviously.

As we swayed out of the Heineken Experience (as they call it, and as it was), I kept my hand in my jacket pocket on the two Heineken Embossed beer glasses I had surreptitiously swiped from the bar when the glassee wasn’t looking. The sweet girl at the exit bailed us up and my guilt-panic glands kicked into action

But she had stopped us only to give us a special boxed souvenir gift as we left, a gift which was included in every ticket. Out on the footpath, AJ and I each opened our boxes, and our eyes rose to each other’s, then up to the omnipresent Heineken sign above. Inside each box was a brand new Heineken Embossed Beer Glass.


---------------


Dopey


The next beer AJ and I had was in the Bulldog Café. The Bulldog Café is the oldest, most well known, most infamous of Amsterdam’s smoking coffeeshops. And when I say “smoking”, I don’t mean cigarettes. And when I say AJ and I had a beer, well…that’s not really what we were there for.

As well as legalised prostitution, modern Amsterdam is probably best known for it’s incredibly permissive drug laws. Especially soft drugs, like cannabis. The smell of pot pervades almost every street in Amsterdam. Dope peddlers hang out on every corner, every bridge, especially on the seedy side of town. But most people don’t need to buy their softer drugs from street pushers. Because they are readily available in almost every coffeeshop, café, and bar.

AJ and I visited the notorious Bulldog Café to get a sense of this scene. Also, Frances would never have forgiven me if I had left Amsterdam without getting high.

Early on during our visit to The Bulldog, we were disappointed. Lots of people were smoking dope, but none seemed to be ordering it from the bar. In fact the bustling bar inside seemed like any sports bar in the western world - booze filled tables scattered around, blokes watching a soccer match, girls watching the blokes and chatting to each other. AJ and I ordered our beers, got a table outside and watched the square, watched Amsterdam go by. There was lots of hustling and bustling, lots of “normal” looking people: trendy, hip, daggy, young, old - but there was also a large “dodgy” component to the area. Several guys looked like they worked as enforcers for the Sopranos. There was a gang of kids around – mostly black kids aged from maybe six to twelve, who delighted in beating each other up.

Speaking of beating up, an English guy got tossed out of the bar next to ours, and made that fatal mistake forever made by drunken patrons the world over, he tried to negotiate with the bouncers. Various bouncers, sensing blood, came from three separate bars around, and ganged up on the hapless dude to communicate their message to him in the only way they knew how – with their fists. The blood they had sensed, had craved, was spilt.

There were also heaps of cops around, I think as possibly a crowd control measure anticipating the ending of a sporting fixture that afternoon. These cops were dressed in riot gear, with shields and clubs and weapon belts. They looked more like a SWAT team than walkers-of-the-beat.

It seemed a fairly tense atmosphere in the square that afternoon, but maybe that was just AJ and I. It could have been the most relaxed the area had been in weeks. Speaking of relaxed, AJ and I turned our sights to the mission at hand: we had to order some dope from the bar. Neither of us is in any way assertive or confident in such situations, and so we bickered like a couple of giggly schoolgirls trying to get the other to ask the boys at the school to dance.

“You do it Charles, I’m no good at this sort of thing.”

“OK, when I have finished my beer.”

“Alright, if you don’t wanna do it, I’ll do it.”

“OK.”

“I knew it, you don’t wanna do it.”

“I just don’t know what to do Griz, what to say.”

“Aww, come on Charles, how many drugs have you bought in London???”

“That’s different.”

“I’ll go.”

(Charles = AJ. Griz = me.)

I went.

How hard could it be? We were in Amsterdam, right? But despite everything I knew, I still carried an irrational paranoia that the second I leaned across the bar and meekly asked for two joints, the music in the bar would turn off, the crowd would stare at me, and half of them would flash badges and guns at me and ram me up against the bar while they handcuffed me and read me my non-existent rights while booking me the next flight to a Turkish prison. Like I said, paranoia.

But I had never bought drugs before. Oh, I’d given my friends a few pounds or dollars occasionally to give to their friends, or their friends of friends, with the eventual effect that I might share some of their purchase. But I’d never bought directly from the retailer before.

I sidled up to the bar, and when the waitress nodded at me, I said authoritatively: “Two pints of Heineken please…”

I could have left it there, ran away, with my guts between my legs.

But I didn’t.

“…and two joints…”

Yippee!!! I had done it!!! I had ordered drugs in a public place!!!

I was delirious with cherry-taking joy, until the waitress put the two beers on the bar and looked querulously at me.

Then I realised. She hadn’t heard me.

She hadn’t heard my joint order. Most likely because – while I had ordered the beers with confidence and assertion – I had said the important part: “…and two joints…” out of the side of my mouth without moving my lips in a teeth clenched whisper while rolling my eyes around the room to see who was spying on me. No wonder she’d missed that.

I had three options.
(1) Go back to AJ and lie: “They don’t sell drugs here Charles”.
(2) Go back to AJ and admit defeat: “Doh! I forgot. You get them on the next shout.” (OK, that’s lying too)
(3) Order again. Properly.

It was time to grow up and order drugs properly. I chose option (3).

This time I looked her directly in the eye, held up two fingers in international bar sign-language mode, and said loudly, clearly, confidently:

“And two joints please.”

To my surprise, the music did not stop, the crowd did not arrest me, and I am not writing this from a Turkish prison.

She instantly nodded and replied,

“We don’t sell joints up here. You have to go down to the coffeeshop in the basement.”

“OK”, I nodded suavely, as I passed her the cash for the beers, as if what she had said was something I heard everyday.

Then I turned away from the bar and grimaced. I was going to have to order again!!! This time though, ordering would have to be much easier…

I dropped the beers off to AJ at our table, rolled my sleeves up and entered the basement. The coffeehouse was dark and dingy and dopey, with the ubiquitous dodgy characters lurking in graffiti-riddled corners. At the same time, it was perversely commercial, selling souvenirs like Bulldog Café T-Shirts and coffee mugs. The smell of pot was everywhere, and I began to wonder if we could just save some money by hanging out down here for ten minutes and getting high from passive smoking. But I think I was just looking for excuses.

I approached the counter and cleared my throat again. I waited a while. The waitress was very attractive in a hippie sorta way, slim and wearing a midriff top that exposed her belly ring. She made coffees at the cappuccino machine with the dexterity of a master, a Yoda of caffeination. When a male customer left the coffeehouse, she grabbed him and stuck her tongue as far down his throat as possible. Good service.

As she approached me, I cleared my throat again, wondering if I would obtain the same send off. This time was much easier than upstairs:

“Two joints please.”

“Nah, you gotta go over there.”

She waved dismissively at a reception type store counter in the corner of the coffeehouse.

Shit!!! I had to order them again!!! How hard was it to buy drugs in Amsterdam?

OK, deep breath…

I approached the counter. An elderly hag, her face presumably ravaged by drug use, was chatting to another women, and she ignored me just long enough for me to get the idea that I needed her more than she needed me.

“Yes?”

“Two joints please”

This was the fourth time I’d said that. I was almost droll now. She snapped at me:

“Not two, four!!!” and she snapped me out of my complacency.

Obviously I was a novice, she was the master.

As she told me there was a four joint minimum, she pressed a hidden button that lit up from below a menu framed into the counter. There was a list of about twenty different types of joint. My head started to spin. More pressure!!! I wasn’t designed for this. Where was Frances when I needed her? She loved shopping!!!

In her accented Dutch, the hag said,

“These are the different types, these are the prices, with or without tobacco”.

“OK”, I said with false confidence, and perused the menu. I had absolutely no idea. I wasn’t prepared for choice!

I decided on the spot to choose something without tobacco. “Withouts” were more expensive, but I vaguely remembered friends often complaining because their spliffs had too much tobacco in them. And I hated cigarettes, which I knew had tobacco. So no tobacco. So that eliminated twenty. There was still twenty to choose from.

There were all sorts of options, from just the traditional joint, to all sorts of extravagant blend and concoctions, from all round the world. Here’s a few exotic examples – Kashmir, Lebanon, Grasshopper Special, Skunk, Thai.

I ended up choosing a reefer near the end of the list – using the same method I use for choosing my bets at horse races – because the name caught my eye and appealed to me.

It was called “Purple Sensimilla”.

Ironically - until I researched the Bulldog Menu much later on the web - I couldn’t remember the name following “purple” because that evening smoking it destroyed my short-term memory. But I remember I chose it because I liked the name – it sounded exotic. I recorded in my diary later that night – when I was off-my-face stoned – that it was called “Purple Samsonite”, or maybe “Purple Ganganese”.

Whatever it was called, it was potent shit, as they say in the trade.

My web research later backed this up, one internet site called Purple Sensimilla “a particularly potent strain of marijuana” – and also “the most popular item on the Bulldog’s menu”. Who knew at the time though?

After paying hag-woman 12 euro for the four reefers, I returned triumphantly to our table, the all-conquering king returning to the homeland with the spoils of his efforts.

My previous paranoia was replaced with pride.

“There you go Charles.”

I had purchased drugs. What a star I was.

AJ and I were bemused by the packaging of the joints. I had half expected to get them presented to me on an ashtray, but they were wrapped up in a clear plastic pocket, with a branding logo for the Bulldog Cafe in full evidence, proudly proclaiming “4 High Quality Reefers”. They were short and narrow smokes, but AJ guessed that I had probably purchased a fairly strong variety, so we thought it best to share one initially.

Although AJ infrequently smoked cigarettes (to my infrequent chagrin), neither of us were particularly accomplished pot smokers, so we thought caution was advisable. Good call.

However, as we sat in the Bulldog preparing to light up our first reefer, we realised how naked we truly were. We had no lighter or matches! And visiting a coffeehouse in Amsterdam without a light is like visiting a red-lit room in Amsterdam without a condom. Our novice status was apparent.

We casually borrowed a lighter from the joint-fest of a table next to ours, but our smooth dude factor was not underscored by (a) the fact that AJ had great difficulty in lighting it (he blamed me for not getting one with tobacco); and (b) the fact that the reefer kept going out and we had to keep borrowing the lighter over and over. No matter. After a few tokes on the reefer, AJ and I felt as smooth as satin, as cool as ice, as chilled as champagne.

We may have looked silly, and anyone listening to our conversation may have committed us to the looney bin, but we felt…fine.

It was certainly potent. We only shared one reefer that afternoon. AJ smoked about two-thirds of it, I had the rest. As is well documented elsewhere, I can’t smoke to save my life, so I struggled a lot to even get that one-third down. But I persevered, and it was all good. It was a great way to chill out, to slow down, to reeellllllaaaaxxxxx…in that frantic, buzzing town.

Then…things took a nasty turn. AJ started having mild hallucinations.

By the time AJ had finished half of the reefer, he was, technically speaking, fucked. He couldn’t stand up, and he went through phases where he was barely able to speak at all, before switching to moods where he talked constant crap for ten minutes without a pause. I myself was generally relaxed, but because I was many tokes behind him at this stage, I started to feel a little concern. Especially when he began seeing things…

AJ kept saying we were in Leicester Square – the entertainment centre of London. He would look over at the Dutch Burger King nearby and associate it with the English Burger King in Leicester Square – his stoned brain would convert a random building into London’s Odeon Cinema. He would hallucinate the time and place, then he’d sorta realise where he actually was and what he’d been doing, and then get all concerned and worried, and then giggle uncontrollably about it.

That was when I took over the reefer properly and slowed him down a bit. It was maybe half an hour before AJ could stand up, and then we moved off through the city - a most amusing journey. I do believe I may have actually navigated better when I was stoned. I put my map away, and without my brain analysing and stressing over every corner, simply followed my feet.

Crossing one beautiful canal, we spied some more of the SWAT team type police. I immediately passed AJ my camera, relit our spliff, and went to stand right next to the police and their van for some photographically posed irony. The cops had no interest in me. A strange novelty.

Self-consciousness had floated away from me with all that joint smoke. Out the front of a souvenir shop, we passed one of those massive clogs which dorky tourists stand in for a funny-photo, and I dived full force into it, much to the bemusement of the other dorky tourists.

After satisfying the munchies with some supermarket-bought Mars bars, AJ and I wandered back to the red-light district for a renewed, more relaxed perspective on the area. Thankfully perhaps, the district really only came alive after dark, around 10pm, and it was still dusky that evening. Needing the loo, I ducked into a seedy bar on a corner, and was immediately grateful I was stoned. Everyone in the bar had at least one tattoo. Everyone was wearing at least one black leather item. None of them where smiling at my entrance.

But I gave them all a goofy-stoned-tourist smile, and stumbled my way to the tiny, filthy, very unprivate loo out the back. Returning from the loo I tripped over my own feet, staggered into the payphone and knocked the receiver loudly off the hook. A biker chick leaning against the wall looked at me like I was some kind of fungus. My exit was even speedier than my entrance.

Back home safely in Shirley’s bosom that evening, we tempted fate by lighting up another reefer. Shirley was soon full of smoke and giggling. Later there were furtive whispers as old fogies wandered past, squinting through the fog in the van in an attempt to see us. We slept extremely well that night.


---------------


In Bed with a Prima Donna


Most of our adventures within Shirley in Amsterdam were not so relaxed. Sleeping – done mostly while not under the influence of narcotics - was turning out to be a contentious issue. We had borrowed a friend’s blow-up double mattress (thanks Jana!), and after discovering that Shirley’s normal “double bed” just wasn’t big enough for the both of us, we decided to blow up the mattress and use it instead. However, these attempts were soon aborted, for these reasons:
(1) AJ was extremely fussy about the firmness of the mattress. Firstly it was too hard. Then I let some air out and it was too soft. He had none of Goldilocks’ luck, because we never got it just right.
(2) Because the mattress was so big, it overlapped the normal raised double bed area. This meant that anyone on the outside invariably fell out of bed and onto the floor several times each night.
(3) It was a real pain to blow up. It took at least ten minutes with a foot pump to inflate it, and trying to blow up a double bed mattress in the small confines of a van was like trying to construct a sailing ship in a scotch bottle. Doable, but difficult.

I suggested to AJ that we try sleeping in Shirley’s bed, top-to-tail, meaning I would sleep with my head alongside AJ’s feet, and vice versa. This worked OK for a night, because our inverted forms had more comparative room, but AJ soon turned adamantly against it. He had a bizarre rule of etiquette that prevented him from sleeping in a bed in that position. He couldn’t really give me any rational reason why, just that “it feels wrong, it feels rude, sleeping with someone’s feet in your face. It just isn’t right”. This from the guy who preferred eating meals with his dinner plate on the floor. When it came to manners, Emily Post he wasn’t. But AJ had just developed a compulsive rejection of the top-to-tail sleeping concept, and no amount of childish bickering could change his mind. So I gave up.

After a while though, we worked out a satisfactory sleep system. When there was just the two of us travelling in the van, AJ and I decided that he and I were never destined to be long-term lovers, because we just could not share a bed. One of us took Shirley’s bed, and the other took a thin sleeping mat and two of Shirley’s cushions on the floor – an incredibly cramped position, but at least one without elbows, knees, toes, noses - or frightening unmentionables - poking into you. It was fine.

Another contentious issue of van sharing reminded me of the glory days of room sharing at Leigh Gardens. Here, in a massive room, I would always open the windows for as much ventilation and fresh air as possible. As soon as my back was turned, AJ would always close them. He preferred suffocation to a slight chill. The same issue reared its ugly head on our Euro trip. When camped on public streets, I conceded we needed Shirley’s windows most of the way up for security reasons. But in a secure campsite, couldn’t we just have a little bit of extra oxygen?? AJ refused. And so, O2 deprived, his snoring got worse…

The tension going on in Shirley’s living quarters was nothing compared to the trauma she was suffering in her mechanical regions. In between our tours of the city and our evening bicker-fests, AJ and I attempted to analyse Shirley’s problems, and hopefully, fix her.


---------------


Rebuilding Character


On our first morning in Vliegenbos I delicately removed the distributor from Shirley’s engine, hoping that I this was the culprit. Our next move was to try to find a mechanic nearby who might examine - and hopefully rebuild - it for us, as well as possibly setting the timing right. We researched mechanics and VW spare parts places with great vigour.

We surfed the internet and wrote down anything that seemed likely. I ended up with lists containing dozens of possibilities, for example:

*Autovroon Amsterdam BV
Kabelvg 100
1014 BC Amsterdam
0204301600

or

* Dr Vries Eg VanSlotten BV
Metalbewerkerwg 3-17
1032 KW Amsterdam
0204949000

Nothing, however, panned out.

I phoned Frances – my wonderful ground crew captain – and she did her utmost to help, finding several possible salvations. Nothing, however, panned out. They were either too far away, refused to deal with a van as old as ours, or just not available.

I made friends with the cute reception girl at Vliegenbos, and she helped me scan the Yellow Pages, and phoned a few options for me, but…no joy. The owner of the caravan park gave us a mechanics address a half-hour walk away, but it was in a derelict industrial zone, and looked abandoned.

All of this stuff took hours. It was very frustrating. We enjoyed our tours of Amsterdam city very much, but looming continually over our heads was this foreboding cloud, this possibility that we might be there so long we’d become sick of it. So each day we devoted time to research and to making first contact with mechanic-type persons. I realised that I would have to do most of the talking in such situations, when AJ once called the condenser, a vital piece, the “conductor”.

Eventually, we were reduced to wandering the streets, begging for help. In an Esso Service Station, I soon had not only the sales attendant, but several customers, including a lady with a pram, all throwing helpful suggestions my way about where we should seek help. None were ultimately practical, but I appreciated their input, so much so that I re-evaluated my earlier opinion of the Dutch as aloof and superior into something much more complementary. AJ patrolled the car dealerships, and equally helpful people referred him to the nearest VW centre, dozens of miles away.

We wandered down a strip of car repair/maintenance joints, and in a muffler-tyre shop, a rude but ultimately helpful bloke gave us a look of disgust when we asked him if he spoke English, and very abruptly slapped a card on the counter before storming away. The card contained the address of a spare parts shop, called “STAR AUTOMATERIALEN”, two blocks away.

Entering the shop was like entering vehicular heaven. Shelves and shelves of every car component known to man - and we hoped - to Volkswagen. The friendly staff spoke no English, but sign language and drawings got us some new contact points and a condenser. When the sales dude initially gave us the wrong sized condenser, it began a lengthy and frustrating process of inter-lingo “no you dolt, it’s the wrong size” communication, before it finally clicked and he grabbed the correct one.

I soon fixed the distributor as best I could, and replaced it into the van, but Shirley just refused to get going, even with the jumper-lead help of some considerate campsite Poms from Northern England.

We weren’t too sure why Shirley wouldn’t turn over, but we hoped it had nought to do with the distributor, and more to so with the fact that, on the night of our first return to the van after many hours in the city, we had approached Shirley with a sinking feeling as we realised we had left lights on – all day – for over twelve hours.

The next time we saw the cocky Dutch owner of the caravan park he’d crowed happily: “Oh, you left your lights on all day, you know!!!”

Yeah, thanks mate.

As AJ kept saying, “It’s just another reminder…”

After this, we gave up and called the Emergency Breakdown Club. We expected – despite our BASTARD Caravan Club membership – to have to pay an exorbitant fee, but we had no choice.

After phoning for the service, I predicted the usual waiting time of an hour minimum, so I jumped in the shower (and I do mean, “jumped” in the shower),. After barely getting lathered up with soap and shampoo, I despaired to hear AJ’s shout -

“Dave!!! The guy’s here and he’s missing a part. We need you”.

Never a moment’s peace…

The part the guy was missing was the swivel head of the distributor. I had neglected to put it back on the camshaft after repair, and…it’s kinda vital. By the time I’d towelled the soap of my eyes and squelched my way back to the van, Emergency Repair Guy Number #3 had found the part and replaced it. He shook his head at my incompetence.

“Did you take the distributor out?” he asked me, in a tone which all but out rightly stated, “why did you do that, you idiot???”

But he was a nice enough guy, and persevered for ages with Shirley. He looked like David Rashad from the cult TV show Sledgehammer, but more of a handsome, Nordic version. Katie and Frances would have loved him. He had a bit of Stefan Edberg about him, and not just his looks. He was calm, controlled, aloof, and competent. But he still couldn’t fix Shirley.

He tried for ages to get the timing as close to perfect as possible. He charged us 83 euro for the service and 63 euro for a new battery. We figured that with Dumb and Dumber in charge of switching off the lights, Shirley would almost certainly be needing a reserve battery sometime again in the next few months.

After Sledgehammer left, we took Shirley for a test drive. She actually seemed worse than before. More jittery and juddery than a War Veteran’s Parade.

But we really had no option. We had to roll with it. We just gritted our teeth and left town.

AJ’s had a new mantra which was gradually taking over from “it’s just another reminder”, this one slightly more positive. He kept saying with a helpless laugh: “It’s all character building…”

“It’s all character building.”

That phrase just kept ringing in my ears as we left Amsterdam.


---------------


Fuming


The first place we stopped at was great for the soul, if not the character. Keukenhof Gardens, an hour or so south of Amsterdam, are the largest flower gardens in the world, and they are certainly the most spectacular I’ve visited. Millions and millions of floral blooms cover several acres of magical grounds. It was like dozen of rainbows had crashed into the Randstad and exploded. Tulips are the star attraction, and they come in every conceivable colour combination, not just within gardens, but within individual flowers as well. From your basic reds and yellows, me moved to more stylish pink-white or red-yellow combos.
We saw a Japanese documentary crew filming what we thought were black tulips, but which turned out on closer examination to be a deep, rich purple.

The gardens cost 11 euro to visit, and were wonderful, a worthy consolation to just missing the endless acres of tulip field farms that spring bought to the region just a little earlier in the year. Plus Keukenhof had endless variety. The place was a playground, a completely alternate playground to the red-light district we’d just come from. This one was like a fairytale. There were mazes and windmills. Lakes with stepping stops past white swans and their ugly, lovely ducklings. We felt like Hansel and Gretel (I was Hansel). A Gingerbread House would not have seemed out of place. It was bliss.

After we left though…

The fairytale ended. Bliss shut up shop for the day. And we sat down to try and work out what to do about Shirley. She had driven OK most of the way to Keukenhof, but not long before our arrival she had started hiccupping helplessly. AJ noticed it before me – perhaps I was blocking it out – and he said those fateful words I had come to know and dread:

“It’s doing it again Charles.”

After our Keukenhof visit, AJ pointed out with validity that, yes - while Shirley seemed fine for short bursts, their was no point in continuing if she kept spitting the dummy on longer drives. We committed to less finger-crossing and more getting serious, less wishful thinking and more wilful doing. In the nearby town of Lisse, the first service station we saw seemed fated to receive us and deliver us from the temptation to drive Shirley into the North Sea. It has a nice, gleaming VW Service sign out the front.

Unfortunately, it was not to be. While I paid for the 60 euro of petrol we’d just sated Shirley with, AJ approach the mechanic’s service counter and asked the fat, moustachioed guy there if he could help us. He took one dubious look at AJ (tracky daks, beard, skinny, poor, black), and me coming up behind him (just the poor component this time), and then vaguely skimmed through a calendar.

“Uh, 5th June”, he grunted dismissively.

That was three weeks away!!!

“WHAT???” I tried unsuccessfully to remain calm.

“That van is our home”, I pleaded. “We can’t go any further in it!!! Is their any way you can squeeze us in???”

Our pleas fell on bastard ears.

“No. Fully booked till 5th June.”

“Well. Can you recommend anywhere else in the area that might be able to help us?”

“No. Everywhere else fully booked also.”

Our opinion of Dutch hospitality had just taken a dip of the seesaw towards the negative.

“Thanks”, I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm, “You’ve been very helpful.”

Frustration mounting, we circled Lisse a few more times, finding nothing encouraging. In desperation I entered a tourist information centre, were the seesaw opinion of Dutch helpfulness swung immediately back the other way. Within ten minutes I had three staff members, plus one customer (another Stefan Edberg look-alike) making helpful suggestions and multiple phone calls on my behalf.

After four phone calls we realised that grumpy arsehole from the VW mechanics we encountered earlier may have been right. Most garages were too busy. One could fit us into their schedule, but not their workshop – our van was too big for their hydraulic lift. A final option - in a nearby town called Sossenheim, pulled the “too busy” response, but the lovely tourist lady pleaded eloquently (I’m guessing) in Dutch over the phone for us and we got the thumbs up to bring the van in.

After we arrived at the workshop though, our hope became doubt once again. The mechanic workshop was in a huge industrial estate, and certainly serviced VW’s, but big ones. It was a semi-trailer mechanics!!! Shirley was, for once, dwarfed.

Nevertheless, the helpful, professional staff gave Shirley the once over. Naturally enough, as always, Shirley behaved perfectly when AJ and I had company. Like a schizophrenic child, she only seemed to play up when we were alone with her. Yet our mechanic friend must have had some sort of psychic sense, because without actually experiencing the problem, he passed verdict: possible overheating.

This answer intrigued us, as it was something we’d never considered. If overheating was the problem, then we were a huge step closer to the solution. Overheating of the spark plug leads or engine could possibly have been causing the distributor to miss-time, miss spark, mess up.

The hypothesis excited us, and we thought we had finally found a Yoda among mechanics, we were thrilled that these guys might take Shirley on and…dare we dream it…fix her.

Nah, better not to dream it. The mechanic said he couldn’t work on Shirley anyway, because all their equipment was designed for diesel engines. Besides, in that pristine, grease-free workshop, Shirley looked like a crossbred mongrel at a pedigree dog show. Very out of place.

So we puttered off, grateful at least for the new idea. For the next couple of days we experimented with the overheating theory, by comparing long and short drives, the temperature gauge, and the emergence of “the problem” to each other. Every permutation was calculated.

One experiment we tried was opening the engine access hatch in an attempt to cool it down and forestall the…stalling. This was interesting. You see, the engine placement within Shirley was as idiosyncratic as her moods. The engine sat right between the driver (AJ) and the passenger (me). Whoever came up with the idea of putting the engine in the front seat deserves a medal. For sabotage. Or stupidity. Opening the engine hatch when driving had a few repercussions. Firstly, the noise. We could barely here each other shout. Secondly, the fumes: the engine smell – a burning concoction of oil, gas, and anguish - scorched the mucus off our naval cavities and hammered into our brains in perfect accompaniment to the thunder of the motor. Dull headaches and asphyxiation were only the short-term effects, and we are still waiting for the long-term repercussions of driving around in those fumes. I’m guessing growing a third testicle and fathering a baby with two heads. If we’re lucky.

Anyway, we drove…

We opened the windows, breathed through our mouths, and drove.

The open engine seemed to work pretty good…for awhile. On long drives, the engine kept freaking out and doing its thang. Sometimes even on short drives. We were lost.

But, not thankfully, lost literally. While Shirley worked herself further into mechanical consternation, we mapped a perfect route across the southern Netherlands and towards Belgium.


---------------


Desiccated Dikes & Even More Bikes


And the southern Netherlands was beautiful. We bypassed the industrial sprawl of Rotterdam, and concentrated on the small country roads to its east. Here we visited Gouda, a cute little town known for its blessed cheesemakers. The name “Gouda” also recalled to us our dear mate Christine’s two imaginary (childhood) friends – Frida and Gouda. As far as well could tell though, there was no town called Frida in the vicinity.

We bought some of the famous cheese from a local supermarket, and drove among the cheese making fields – lush, green, very flat (of course), and filled with happy, fat cows, and little baby lambs. The narrow, tiny laneways we drove down bought to mind an idyllic, peaceful lifestyle – country homes surrounded by farms, girded by little canals, with a nice view of the odd windmill, just down the road from the tiny village with the required café and church.

And of course, bicycles. City or country, the Netherlands always had its bicycles.

At a town called Schoonhoven, we reached a slightly wider canal (a river), and drove around town six times looking for the bridge over it. There wasn’t one. We hopped instead a tiny ferry for 0.38 euro (who works out these prices?), and, after crossing it, followed the river west.

Soon we arrived at Kinderdijk, a place I’d already spied on dozens of Dutch postcards, a place famous for its high intensity of windmills. Now, we’d already seen a lot of windmills on our journey through the Netherlands, the country is famous for them. There are still around 1000 windmills in Holland.

But Kinderdijk was something special. Nowhere in the world will you find as many windmills as near Kinderdijk. Around 1740, no less than 19 windmills were built here – and they all still stand to this day. Those 18th Century Dutch dudes really knew their stuff. Dutch history owes a lot to its dikes and its windmills. The western Netherlands were built with the aid of the dykes (man-made drainage canals) and its windmills (which made the dyked land habitable). Without windmills, half of present-day Holland would not exist.

Kinderdijk lies on the northwestern edge of the Alblasserwaard (which literally means “land on the water’s edge”), an area so close to the sea and several large river deltas, it has always been threatened by water. It doesn’t help much that it is below sea level. Over the centuries, the Alblasserwaard has been flooded so many times the fish don’t have to ask for directions anymore. The last deadly tide, back in 1953, killed 1800 people. But the most famous flood occurred on November 18th, 1421, when the water rose to cover around 60 villages. Legend has it that a cat managed to keep a baby rocking in its cradle in the middle of the rolling waves. The dyke that that cradle landed on was named “Kinderdijk”. Cool cat, huh?

The Kinderdijk complex was installed to help drain the inner districts of the Overwaard (“the high land”) and the Nederwaard (“the low land”). Basically the mills use a highly innovative hydraulic system of scoops, channels, and locks to drain the excess water from the Alblasserwaard polders - after which the water is sluiced into the River Lek. This system stabilises and cultivates a large stretch of peat bog land.

Originally, the powerful windmill sails translated the wind force onto large paddle wheels to scoop up and pump the water. Nowadays, all the work is done by power-driven pumping stations.

“Progress” has meant that the windmills of Holland have suffered a terrible fate. There were 10000 in 1860. There are 900 today. Kinderdijk’s famous 19 have survived only due to worldwide renown – and their inscription onto the World Heritage List by UNESCO in 1997. Some forecasts suggest that within a few hundred years, global warming will reclaim Holland for the sea, and the Netherlands will no longer exist. Nor will these windmills. But for now, what a blessing it was that they had survived.

The sight of dozens of windmills bunched into such a small area was breathtaking. Almost like a Rembrandt oil painting – if you could block out the modern concrete monstrosities on the distant horizon.

We took a stroll down one canal-side where seven windmills were all within in a stones throw of each other. At one spot, five windmills lined up along the river, evenly spaced, like an army platoon presenting themselves for inspection. They were unbearably cute. Several were on a little island that could only be reached by retractable bridge. As we got close to the windmills it registered for the first time that they weren’t just pretty and functional, but they were also inhabited. They were people’s homes. Little fairytale doors and windows were built into the bodies of the windmills. We saw some residents working in their veggie gardens, watching their kids play, putting washing out on a line – why not attach their laundry to the windmill sail? - we wondered. Speaking of the sails, we watched a windmilliner dude (or whatever his title was) check on the direction of the sails, and here we realised again our complete lack of windmill savvy – the sail faces moved – they rotated around on a central axis around the body of the windmill as required to catch the best gusts of wind.

In the canal nearby, a group of kids fly-fished, their pushbikes waiting for them to finish. Yes…bikes. The Netherlands would not let us enjoy our last evening there without a reminder of its supreme pedal power. Dozens of bikes zoomed back and forth down the country pathway, people commuting home from work maybe, or just folk out for an evening pedal for pleasure. Speaking of pleasure, we noticed an inordinate number of blonde bombshells out cycling that afternoon. Except for the grotesquely unnatural ladies of the night in Amsterdam, I don’t think I have mentioned Dutch women at all yet, but overall, they were gorgeous. Generally very healthy, robust, fine complexioned and strong limbed. Blonde and buxom. Often very friendly. But alas, we never did see one on a bicycle built for two…


---------------


But of course, we had Shirley.

The moody bitch. She refused to co-operate with our plan to cross the Belgium border that evening, so we spent our last night in the Netherlands parked in a rest stop, surrounded by massive semi-trailers painted with owner-driver names like “Gunter Guttmann”. The truck drivers all seemed to delight in jumping straight from their cabins and taking a whizz in full view. Great place to enjoy our dinner.

We had been on the road one week. We had “seen” one country. But at the rate we were travelling, we would have been lucky to make it to Luxembourg within a year...

The next morning, Day 8, we left the Netherlands and entered Belgium. Shortly thereafter, we left Belgium and returned to the Netherlands. Was this because of some mapmaker’s dyslexia or highway-planner’s whimsy? Unfortunately not.


---------------


Taking the Pis


Minutes after entering Belgium we broke down. We wondered if that was some sorta record. We limped Shirley back into the Netherlands because we had already paid a fee there which covered emergency breakdown over a period of a few months. We puttered and stalled our way back into another rest area. After calling for help, we hid in the van from the nearby cops who were pulling over random vehicles to either (a) test their roadworthiness, or (b) test their drug smugglingness. We would have flunked out on both counts, so we lay low until Emergency Service Man #4 arrived.

This chap was older and jollier than usual, and no matter how much we told him the distributor contact points had already been replaced and cleaned and buffed and polished to within an inch of their lives, he proclaimed with finality that they, and only they, were the problem, and gave them a little scrub before shushing us off on our way.

Having cooled down a little, Shirley kept her temper across the Belgium border again and all the way through Brussels, even if AJ & I struggled to do likewise. The town was a massive, confusing sprawl, and we realised for the first time that vehicular navigation of larger cities would be a challenge. We weren’t helped by our maps. Our highway atlas maps just turned red lines into yellow blobs when they hit a city, like some three-year-old’s colouring experiment. And our guidebook’s city maps generally only covered the inner regions, not the highways into them. There was obviously an area “in-between” atlas and guidebook where we’d be lost in limbo.

In Brussels, we solved this problem by utilising a method I’d often found useful whenever I’d found myself drunk and disoriented on unfamiliar streets in London – I would check the maps next to the bus stops. Well, that, and guesswork. We worked out where we were and parked Shirley in a lovely, leafy residential area, full of multi-storey apartment blocks, laundromats, and coffeehouses – Brussels equivalent to Manhattans Upper West Side.

But unlike NYC, Brussels was not one of my favourite all-time cities. Overall, I found it nice enough, but the inner city was dull, drab, and businesslike, full of office blocks, government buildings, and modern monstrosities. Concrete and glass can sometimes be used aesthetically in architecture – but we discovered little of this in Brussels.

The weather of course didn’t help – a bleak, grey day, with frequent outbursts of heavy rain. But it seemed to suit the town. It was full of lotsa people in suits, looking harassed and hurried and self-important. It was OK. There were lots of lovely parks and palaces and plazas and museums and gardens and statues and a wonderful Notre-Dame type cathedral in which we sheltered from the rain for a while. But, it was so quiet. I guess Brussels suffered from comparison. Anywhere immediately after Amsterdam was going to seem boring. And anywhere immediately preceding Bruges was gonna seem ugly.

One part of Brussels that was certainly not drab or grey (but – if you preferred sparten decoration, could still possibly be described as ugly) was the imaginatively named Grand Place. In this perfectly preserved medieval square, opulently and dazzling-styled buildings competed for attention, their gilded and carved facades extravagantly decorated with ornate symbolic detail. It was jaw dropping, fascinating and spectacular, and dripping with history. But all I could think about was the first scene from the Beauty and the Beast…it just seemed right there.

Amongst the tour groups, the high-priced café trade, and the multiple gawking and “gosh-mary-lou-ing”, the only thing which seemed out of (grand) place were the three young backpackers sprawled out on their packs dead centre in the square, chatting to each other, completely oblivious to all the motion and beauty and history around them. I would have wagered the van that they were Australians.

The Grand Place was surrounded by a spider’s web of exquisite little alleyways, with lots of little shops selling handmade lace and the divinely delicious Belgium waffles. (Chocolate sauce…mmm!!!)

Off one of these alleyways was a tiny street corner, around which a huddle of several dozen people blocked the narrow road, all tittering in juvenile embarrassment and jostling for the best position to take a photograph.

A photograph of what, you may wonder?

Of a little boy, taking a piss.

Bizarre.

But in its own way, the most charming thing in Brussels. The Manneken Pis is a famous (infamous?) statue, only two feet tall, of a cheeky little boy holding his cheeky little willy and weeing merrily into perpetuity. Despite his fame, Little-Boy-Piss doesn’t have his own square, he’s just tucked onto a wall plaque on a street corner. But he seemed to have as large an audience as the Grand Place did!!! I guess the Manneken Pis puts a human, carefree face on an otherwise sterile, stoic city.

Watching the tourists jostling each other out of the way to photograph an unusually undistinctive piece of art, reminded me of the scrum of tourists squeezing around each other to photograph the boring Mona Lisa painting in the Louvre Museum in Paris.

But the fame of Manneken Pis had exceeded any artistic quality he had. And his fame had turned this little alleyway corner into a tacky tourist trap which would rival Las Vegas. Souvenir shops sold replicas of Little-Boy-Piss, in every possible size, and for every possible use. In addition to the standard pissing statue, you could mostly certainly buy for your garden, the imagination that went into these things was staggering. Pis fridge magnets, pis bottle openers. Pis shot glasses. Pis snow domes. Pis pencils. Pis key-rings, bells, mugs. Pis plates, glasses, egg cups (imagine eating an egg out of a cup featuring a little boy pissing). Pis thimbles, corkscrews, and ashtrays. Pis playing cards. Playing cards!!! Each playing card number featured Little-Boy-Piss in a different outfit – not just an idea used for the cards, but something the crazy cats of Brussels did to their little mascot all the time – dressed him up. There were pictures of Little-Boy-Piss as a sailor. As an American Indian. As a Maharajah. As a ballerina – gotta love that cross-dressing. As Napoleon. As a chef. And most appropriately we thought, as Elvis.

We’d seen a pissing statue dressed as Elvis. We’d seen it all…


---------------


One thing I refused to leave Brussels without seeing – in fact the thing I had been looking forward to most in this town – was the Tintin Museum. Actually, the museum is not called the Tintin Museum. It is called the Centre Belge de la Bande Dessinee. It covers the history and development of comic book stories in Belgium, and focuses on a wide range of cartoonists and animators, looking at stuff we’d never heard of because, plus famous guys like Asterix and the Smurfs. But whom I was really there for, was Tintin. Tintin is the main character of a dozen or so full-length comic books, books which I had adored in my childhood, hunted down for nostalgic value in my twenties, and dipped into for sentimental stimulation every since. Tintin – and his little dog Snowy – are legends. They are probably my favourite all-time fictional heroes after Han Solo and Chewbacca. I think they even edge out Indiana Jones. Tintin is (and always will be, for he - like all heroes - is timeless) a young Belgian journalist, with a funny tuff of hair on his head, who travels the world with his terrier Snowy and his old seadog friend Captain Haddock, getting into all these cool adventures. He doesn’t carry a gun, he carries a notebook. He has a closer relationship with his dog and his sailor friend than he does with any woman – but hey, as long as Tintin is happy, that’s his business. He’s sees really cool stuff all around the world, solves mysteries with finesse, has narrow escapes, makes lots of friends, does lots of good. He has been to the four corners of the globe, dived deep to the ocean floor, and scaled mountains on the roof of the world. He walked on the moon before Neil Armstrong. He is – in so many ways – the reporter of the 20th Century. Apart from the hairstyle, he’s a really cool role model. Steven Spielberg was even going to make a movie about him once, but pulled out when he heard rumours that Tintin’s creator, Herge, was anti-Semitic. And it is true - Herge’s comics are filled with dated – and often hilarious – racial and social stereotypes. One comic – Tintin in the Congo – was withdrawn from circulation because of its depiction of native African tribes as nothing more than stupid little amusements for the colonials. But these comics are seventy years old. And Herge was in a weird way, PC paranoid before his time. He was, basically, apolitical. Like any current Hollywood movie were they bad guys comprise one ethnic group, there is always one member of that ethnic group on the side of the good guys (see True Lies, any James Bond flick). And Tintin himself never seems racist, even if his adventures take place in less enlightened times, written by a less enlightened author.

Despite his author’s harmless prejudices, all of Tintin’s adventures are infused with earnest principles and virtues: friendship, fidelity, courage, truth, respect, commitment. In many ways, Tintin is us, or at least the best of us. There is a mythic quality to these comics, which explains their enduring appeal. Herge was a master at capturing movement in line in his drawings, and in creating a subtle balance between the subtle realism of the international settings and the measured caricature of the characters swirling around Tintin. The comics, the stories, have a clarity that exists in only a small percentage of art and literature. Yeah, you guessed it. I love ‘em…

Visiting the Tintin museum was – not surprisingly – a thrilling look “behind the scenes” for a fan like me. The level of detail exhibited is impressive. We got to see the inception of the character, when Tintin was so basic he never even had a mouth, and his tuff of hair wouldn’t stand up straight. There were never-published strips and Christmas issues and rare toys and statues and old props and stuff I would have loved to have got my hands on. But I reminded myself that all I really needed was my Tintin collection at home, and actually, not even that. Because Tintin – for me - had lifted himself off the comic book page and infiltrated my psyche. I didn’t need “stuff” to remember him. Sometimes I felt his indomitable, never-say-die spirit walking alongside me, inspiring me to greater things. His and many others, like Indiana Jones, Robin Hood, John McLane, Ellen Ripley…my Mum… Unfortunately also walking along there were the spirits of other heroes of mine, guys like Austin Powers, or George Costanza, or Homer Simpson. And sometimes these latter characters got in Tintin and Indy’s way and tripped them up big time…

On our way back to Shirley and our next inevitable mechanical pratfall, AJ and I crossed through a massive plaza, huge, geometric, filled with museums and government buildings and hedge-work gardens. Pretty, but predictably, dull. Here we detoured unsubtly around a bunch of kids acting like bunches of kids do in inner city areas on their own – teasing each other, kicking stones across the square, play-fighting. They looked like a gang of Oliver Twist-type pickpockets, although their Fagan appeared to be a young teenage girl. She noticed AJ and I and gestured over in our direction with her head. One kid – maybe eight years old max - spied us and rushed over.

We walked past this kid in Brussels
He was four foot six, and lacking muscles
When he talked, he spoke-a our language
But he didn’t seem to want a Vegemite sandwich

Cause he said…


“Hello, Sir, will you sign our petition”.

He spoke very sweetly, in heavily accented English. He was wielding a clipboard and pen.

“Yeah sure”, I replied carelessly, reaching for the clipboard, willing to sign anything, especially if it would get the street urchin to disappear.

“Woah, hang on for a second!!!”, AJ interrupted, waving the clipboard away from me. He was obviously a little sharper than I, a little wiser to such scams.

He peered suspiciously at the clipboard.

“What does it mean if we sign? It means we have to pay something right?” He pointed for my benefit at some vague statement on the form, then turned back to the kid, “NO, NO, NO.”

“NO” doesn’t mean “NO” to a Brussels street kid. He persisted, waving the clipboard at us like we had already signed some binding legal contract.

“Fifty Euro!” he demanded.

AJ and I turned to each other and smiled and chuckled at his bravado.

“No thanks”, we smiled politely and walked away.

“Aw, FUCK OFF!!!” he shouted at our backs, without the trace of an accent. He had obviously learned swear words in each language perfectly. Probably in his line of work, he’d heard them many, many times…

We were still chuckling as we left his turf.

Because there was nothing we wanted to do more than take his advice and leave that town.


---------------


Brussels Out


Our abusive young street friend’s farewell cry signalled a particularly ignominious send-off from Brussels as we departed. We became hopelessly lost as we drove outta the city. The only landmark we spied was a gargantuan and very cool structure of balls and beams which looked just like a cluster of molecules – something which would have looked perfect in the Epcot park of Disneyworld, but out-of-place anywhere else.

After an hour’s driving we found ourselves on a ring road, an eight lane motorway, going vaguely in the right direction, but vaguely with the wrong propulsion – Shirley was “doing it” again, and there was no way she could even hope to keep up with the fast freewayers.

We pulled over (broke down) next to a thick green forest which I found beautiful and which AJ found spooky – he kept making Blair Witch references. His apprehension wasn’t helped when a car pulled up behind ours and two people dashed into the forest behind a leashed Alsatian dog with slavering ferocious jaws.

Even though it was still daylight, I thought it better that AJ stay safely in the van, and I spent the next thirty minutes dangerously wandering the side of the busy motorway looking for a functional emergency phone. I found several phones, none functional, but eventually happened upon an orange box marked “SOS”, with a button and a steel vocoder grill. I wasn’t sure if our situation really warranted an SOS, but I had no choice, so I pushed the button, and the grill spoke to me.

Back at the van, I scoffed AJ’s grilled cheese and tomato baguette speciality, before Emergency Serviceman #5 arrived. His English was extremely limited, so I began to launch into the usual spiel (jumping, juddering, missing spark, maybe overheating, yada, yada, yada), but before I got two words out, he started chanting, “AA? AA? AA?”

He didn’t care a toss about us until he’d established we were officially affiliated with his breakdown company, and after a very confusing twenty minutes for him, when he checked our Caravan Club details, liased with his base via mobile phone, and tapped his foot nervously, he returned to us with an apologetic shrug to say he couldn’t help us at all. Each conversation took about four times longer than normal, and involved lots of shrugging and looking for words.

The only way we could instigate our Caravan Club breakdown cover he said, was for us to call the Caravan Club in England, who would then have to organise someone in Belgium to help us out.

“Maybe me, maybe not”, the guy shrugged.

We wanted to scream – not at our impotent Belgium friend, but at the damn Caravan Club. The only company in England that had been willing to provide breakdown cover for Shirley, they had proved worse than useless so far, and advice from them always conflicted with what the local breakdown boys told us.

This particular Belgian chap wanted to help us, but even for a fee, wouldn’t -couldn’t - he seemed to imply. “Who’s gonna know?”, we wanted to whisper to him, but he was as anal as they come.

We played the guilt card well though, appearing (or being?) almost on the verge of tears (of frustration), and his conscience rose to the surface, with him offering to drive behind us till we got to the next public phone and arranged assistance. But we declined his kind offer when he told us the nearest phone was on a road fifteen kilometres out of our way.

We were also resigned to the fact that even if he had helped us, the language barrier would have prevented mechano-understanding, and he would have just cleaned the points, Shirley would have run fine (cause she’d cooled down), and he would have collected a hefty fee.

And because we’d been sitting on that roadside for over an hour, Shirley was cool as a cumber and ready to roll anyway.

We enjoyed a trouble free drive for the next hour and a half, through countryside not unlike the Netherlands in some ways (cows, farms, grass), yet fairly different in others – here they actually had hills (not big hills, but hills) and forests and features on the landscape. These features were often ugly industrial towns, yet they were features nonetheless. We headed dead west into the sunset, and I realised a benefit of travelling at this latitude. In Australia, until seconds before the sun sets, you can barely get a peripheral glimpse or a sense of the sun without it burning your corneas to a crisp. But here - and in England and Ireland as well, I’d noticed - you could pretty much look straight at the sun for several seconds as it took it’s long journey towards the horizon. I guess we were further away from it up there. But as a sunset aficionado from way back, it was nice to have the luxury to appreciate them for a longer time.

As I watched the western sky’s daily (yet always different) colour display that evening, I mulled over our problem child. We’d taken Shirley to all the best doctors, got many second opinions, tried so many things…but…it was hopeless…

Everything to do with the engine had been suggested and fixed…could it be something else?… I thought about Agy, my old Bambino, and one of her teething problems – her brakes. On long drives Agy’s brakes pads would heat up, swell up, and basically apply themselves without any help form me. Imagine driving full speed with one foot on the brake, that’s what she was like. Agy’s problems were diagnosed and fixed pretty quickly, but I was thinking…Shirley’s driving style when she had her epileptic fits was not completely different to Agy’s brake spells…so…maybe we were looking in the wrong place…

One thing I did know. We either had to work out what the problem was or give up. We’d only been on the road for a week. We’d seen emergency repair guys already twice that day. One week ago – the day we left –we’d encountered emergency serviceman No 1 (J. Peterman) and the day we’d just had we had – exactly a week later – we had seen two emergency repair guys. We were meeting more emergency service men than other locals. We were almost averaging one per day. Per day!!! This trip was turning into “The Emergency Serviceman Tour of Europe”. Forget history, culture, scenery – just meet as many Emergency Service Guys as you can in five months!!!

An intriguing ambition, but ultimately depressing…

We couldn’t go on like this.

Literally.

We couldn’t go on like this.

I was pondering the source of Shirley’s spasms when I began to experience them once again.

“Griz…”

“I know, I know Charles”

“It’s doing it again.”

“I know mate. Pull over when you can…”

All together now…

…Sigh….


---------------


Beautiful Bruges


Tomorrow was, in Miss O’Hara’s words, another day. And tomorrow was a good one.

For one, Shirley didn’t break down once. For another, we visited Bruges.

We awoke that morning in a spacious service station car park, surrounded by dozens of big rigs, and next to some handy bushland to fertilize with our non-mannequin piss and our masticated toothpaste.

The only hiccup we encountered driving into Bruges was when the sun arose and AJ hunted for his sunglasses. They were nowhere to be found, not in their usual possies, not in the glove box or on the floor, nowhere. We couldn’t even find the hard plastic glasses case he kept them in.

They turned up in the most unusual place.

After arriving in Bruges and navigating our way perfectly to a park right next to the cute little bus station in the centre, AJ opened the flap on the engine compartment to see how hot Shirley’s heart was. There, resting in the engine, was his sunglass case, parts of it melted into slag from the intense heat. Inside were his sunglasses, unharmed.

It’s true what they say I guess. It’s always the last place you look.

As if it wasn’t bizarre enough that the sunglass case had found it’s way into the engine, it was truly a miracle the sunglass case hadn’t rattled around and fallen through the engine to the highway during our drive. It was a miracle that the case didn’t combust and catch fire, or get caught up in the engine’s frantic gyrations and damage it permanently. If we had driven any further it probably would have.

We decided our luck was turning for the better, and entered the centre of Bruges with high spirits. And it was a great town for high spirits.

Our visit to Bruges was the flipside of our visit to Brussels. Number one – we didn’t meet a single emergency breakdown guy all day. Number two – it was sunny, fine, spectacular weather. Number three – Bruges is lovely.

It’s an awesome looking town. Where Brussels is grey and ugly, Bruges is colourful and gorgeous. Where Brussels is sprawling and impersonal, Bruges is intimate and accessible.

It was a perfect town for strolling, and stroll we did.

We strolled past cathedrals and canals, chocolateries and lace-makers. We chilled out in two medieval squares: Burg, which had a staggering ring of ornate government buildings, and Markt, which had even more colour and character: beautiful gabled nineteenth century facades hovering proudly over cafes and restaurants, all of them circling (as the square’s name suggests) a festive market place, full of flowers and food sellers and festivity. This was more like Beauty and the Beast than Brussels!!!

Locals abounded in the market place, but they were I’m sure outnumbered vastly by tourists – the town was overrun with them. In many ways Bruges reminded me of a humbler, homelier version of Venice, and the tourist infestation was one of them. They were everywhere. They were – present company obviously expected – quite well off, all wearing label brand clothing, many off them retirees, we guessed. Lots of Americans with camcorders and lots of Asians with cameras. Dozens of private school groups too. It was overwhelming, but how could we begrudge a single tourist for being there? We were there, after all. Although I doubt we brought as much money into Bruges burgeoning tourist economy as any of the other tourists. They were spilling out of shops and museums and bars and coffee shops and restaurants and horse-drawn carriages, dripping money as they went.

Despite all this ostentatious money spilling, we never saw a single beggar in Bruges. Unlike in Brussels, where we encountered many a lost street-shabbling soul, there were no down-on-their-luck types to be seen in Bruges. Around all the tourist cash and sparkling designer labels, there were no grimy, unwashed clothes or downcast eyes to be seen. I wondered if Bruges’ tourist body rounded them up by night and shipped them surreptitiously into Brussels.

The locals in Bruges looked almost as happy as the tourists - and why not? - with the redistribution of wealth going on. As well as the storekeepers, the locals bustled around on foot and on bicycles, bartering for meat and vege in the markets, and generally enjoying a very beautiful town.

There was constant motion in Bruges, perpetual traffic. There was foot traffic (strollers, wanderers, bustlers) and wheeled traffic (bicycles, motorbikes, the odd car). But my favourite was a combination of foot and wheel powered traffic – horse-drawn carriages. They were everywhere!!!

It was wonderful to be in a town were the roar of a vehicular engine was rarely heard above the clip-clop, clip-clop of horse hooves on the cobblestones. These horses were wonderful too, very calm and unruffled by the high intensity of humans, happily ferrying visitors around the streets and alleyways they knew so well. I doubted even whether the carriage drivers were necessary.

One of the few spots in Bruges you can escape from the cobblestone traffic is up the top of the Belfry, a thirteenth century octagonal tower looming over the Markt Square and providing a wonderful view of the towns’ gabled rooftops and canal network, and out further to the green fields surrounding the outer city. The central town is incredibly uncorrupted by modern buildings, perfectly preserved and well maintained in its original medieval state. This is apparently due to the economic neglect the town suffered from the sixteenth century onwards, causing it to escape notice and the decimation which both World Wars caused across much of Europe. It seems almost preserved in time.

The view from the top of the Belfry is worth the climb, but after 166 lung-busting steps, I needed to take about five hours of rest before I could open my eyes to appreciate it. AJ, about a fifth of my weight and twice my fitness level, was unsympathetically amused by my apoplexy.

But if the view wasn’t enough compensation for that execrable exercise, we also had aural accompaniment to go along with it. Dozens of carillon bells – more than Quasimodo could ever hope to control - chimed out a melodic but deafening tune. So much for a peaceful respite from the streets below huh?

Back down on those streets we visited the Helig Bloed Basiliek, which means Basilica of the Holy Blood, so named for holding the sacred crystal phial containing the blood of Christ, which Joseph of Aramathea collected in 1150. Joseph of Aramathea rang a bell with me – I remembered Sean Connery chanting that name when he played Indy’s dad in the last Indiana Jones flick. I decided such a puerile reference wouldn’t go down to well in the sombre, reverent atmosphere inside the small, dark, ornate chapels.

It was less reverent and oppressive outside in the sunshine, so we decided - despite the dozens of museums and historical interiors to be enjoyed in town - to keep the rest of our Bruges visit to outdoors.

We wandered down a narrow donkey lane to the nearest canal, and shook the stifling mood of the Basilica with an open topped boat ride through the stunning canals. Twenty minutes cost 5.20 euro each, but I am sure AJ would have paid more for the chance to perve at the svelte young Belgian babe in the rear of our boat with her TV crew – they were filming a segment for some European equivalent of Getaway. The recorded commentary on the boat came in several languages, and fortunately one was English, so we got to hear about such fascinating things as the oldest bridge in Bruges, the lowest bridge in Bruges, and the smallest window in Bruges (at the top of a church spire).

Luckily the boat tour didn’t need interesting commentary to be an absolute pleasure. Again, I thought about Venice, and the way the most beautiful residences of both towns were around the water. I thought about the fairytale, Disneyland type feeling of both towns – like they were too pretty to be real, just fantasy facades put up to dupe tourists. I thought about Frances and our trip in Venice, and I hoped very much she would fall in love with Bruges one day as much as I had.

Of the two cities, Venice wins for its sheer awe-inspiration, and the massive scope of its waterways and elaborate architecture. Bruges only has a few humble canals, but it has the edge over Venice for intimacy and cosiness – cute little hotels and homes clustered around these canals, little bay windows and backyards looking over the water. If I was to choose between Venice and Bruges for a waterside permanent home, I think comfort would win over class. Watching a little kitten playing in a waterside window sold it for me. Bruges all the way.

One of the few unwelcoming things I noticed about Bruges was the sign on the door of a Chocolaterie (translation for my Australian friends: a really exotic, pretentious Darrell Lea). The sign read “No Free Entry. For You Own Comfort. Buy Inside. Look Outside.” In other words, if you take a step into that shop, you better be prepared to buy, OR ELSE! A little confrontational, I thought. Maybe they could afford to turn potential business away in Bruges. Or maybe their chocolates just weren’t as good as reputed.

One thing famously reputed about Bruges is the celibacy of some of its women. Now normally, celibacy of women is not something that would draw the attention of AJ and myself, but we found ourselves fascinated by the Begijnhof – a quaint square of green-gabled, white-washed houses, ringing a grassy park of purple flowers and large pine trees. The whitewashed houses had been occupied over many generations, by many generations of spinsters and widows. In other words, voluntary virgins.

AJ and I spied not a single resident of those cute homes, and we decided anyway we wouldn’t stand much chance of breaking centuries of tradition and solidarity and chastity. Not that day anyway.

But that was before we had a beer.

And what a beer it was. After returning to Markt Square, and finding a beer garden café with a perfect people-perving view, AJ and I enjoyed two massive, delicious stein glasses of Leffe beer, a blonde Belgian beer. We never got round to trying a brunette Belgian beer. The Leffe beers weren’t cheap – 7euro each, but we supposed we were paying for the view as well as the drink. The service from our waiter was acceptable in a casual way, but other waiters in the bar weren’t so charming, one of them growled at us and our tatty duds when we entered and enquired were we might sit, and another practically crash-tackled me on my way to the loo – he thought I’d wandered in of the street and was trying to use their precious toilets “for free”.

This attitude didn’t stop us from enjoying our perfect spot in dead-central Bruges, and the beer loosed up our minds and tongues enough for us to engage in completely non-trip related conversation, a first for ages. And it was a serious talk too!!! We discussed the affliction of clinical depression, and about how surprisingly prevalent it was or had been in a lot of our loved ones over the years, and how difficult it often was to know how to deal with, how best to help the poor person suffering through it. It was a sad discussion, but very gratifying to share hopes and history and cares and concerns with such a good friend. Away from his parties and girls and phone and his constant need to be “on”, AJ seemed contemplative, reflective and possibly even introspective – something I thought was impossible for him. Maybe the trip was doing him good. Maybe…

After our beer, AJ and I soaked up the alcohol with some frittes. Frittes are basically thick fries – which the Belgians supposed invented. Now, I’d always thought they were always called “French Fries” for a reason. I guess that sounds better than “Belgian Fries”. Regardless of who invented them, the frittes were delicious. Tomato sauce for me, curry sauce for AJ. We went and sat under the large statue in the Markt square centre – the market stalls themselves were long gone - and scoffed them.

And here, while scoffing our fries, while watching Bruges go by, we relaxed in the sun and let alcohol flood through our well-being glands.

And here, we made a decision.


---------------


Driving to Distraction


We had enjoyed a good day – and a good week, generally – but Shirley was driving us to distraction. Literally driving us to distraction. We couldn’t work out what was wrong with her. We couldn’t find anyone in Europe willing to find out what was wrong with her. We couldn’t drive decent distances when we needed to. We couldn’t fix her in Europe without losing lots of time and/or lots of money. We’d paid Mr Julio and his band of retarded apes to fix her in London, so if we took her back they would be obliged to fix her without charging us for extra labour. We were a lot closer to London in Belgium than we would be anywhere else in Europe. We decided. We had little choice.

We were going home.

OK, we were losers. We had left on a five-month trip of Europe, only to return after one week. But – and we honestly believed this – it was one step back for two steps forward. We were losing time and losing money in Europe anyway, and things didn’t seem to be improving. If we tried to get the van diagnosed and fixed in Europe, the cost, the unfamiliarity, the language barrier, and the time factor would all work against us. The obvious choice was Mr Julio.

We would give him one more go. If he didn’t succeed this time, we would write Shirley off as a 3000 pound bad risk, and take the train.

But we couldn’t go on the way we were - spending hours every day waiting alongside highways, meeting more breakdown repair guys than any other breed of local, asphyxiating ourselves with engine fumes…this was crazy. Those times weren’t fun. We had to do something. And all we could do was run home and scream “HELP!”

We were going home.

And for once, we were going to get there sooner than we thought.

We left Bruges and drove west, towards England.

But first, we had a bit of water to get over. And the English Channel is a little wider than your average Bruges canal…


---------------


Fear and Loathing in Zeebrugge


Zeebrugge is a huge seaport, about 20 kilometres west of Bruges. It ships containers of Europe’s best produce all around the world. Importantly for us, it ships vehicles and their drivers across the English Channel.

With no idea of how many days we might have to wait until we obtained passage across the channel, I approached the P&O Entry booth at the port’s entrance. The official Belgian dude seemed positively unimpressed with my appearance and query, but told me that – miraculously – the next ferry was leaving within hours, and we could certainly book a berth for Shirley and ourselves on it. 190 euro later, and we were booked.

We still had a few hours to kill before boarding, so we hit the nearby beach. Tucked around the corner from the typically ugly, industrial port, the beach was, by European standards at least, impressive.

The low tide was swept out several hundred metres, leaving a vast, flat, sandy expanse, lined along the esplanade with cute, whitewashed beach cottages, basking in the afternoon sunshine.

Unlike our visit to the crowed Dutch beach a week before, we shared this lonely beach with only a few other wanderers, some young families, some young lovers (aww). In the fading sunlight, a young bloke trained his girlfriend in tai-chi or judo exercises, which evoked that classic Karate Kid montage on the beach. I never saw them do the famous Mr Miyagi crane move though.

Also on the beach were a couple of wire-frame beach buggies, propelled at high speed not by engines, but by huge kites. The steering mechanism of these beasts wasn’t a wheel, put a pair of kite-turning handles. We never saw a buggy topple over completely, but we did watch a couple of impressive two-wheeled tilts.

The only person on the beach that gave me a run for my money with camera clicking was a professional photographer. AJ and I watched with bemusement as the photographer (shadowed by a faithful, patient doggie) ushered a loving couple around the beach, snapping away at them as they assumed affected movie-star poses, in front of lovely sunset or tidal pool backgrounds. If this wasn’t surreal enough, the photographer was lugging a twelve step ladder along with him, which he climbed up to obtain creative angles for his photos. Now that is the last thing I need.

I didn’t need a ladder – or any encouragement – to go through a couple more rolls of film. The sunset was doing great things on the little bump-ridges of sand that rose up through tiny glimmering pools of water like a thousand tiny whales breaching at once. When the tidal pools withdrew further, or dried out, I hunched down close to the ground, and from that angle the dry little ridges in the sand looked like an endless, barren desert – thousands of individual dunes blending seamlessly into each other with undulating grace, drifting off to the infinite horizon.

I loved it, and I reflected that it was a place and a time we never would have been if it hadn’t been for Shirley’s condition.

It was just a beach, but it was also a fascinating, spectacular microcosm of a landscape - if you’d let it be.

AJ wasn’t really the type to let it be – he wasn’t really an outside person or an aesthetic chap at all – ironic really, that we were trying to travel around the great outdoors of Europe for five months. But I managed to convince him to join me on that vast, beautiful beach that evening to watch the sunset.

The best way to do this was to agree with his suggestion to smoke another of our two remaining Bulldog reefers. It was another typically ridiculous session – I coughed during so many of my intakes it didn’t register on my brain cells too much anyway, but AJ…after four or five serious tokes he was absolutely gone, cackling away and finding the slightest human affectation totally hilarious. He alternated between thinking I was going to die from my wracking coughs, to praising my persistence as I “sucked it back anyway, like a true trouper”, in his words.

In retrospect, it probably wasn’t the wisest decision to ingest potent drugs moments before we were due to leave the country.

Even before we smoked the spliff, AJ was feeling very paranoid. His work visa for the UK had expired months before (he’d been working illegally), and he was worried about re-entering the country and the questions he might have been asked. He was so stressed about it he even boiled some water on Shirley’s stove and shaved his stubble off – he wanted to create the best possible impression for the UK customs dudes. He was also super fretful about the remaining reefers we had. Before we’d decided to return to England, I’d been considering posting them back to Frances, a pot-connoisseur from way back. But now, that night, I was pushing for a big drug-smuggling effort – trying to convince AJ we should stash them in Shirley. After all, Han Solo started out as a smuggler right? And this was just two tiny (albeit potent) spliffs. I was sure we could hide them well. AJ wasn’t so sure, and he was pushing for us to smoke them both. There was no way we were going to get through more than one that evening, so we still ended up with one reefer left – hey, I figured, we’d just reduced half our risk, and half our potential jail time.

AJ’s mood wasn’t really relaxed after the penultimate joint. Not surprisingly, his paranoia multiplied.

As I pulled off a vent panel in Shirley’s driver’s door and stashed the remaining reefer there, AJ’s eyes swivelled over to the occupants of the campervan parked two dozen metres away, and he was convinced they’d not only seen my surreptitious move, but that they’d dob us into the local drug squad, or even worse, the English Visa Authority.

AJ’s paranoia wasn’t confined to our drug smuggling.

During the last week, AJ had been convinced that all Europeans stared at him like he was some sort of extra-terrestrial with an extra-testicle. He thought that it was because he was black, and maybe it was. There certainly weren’t as many dark-skinned people in the Netherlands or Belgium as there are in London – I think that’s one of the reasons AJ loves London so much. But I don’t really think he was correct in his assumption. I think maybe the black thing had something to do with it, but I think it was more likely that AJ garnered so much visual attention because he was, quite simply, a weird looking guy. Just a weird looking guy, travelling in a weird looking van, with another completely-different-looking-but-just-as-weird-looking-guy.

But the pot that evening didn’t help AJ’s self-consciousness, and when a car drove past with its occupants staring blatantly, shamelessly at him, AJ screamed, “What!!! What is it with this country!!!”

Then he promptly collapsed on Shirley’s bed and passed out.

Things were not boding well for our Channel Crossing

But I was too relaxed to care. While I waited for AJ to rise, I slipped a polarising filter over my SLR camera and photographed the spectacular sunset, frame by frame. A videotape would have used less film. But it was perfect.

After night fell, I was still feeling relaxed in a very irresponsible way, and when I had finally shaken AJ back to consciousness, I put him behind the wheel and asked him to drive.

Not my smartest move. We drove up the esplanade and inadvertently continued illegally down the pedestrian mall, giving all the café and restaurants patrons a good reason this time to gawk at us. Realising our error, I casually directed a panicked AJ to turn around, and in doing so he almost drove off a ten-foot drop-off wall that separated the mall and the beach. Now that would have solved our van problems for good.

Eventually we got ourselves sorted enough to head out towards the port and our terminal for docking. Enroute however we got lost. (Let this be a lesson to those of you who might be considering smoking strong marijuana before driving to catch a fairly important ferry.)

Somehow we took a wrong turn off a roundabout and found ourselves heading through a vast railway yard, full of flatbed railway carriages. Apart from all the train tracks and rusting carriages, it was deserted, it was dark, and it was very spooky. Then we noticed something – a light. Moving straight towards us. A train. OK, it wasn’t moving straight for us, I just threw that in for dramatic effect. It was actually on tracks parallel to the road we were ambling along. We didn’t waste time waiting to see if the road and the train tracks converged, and we spun Shirley around, half screaming, half laughing.

My chilled-out-silly-mood and AJ’s paranoia seemed to rub off on each other. He relaxed a bit, and I started freaking out about missing the ferry. We found our way eventually, but we were both highly stoned, and both very nervous and touchy about every little move we made as we checked in at the ticket booth and then entered the large ship-yard around the port.

Then everything became very surreal.

Shirley was dwarfed by the hundreds of gigantic shipping containers scattered around the shipyard, seemingly randomly. But they weren’t the only things which dwarfed us. Because – unlike in the railway yard - we weren’t alone here. There were dozens of other vehicles with us. But Shirley was a midget among them. There was not one other van, not one car, not one four-wheel-drive. There were only semi-trailers. Big rigs. Everywhere.

We were a guppy among sharks. The huge trucks zoomed by on every side of us, zigzagging across the shipyard with purpose. They all seemed to know their way through the maze of container ships and witches hats and the odd dilapidated sign saying “Dover”.

Maybe it was the pot, and at the time, I think we believed it was just the pot. But it can’t just have been the pot. Even in unstoned retrospect, the whole experience was totally bizarre. Not one other car or non-commercial vehicle. A winding obstacle course of a shipyard. And poor little Shirley, puttering along, with two freaked out potheads inside.

We realised later that we had somehow booked our way onto a ferry (and perhaps a port) that specialised only in commercial semi-trailer traffic between the continent and England. We realised later why the guy I’d booked passage with had asked me how long and heavy Shirley was when he’d calculated the fare.

This ferry – at least at this time of the week – was obviously the truckers’ sole province. Probably because it arrived in England at 3.30am on a Thursday morning, it was designed as such.

We were doing the fish-outta-water-thang yet again.

After many wrong turns in the container maze, we finally made our way to the immigration check point, where a young bloke boarded Shirley to check whether anyone was hiding in the toilet. He told us then to park in Bay 20 and wait for boarding. We headed off towards Bay 20, dodging semi-trailers as they all jostled for pole position. AJ spied the number 17 on the tarmac, and, assuming the numbers ran left to right, headed directly towards where he assumed the number 20 lane was. Unfortunately, the numbers of the boarding lanes of the Zeebrugge shipping port do not run left to right, they run right to left, and AJ was speeding in completely the wrong direction, right into the path of a gargantuan Kenilworth rig, bearing down on us and belching smoke like some primordial dragon.

My scream rang in both our ears for many minutes.

After our narrow escape from death, we found lane twenty, and AJ, a little shaky, understandably, did exactly what the official guy told us and stopped, directly on top of the number twenty. But he actually stopped at the end of the lane way, and not the beginning, a hundred metres away from where we were supposed to be. I think his nervousness about his visa, about our contraband, was building. Luckily, I had one brain cell still functioning, and directed him to the correct end of the line.

Here, while we waited to board, a guy in a bright vest checked our papers and stared curiously at us:

“Oh, you’re here as tourists?”

Well, no shit Sherlock.

Actually he didn’t look too much like a Sherlock. What he did look like was a cross between too great comedic actors from one great comedic movie: Leslie Nielsen (the doctor) and Peter Graves (the pilot) from Airplane! (Flying High!). After making this physiognomic connection, our pot-addled humours launched into a routine of inane Airplane! style jokes, refined to match our current situation.

“Shirley might have some trouble getting up the ramp onto that ship.”

“The ship? What is it?”

“It’s a big boat with windows, but that’s not important right now”.

We were just cracking ourselves up.

Either the pot wasn’t wearing off, or we were just idiots. I suspect the later.


---------------


The Buttcrack Brigade


We sobered up a smidgen when we looked around us at the other drivers waiting to board the ferry. Till now, all we’d experienced of the big-rigs were the trucks themselves: impersonal, unstoppable juggernauts.

But parked here, looking around, we noticed that we were surrounded not just by mammoth semi-trailers, but also by their drivers.

And they did not look happy.

Well, would you? I used to dream of becoming a truck driver. Of course that was back in the televised days of BJ McKay, a good ole boy rig driver who picked up hot babes and hoodwinked wicked authority figures and drove off into the sunset with his best friend Bear, a chimpanzee. (Gimme a break, I was eight!) Since then, I have realised that life as a trucker is not for me. The freedom of the open road certainly appeals to me. But the potential for another pinodial sinus (don’t ask), the limited hygiene of that lifestyle, and the retarded social life, has kinda put me off. And looking around the dock that night at Zeebrugge, I’m pretty sure I made the right career call. (That is: none at all, as opposed to keepin’ on truckin’.)

Because these guys were scary. They were all dodgy looking characters, to be as polite as possible. Those that didn’t look like axe-murderers looked like they would be willing victims of axe-murderers. Anti-social extreme. AJ and I tried to use our peripheral vision, but it was obvious (pot paranoia aside) these truckers were staring at us. And I’m not talking a polite smile and nod. I’m talking glare-central. Death stare. A look that said (in a red-neck tone or its euro-equivalent): “what do you two pussies think you are doing on our turf?”

AJ and I cracked a few nervous jokes with each other – about how once we boarded the boat it would be like a prison ship, and we would be the new blood, the fresh meat, certain to meet the top dog in the showers and get rechristened “Ben Dover”.

Alas, it was not to be, although we did tempt fate.

Shortly after we managed to make it up the ramp and into the bowels of the ferry, and had parked between two big rigs, AJ nervously let out the clutch while Shirley was still running in gear, almost destroying the pristine paintjob of the rear door of the truck we were parked behind.

Upstairs, we found seats in the lounge to calm down on. Most of the truck drivers had sprung for cabins, but we were cheapskates obviously. We left Zeebrugge, we left Belgium, and, four the next four hours or so, we sailed across the black sea.

We were absolutely exhausted, especially after the pot wore off. But I had trouble sleeping. The boat passengers made me nervous.

The semi-trailer drivers were less threatening out of their trucks than in them, but no less weird.

I dubbed them the Buttcrack Brigade.

The Buttcrack Brigade waltzed back and forth through the lounge, sculling coffee from urns, grunting at their trucker buddies in the international language of truckers. They had fat bellies, hunched shoulders, and excess facial hair. In fact, they looked a hell of a lot more like Bear than BJ McKay. They were lonely guys in their twenties, thirties, forties. They exposed a lot of buttcrack. Lots of guys walked around in their underwear. One guy looked like a serial killer: tatts, mullet, facial piercings. He wore tiny cotton shorts, no shoes, and a filthy white singlet.

I couldn’t wait to get off that boat.


---------------


Break Dawn


We arrived at England on Thursday the 16th May, which just happened to be the date the movie Star Wars, Episode 2: Attack of the Clones premiered around the world. Now the more cynical among you might be thinking that it was one hell of a coincidence that I had arrived back in an English-speaking country on the very day that the movie I had anticipated most for years opened…

Yeah, that seems a bit suss.

But no, it was a coincidence. Not even Star Wars was worth sabotaging Shirley for. Not really…

But what a bonus, huh? Our dream trip may have been seriously derailed off the twin rails of time and budget, but in my perpetual glass-is-half-full outlook on life, Star Wars was a pretty good way to make up for it.

At 3.30am Greenwich Mean Time, I stood on deck of our freight ferry and watched the famous white cliffs of Dover get closer. Obviously it was nighttime, but the entire ferry port of Dover was brilliantly spot lit. The dusky white cliffs weren’t as impressive as all those Musketeer Movies, or Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves, had led me to expect. Our arrival was no less ignominious than Kevin Costner’s. And much simpler.

At immigration control, a bloke in a booth reading a horror paperback novel looked up indifferently, asked us a couple of vague questions and waved us through, dispelling AJ’s visa fears.

At the customs checkpoint, a bunch of SWAT suited cops with an evil-looking Alsatian didn’t even bother looking up indifferently - they were too busy gossiping - and waved us through, dispelling AJ’s drug-smuggling fears.

We drove through the gate and into England.

With our contraband. With one reefer. We were drug smugglers. We were bad boys.

And karma would come around and bite us on the arse for it. But too bloody soon!

The drive from Dover to London generally takes about 1½ to 2 hours, depending on traffic conditions and prevailing tailwinds. It took us over eight hours to reach our destination.

Shirley was not happy to be back on home soil, and she was determined not to make it easy for us. The first thirty minutes of moonlit driving were fine. And we figured that a coolish night drive would mean less chance of overheating, less chance of Shirley having a spac-attack. Not to be…

After half-an-hour, Shirley started “doing it”. Really struggling. We puttered along in the emergency lane for a while, looking for somewhere to stop. We stopped – but not somewhere we’d been looking for. Shirley’s fuel gauge was still acting up, and although reading above half, we ran out of petrol, right there, on the edge of the motorway, spluttering to a stop.

Now, there are many roads in the world that – if you are going to break down - it can actually be a pleasant experience because off your surroundings. Despite the starry sky and the cool breeze in county Kent that night, the main road between Dover and London is not one of them.

The M20 is a major, major freeway. Even at 4am, it carried a massive amount of traffic, mostly the aforementioned big-rigs. Shirley’s petrol cap is on the right side of her body, so as I refilled her tank with a few litres from our reserve jerry can, I was standing within a metre or two of dozens of colossal speeding rigs. Every time one zoomed past at 100mph, within arms reach of me, my life zoomed before my eyes and I wished we’d made more of an effort to socialise with the lovely truckers on board our ferry earlier that night. It must have taken less than a minute to empty that jerry can into Shirley and satiate her parched insides, but every second of that minute seemed to last forever. When I had finished I pulled my body off Shirley’s’ side where I had flattened myself like gum on a sidewalk, and scooted back into her (relatively) safe interior.

We filled Shirley up at the next petrol stop, and as the sky slowly lightened, we continued our spastic-hiccupping-dance-of-doom up the motorway’s emergency lane. As Shirley became more and more recalcitrant, we decided she (and us) needed a decent break, and we hunted for an exit. We never found one, so we illegally took the next little lay-by designed for emergency vehicle access only. We found ourselves on a small access bridge over the busy highway, and here, as the morning sun lit the horizon, we attempted to check Shirley’s brakes (and see if one of my theories had any merit), by jacking her up and rotating her tyres. While doing this, we noticed that Shirley’s large, steel rear bumper bar had been so severely impacted at some stage that it had bent and divoted inward.

Just another reminder. Who knows when/how that had happened?…

After checking the brake friction on one side of Shirley (fine), and then realising the jack was practically useless to check the other, we retreated Shirley and ourselves up the access road a bit onto a small country lane, where, parked in a shallow ditch next to a farm, we kipped for an hour,. We were dirty, completely exhausted, and absolutely overwhelmed with the twin temptations of frustration and defeatism. Yet…

It was a lovely morning. We never would have appreciated that sunrise if it hadn’t been for our breakdown, and what a gorgeous break of dawn it was – the low streaks of morning fog slowly burning off from the farmlands and the heath as the diffuse orange glow on the horizon became stronger. Perfection.

And hour or two later, broken down again, our situation was no less dire and our spirits no less cheerful. A fair bit further towards London, now surrounded by the morning rush hour traffic peak on the M25 ring road, we sat in the emergency lane and laughed at how ridiculous our life was. AJ had spent the morning helping Shirley limp along in the emergency lane, hazard lights flashing, at no more than 10kph. Occasionally, whenever the side lane disappeared into a turnoff or overhead bridge, he would risk ducking Shirley out into the 120kph traffic. Yet he was surprisingly cheerful, shaking his head in disbelief as he listed all the things that had gone wrong with Shirley since we’d bought her. I sat there chuckling as I separated the pages of an expensive guidebook I had bought with a butter knife – water had spilled in my backpack and glued the pages together.

Hundreds, thousands of cars zoomed past us, their owners late for work. Despite our situation, I think the tidal wave of traffic actually improved our moods. Because at least we didn’t have to go to work. We were on holidays!

What a holiday.

As we puttered the last hundred kilometres along the M25, AJ began chanting hysterically, “The emergency lane and hard shoulder are our friends…” He seemed so surprisingly happy – maybe it was the fact that we were approaching two of the things he’d missed most in the last two weeks – familiar friends, and familiar pubs. Maybe it was just delirium.

But it was a beautiful day. We cajoled and harassed and pleaded and begged Shirley back into London, back up the A3, back into Putney.

Back to Wardo Auto Repairs. Back to Mr. Julio.

The mechanics all looked up in despair as Shirley spluttered her way in. The boomerang was back.


---------------


Rest & Resuscitation


We spent the next six days in London, and when not being comforted by the incredible Farbridge sisters, we spent most of our time devoted to Shirley’s emergency surgery. As usual, it wasn’t easy.

From the get go, Mr Julio and his Z-Team didn’t really want to know us, didn’t care about Shirley, and pretty much had to be begged by Julio, and subtly reminded by us, that we’d paid them to fix her many, many times already. Their don’t-give-a-shit attitude was disheartening, but they were obliged to do something, and the more AJ and I just hung around the workshop over the next few days staring at them, the more that point sunk in.

The workshop was still as pointless, as nonsensical, and as fascinating as an unreleased Terry Gilliam movie. The basic language seemed to consist of grunts, shrugged shoulders, and the odd raised eyebrow. The secretary was still ignoring us and taking two-hour lunch breaks. The apprentices pushed tyres back and forth as purposelessly as if they were Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn. Dogs wandered back and forth. Customers drove cars away with missing bits. Tube trains clattered past every few minutes on the overhead bridge Mr Julio’s garage was built under.
One afternoon when Frances was there with us at the workshop, she asked Mr Julio is she could use the toilet, and a hush fell over the yard, and every head in the yard turned towards her like we were in a Scream movie and she had suggested she was going outside the house. She was warned against using that loo with such ferocity that I think she stopped needing to go anywhere, for days. Wardo Auto Repair. It was a whole other world. Somehow, Shirley seemed to fit right in.

Initially, Mr Julio and his ethnic offsider Phil dismissed my brake theory out of hand, and for once, they were right. Muttering his way over the engine, the first thing Mr Julio did was remove the thermostat, explaining in Latin-mumble-talk something about how the thermostat was designed to help the engine heat up quickly in cold weather, and about how removing it might facilitate more water cooling in the radiator, keeping the whole engine cool and keeping us moving. At least I think that’s what he said.

AJ and I were dubious. We had been limping Shirley across hundreds of European miles and many professional breakdown dudes. All Mr Julio had done was unscrew one bolt and remove the thermostat – a small, undistinguished little metal device with two plates and a spring.

We were like: “Oh my God, what is he doing now? He can’t fix the van, so he is taking bits off now?”

The most miraculous thing is, he was right.

It worked.

Mr Julio, Frank Perez, owner of Wardo motors, was some sort of idiot-savant, whose genius erupted with the brilliance and frequency of Mount Vesuvius.

Who knows how that mind worked. Who knows how the van worked.

But it did.

We took Shirley on several lengthy drives over the next few days, driving all over the English countryside, up motorways, down country lanes, through city streets. We drove her for up to four hours at a time. She had ample chance to warm up, overheat, lose the plot, and relapse. She never did. Sometimes she even seemed to run faster than she had when she had run ok before. Once we even passed another vehicle on the motorway – a puttering little motorbike, to be granted, but still such a momentous occasion I took a photo of the perplexed rider as we crept past. Shirley was on fire!

AJ and I couldn’t believe it. If fact, we almost didn’t want to believe it. After all we’d been through, this quick-fix solution seemed too easy, too fast to be right. We were happy but very cautious. We’d been burned by Shirley and Mr Julio’s collusions so many times before, we didn’t want to get sucked in so easily this time. But…

The longer we drove her, the better she seemed.

It seemed incredible, but Mr Julio seemed to have put his finger directly onto Shirley’s erratic pulse, and somehow calmed that pulse down to normality.

Well…

It wasn’t like he had a complete reversion from slapstick to wisdom, from Jar-Jar Binks into Yoda.

He ordered new protective spark plug leads for Shirley three times, and each time they arrived they were the wrong size.

When he drove Shirley onto the hydraulic lift in the garage one day, he struggled to estimate her width and kept crashing her left front bumper repeatedly into the pole on the side of the lift mechanism, damaging not only Shirley, but also his own equipment.

He struggled so much with her gears when driving her that he came up with a random guess that the gear stick was rubbing on the clutch cable, and took to it with careful precision – by whacking it repeatedly with a hammer.

When he reverted to normal at times like this, AJ and I raised our eyebrows at each other and wondered about Mr Julio’s one-off miracle thermostat diagnosis.

But, we decided, if Shirley was running, it was best not to question that too deeply. Just accept it.

Off course, Shirley’s attention-deficit-disorder meant that even if we’d dealt with one of her “issues” (as the Americans at summer camp used to say, with their hands doing the inverted comma thing), there were inevitably more “issues” lurking in her warped psyche and getting ready to strike.

The first off these was rubber-related. After many long, high-speed (for Shirley) test-drives, we complained to Mr Julio about dodgy wheel alignment. He checked her tyres, and the tyre on the driver’s side front was decimated. It seriously looked like a crazed tiger had been using it for a scratching post. Huge chunks of rubber were randomly, savagely ripped out. Steel radials were peeling off as easily as grated cheese. There was little left. A few more hours driving and the tyre would have worn down to the wheel – that’s if we had managed a few more hours driving! Our long highway test drives, where we had caned Shirley upwards of to within an inch of her life, had in retrospect taken us to within an inch of our lives. Driving Shirley at 100kph with a tyre shedding chunks of rubber and flaking steel radials, was obviously very dangerous.

Oh well.

One new 40 pound tyre later, we took Shirley across the other side of London to a special needs clinic – a diagnostic examination centre that Frances had insisted we visit to give Shirley a thorough timing check and tune up. After spending so long at Mr Julio’s, going to this clean, professional, high-tech mechanic was like going from the MASH 4077 to Chicago Hope. Shirley was hooked up to more bleeping and blinking and flat-lining machines than I’ve ever seen in ER, or Meet the Parents.

The level of expertise and professionalism was heartening after Wardo Autos, but the attitudes and communication skills of the mechanics seemed universal – they looked at any potential custom with disgust, having zero customer service ethics, sneering at the very source of their income and livelihood. I have encountered this oxymoronic stereotype all around the world, and it still bamboozles me. But what can you do? When your car ain’t moving, you have little choice but to learn gorilla language and etiquette start grunting for help.

After waiting four hours (including the mechanic’s two hour lunch break), we picked up Shirley from diagnostic central. We were given a bill for another 40 pounds and a detailed scientific report which would have baffled Einstein. We noted that the points and condenser had now been changed three times in one month, were told to buy a new coil just in case, and noticed as we drove away that the timing was a smidgen rougher than before. So much for professionalism.

As well as over-diagnosis, AJ and I over-invested in more spare parts – just in case. Before our initial departure, Julio had taken me and his Dad’s discount card to a vast wholesale warehouse, and we had spent several hundred pounds there on odds and ends for Shirley, most of which we would never use. This time, without Julio, we simply purchased an octopoid array of new spark plug leads and new spark plugs – just in case. We were very wary. Our pre-launch checks might have been more intense than NASA’s on the space shuttle, but in between all our mechanic visits and shopping trips were our test drives. And even though we were travelling in our old “home” country, there were many roads and places previously unexplored. So we took more English test runs than the national cricket team has for years. And these test runs were generally pure pleasure as well. Generally…


---------------


Testing Times


One day we took a long test drive down the motorway to Guildford and back, detouring through the cute country lanes and villages of Surrey and Hampshire, passing on an opportunity to visit the local attraction “Birdworld”.

Another circuitous route one Saturday took us through three shires - Buckinghamshire, Berkshire, and Oxfordshire. Frances joined us for company and moral support – although enroute she wasn’t very chatty, snoozing comfortably on Shirley’s double bed.

The good mood her presence put me in was temporarily abated when we stopped for petrol. The first pump discharged only 0.08 pence worth of petrol before giving up the ghost. Within seconds the service station attendant – think a surly, non-cartoon version of The Simpsons Apu – comes out, walks within centimetres of us and slaps a “DO NOT USE” sign on the petrol bowser. He did not apologise for the inconvenience, suggest we use another pump, or acknowledge us in any way - not even by glancing in our direction. It was like one huge van and three people were invisible. As he started to walk away, I ventured -

“Ah, excuse me…”

He sorta half turned, with a look of supreme indifference of his face.

I continued,

“The pump isn’t working...” (Which obviously we both knew, which obviously is why the indifference on his face turned to disgust)

“…can we use another one?”, I finished meekly.

He gave me a barely perceptible shrug, which communicated to me “sure, why not, in fact why not drive off a cliff, then I might actually look at you”. Then he walked away.

Amazed yet again by the exemplary customer service standard in England, I moved Shirley to another pump and drained forty quid into her tank.

And then…

I’m still amazed by this…I shouldn’t be…but I just can’t believe it.

I go in to pay, and Surly Apu hits his monkey buttons and grunts “Forty pounds and eight pence”.

“WHAT!!!”, I almost screamed.

He was charging us eight pence for being inconvenienced by the first petrol bowser. Eight pence!!! I didn’t care about the money, but I was livid this pathetic loser would have the gall to charge us for the petrol station’s error.

He was insistent, repeating the price several times, and each time I glared back at him his arrogance slipped (a little) and he regarded me less like a gnat and more like a crazed hold-up man. When he reached under the desk like he was reaching for the ubiquitous service station baseball bat (or gun if you are American), I decided it was time to pay. I paid him the forty pounds, then slipped ten pence across the counter.

“Keep the change”, I spat out. I figured if he was that anal about eight pence in that circumstance, an extra two pence might prevent him from pushing his next poor inconvenienced customer over the edge.

After that lovely incident, our day was a breeze. Oxford was too crowded for us to use as a rest stop, but I’d toured it before anyway, and it gave us a chance to check out the local pub in the nearby village of Cumnor.

This establishment was great. The Vine looked just like any other modern country pub really, but its occupants made it special. It had an extremely camp owner, who minced around in his pink stripy shirt and pastel tie, pouring large golden pints for the friendly locals. One of these locals was the Oxfordshire equivalent of Cheers’ Cliff Claven – I mean, every bar must have a Cliff or a Norm, or both, but this guy was more like Cliff than any barfly I’d met before. He sat at the bar in his regular stool, chugging down a beer that never seemed to empty, commentating with authority on every topic that entered his head, and making the lamest jokes this side of Woody Harrelson. The friendly lady manageress of the place came and sat with us awhile, and told us that Cumnor Cliff used to come in once a week and do all the washing up for the day, plus any maintenance or carpentry the bar needed. This took care of his ample bar tab for the week.

But the biggest draw in The Vine was not a blasé barman or a boring barfly. The biggest draw in The Vine – literally as well as metaphorically – was Sebastian. Sebastian was a dog. Now you never get a dog in a bar back in Australia, but one of the many idiosyncratic things that I adored about English pubs was the chance of finding an occupant dog inside. These pampered pooches – owned by managers or staff, would just relax amongst the bar stools and score free crisp handouts from patrons. But Sebastian was different.

He was the biggest dog I have ever seen.

He was HUGE!!!

When Sebastian walked in, it was like a Shetland pony on steroids had entered the bar.

Sebastian was a Great Dane, a beautiful rich brown mass of gangly legs and shiny sinew and dopey eyes. He was not – we were told – the biggest dog in the UK – but he had been judged the biggest Great Dane in the UK. It was easy to believe.

Fourteen and a half stone of massive mongrel.

His head was bigger than AJ’s, I’m sure.

Standing up straight – not on his hind legs you understand, just standing normally – Sebastian could look over the bar.

Stretched out flat on the floor in front of us, he was like a huge mountain range to be scaled – or better still – skirted. Skirting Sebastian took a while though.

When Sebastian walked, the pub trembled. He was surprisingly sensitive though - he never once knocked over a glass, or a table. He was very friendly, with big, rheumy, droopy, and quite frankly - dumb – eyes. Yes, as well as friendly, we were told that eight-year-old Sebastian wasn’t the sharpest pooch in the kennel, not the brightest link on the leash.

Watching him patrol around the pub’s back garden, I watched him lean over and start lapping up water from…what was that?…I craned my neck to try and…

“Yeah, that’s the goldfish pond”, the manageress commented casually. “We don’t need to put a water bowl out for him. He just drinks out of the goldfish pond. That’s his water bowl”.

The goldfish pond. I had just seen the largest Great Dane in the United Kingdom drinking his fill out of a goldfish pond. I knew I had come back to England for a reason.

After our visit with Sebastian we ambled Shirley back towards London. On the way up, I had been nervous about Frances lying in the backseat of Shirley – there’s no seatbelts back there, you see. Heading back to Metropolis, I insisted I take the couch and Frances take the front passenger seat. Despite this ploy, before too long I started worrying that Shirley’s door-flying-open-randomly habit might hit while sweet Frances sat up front, and my over-protectiveness took full flight as I checked the door lock and Frances’ seatbelt.

Eventually reassured, I lay back on Shirley’s converted couch/bed and enjoyed the ride. It was very comfortable – a sort of almost horizontal lounging position, head and neck propped up on the pillows, legs stretched out to infinity (that last part just applied to me). It was a unique perspective and view from the “back seat”, as I relaxed back there, thinking about Shirley’s turn of good mechanical fortune, looking straight ahead up the road, at the highway we were eating up, the lush forest on either side of us.

And filling my view to my right, the back of AJ’s round, dark head, almost barren of growth now – AJ, my loyal friend, driving contentedly, helping me achieve my dream. And Frances, to the left, facing forward to, watching the road, listening to the Beatles on the stereo, her right arm stretched across so that her hand could rest up the cuff of my jeans on my crossed ankles. It was an unconscious gesture of comfort, of support, of companionship, but it was one which filled me with joy. I was very happy that afternoon, on that drive. I don’t think I have been as happy since.

Back in London that evening, back in reality, we drove through the borough of Southall. I’d never been to Southall before, and I was shocked as we drove up the main high street. It was like I was back on the sub-continent. Little India, AJ called it. “Spot the white person”, he said. For once, he wasn’t joking.

It was like we had driven down one of the wealthier, more modern streets of Calcutta. Indian restaurants. Indian cinemas. Indian stores seeling Indian goods. Signs in Indian (Hindu I guess). Very few signs in English. And Indian people. Hundreds of ‘em. Wearing traditional dress – mostly the women here, in beautiful saris and headdresses, although lots of the men too, especially the older ones, wore turbans or little Muslim caps. Most of the younger blokes however, looked very non-traditional, dressed just like Ali G. in bright shiny tracksuits and high-top sneakers. Guys seemed to hang only with guys, girls only with girls. It was bizarre. It was like we had driven into a completely different London.

We popped into Sainsbury’s – the local supermarket – to buy some baby-wipes for our bott-bott’s on the trip, and we stood out like three sore thumbs. Every checkout chick seemed to have an Indian nose ring, every trolley boy a turban.

To be honest, the atmosphere in Southall made me a little uncomfortable. I mean, it wasn’t particularly threatening or aggressive, but…I guess it was the first time since I visited Asia that I have really stood out, been a minority, been stared at. It just seemed very strange for London – one of the most multi-cultural places in the world. I was used to hundreds of Indians in one area, but I guess I was used to them mixing with dozens of other ethnic groups, especially mine. Here, in Southall, the whole vibe seemed to be Indian only – with the shops and entire environment designed purely for that culture. The feeling I got was that any other cultures need not apply.

I suppose that discomfort stems not so much from Southall’s implied prejudice towards outsiders, but from my own unfamiliarity with being part of a minority group. I guess I was feeling there that day what most of those Indians – and AJ, and millions of minority people around the world – have become so used to feeling themselves so much of their everyday lives. I didn’t like that feeling too much.


---------------


Our last test drive before we departed England was our longest. It also turned out to be the most horrible, although this time, for once, Shirley was not the culprit.

AJ and I decided to visit our buddy Sam in his uni town of Cheltenham. Sam is a brilliant young English chap with a rapier wit and a compassionate heart. His wit keeps AJ amused, and his compassion keeps AJ out of trouble. Sam and AJ originally met and formed a strong bond in various hospitality jobs by sculling pilfered alcohol in the toilets together. Sam is definitely the more cerebral and responsible of the two, which seems odd when you think that AJ is more than ten years older, but not that odd when you consider AJ’s maturity levels.

Sam had unwisely planned to join us for our Spanish and Portuguese portions of our upcoming journey, but we decided our need to test drive Shirley gave us a good excuse to visit him one last time before we left.

Our route to Cheltenham enabled us a quick detour to explore the Cotswolds – a stunning land of quaint stone villages, verdant hedge-rowed hills, and narrow country lanes. All – unbelievably – within only a few hours of the grime and garishness of London. This was the epitome of traditional England, I thought, as we hopped quickly through a picturesque village called Burford. Burford was skirted by the gentle waters and bank-side weeping willows of the River Windrush – and to enter Burford across the River Windrush, we had to traverse an ancient, medieval stone bridge that seemed too narrow for even horse and cart traffic – and looked like it had no right at all to still be standing in the new millennium.

From the river Burford rose up a narrow, steep, high-street, lined with magnificent, medieval architecture. And by “magnificent” – I don’t mean humongous cathedrals or museums – I mean tiny little 15th Century manor houses, built from local stone, rimmed with charming rose gardens. Tudor-style B&B’s sat alongside quaint cafes selling homemade clotted cream teas, and cramped stores selling embroidery, antiques, ceramics and paintings. What most caught my eye though, was a Beatrix Potter store selling everything that Peter Rabbit and Co. have even been emblazoned on. It was easy to imagine Beatrix coming up with Peter and Squirrel Nutkin and the rest of her classic characters in places like Burford. The whole land seemed lost in time – a fairytale fantasy of cosy countryside and heath-wooded homes. In my mind’s eye I could picture young Beatrix waddling the streets with Gemina Puddleduck. Gorgeous.

Despite four out of five petrol stations enroute into Cheltenham not selling four-star petrol (the old leaded type), we managed to make it, and found Cheltenham to be a large undistinguished town that probably provided little inspiration to Beatrix Potter.

The campus building containing Sam’s room was ugly, grey and shitty, and filled with loud, dirty students and the stale smell of mull. I loved it. I had always regretted not living “on campus” – even though I probably never could have had the great American “frat house” experience, I still think I sorta missed the absolute and debaucherous freedom that comes with living away from your parents with other teenagers. ‘Cest La Vie.

Sam’s messy room was filled with videos, movie posters, condoms, and his sweet, beautiful young Irish lass of a girlfriend, Caroline.

Sam and Caroline escorted us to a huge Witherspoon’s pub, where we encountered Monday Night Student Culture in Cheltenham. It turned out that Monday nights were one of the biggest clubbing-bar nights of the week in town. Go figure. The big room was packed with hundreds of teenage students, the guys using their rolling eyes to scan the room, the girls using their rolling bodies to patrol the room. AJ’s mouth hung open, and mine wasn’t far behind. Dozens of stunning babes proliferated, barely wearing the latest Britney-like fashions. All out to flaunt it. The girls’ bodies were going to be gratified by sex that night, or their egos were going to be gratified by a lot of begging for it. It was coming-of-age ritual all around the world I guess, with its basics unchanged everywhere. Kids properly off the leash for the first time. It reminded me of Friday’s in the late 80’s, the QUT crowd, drunken kids staggering around, building or destroying self-images, unleashing libidos, bumping egos and uglies. Having fun.

A lot – most I hope! – people my age would say good riddance to all that, but I kind of missed it. I got nostalgic about it even, than Monday night in Cheltenham. But I certainly wasn’t ever going back…

That night I let AJ doing most of the leering – and drinking. I told him I’d drive the four hours back to London and stuck to Coca-Cola. He eagerly scoffed four beers and two shots of sambuca. As we headed back to Sam’s, things took a nasty turn.

As I mentioned in Part 1 of the 2002 Dave Report, AJ loves his alcohol. And usually he is a good-natured drunk – just himself really, but more outrageous, more crazy, more funny, more AJ. But sometimes – rarely – the good-natured drunk takes a holiday. And Mr Hyde rises to the surface.

On one of these occasions, early in 2002, AJ had drunk all morning (on an empty stomach) at his job at Chelsea Football Club. Drunk out of his gourd, he’d phoned me at work, as he always did when he was drunk. Initially he started in good-humour, trying to impress and amuse me with the quantity and quality of booze he’d consumed, and the way he’d hoodwinked his boss into getting away with it. Then, inexplicably, he turned hasty, horrible, and started saying cruel, vicious things – that the trip was off, that he never wanted to see me again, and just “Fuck off Dave, fuck off”, over and over again. I told him I had to work, and ended the call, but he kept calling, over and over, until I just had to let all my phone calls got through to message bank. It was bizarre, upsetting, hurtful behaviour from my best friend. The next time he was sober – and conscious - I tried to speak to him about it, and he was incredibly embarrassed, and tried to pretend it hadn’t happened. He apologised, but didn’t want to really deal with it, think about it, confront it, so he brushed it away. I let him.

AJ knew I thought he drank too much. He knew I worried about him. But…he was (reputedly) an adult. He had to do his own thing.

But that evening in Cheltenham, after AJ had drunk six drinks in two hours, I started to get a very uncomfortable feeling again. Relaxed, happy-go-lucky drunk AJ was disappearing. To be replaced by psycho-aggressive-threatening drunk AJ.

AJ’s mood turned even before we dropped Sam and Caroline off – he was incredibly disappointed that he would not have another chance to drive them around in Shirley and show off his expertise. His excitement level and adrenaline at seeing his great friends was peaking, but his merriment turned into intensity. He insisted repeatedly that he was fine to drive – and maybe he was. He’d only had six drinks after all – which is a mere aperitif for AJ. There was even a strong chance that AJ – in his half-tanked state that night – would have driven better than myself – I was struggling to find gears and miscalculating Shirley’s width and bouncing of kerbsides.

But whether or not AJ could drive Shirley was hardly the point. The point was he was well over the legal blood alcohol limit. If anything had happened on the road home – our fault or not – AJ would have been breath tested, lost his licence in a heartbeat, negated our insurance, and completely ruined our five-month travel plan.

So I calmly discouraged his insistent demands to drive. As we dropped Sam and Caroline off back as their campus dorms, Sam made me promise him I would not give in and let AJ drive. I kept that promise, but it wasn’t easy.

Actually it was easy to keep the promise – because there was no way I would have handed the keys over to AJ, or stayed in the car if he had taken the wheel. Call me a nerd, call me a spoilsport, but…experience, I guess.

Quick story from my past:

(~Begin flashback~)

This one is funny. I am…maybe 20 years old… Living in Brisbane. Driving home alone in the Bambino from Fridays Bar after a mild night out with my friends. It’s late, maybe 1.30am. I have had maybe ten drinks the entire night. Not enough to make me drunk at all. Just a little relaxed, just a little happy. And just stupid enough to be convinced I won’t encounter a RBT (that means a Random Breath Test Police Unit). You see – logically I know I must be close to or over the legal blood alcohol level after ten drinks in several hours. But – ironically, perversely, infuriatingly - because I have had those drinks, I’m not too stressed about it.

Anyway…I’m puttering along Bowen Bridge Road in my little white Bambino. I pass the Royal Brisbane Hospital on my left…then, just beyond it, a 24-hour BP Service Station. There are three lanes on my side of the road. I am in the lane closest to the middle, the furtherest from the kerb. Life in the fast lane. There is a fair bit of traffic ahead, blocking my immediate view up the road. Straight ahead, a large semi-trailer moves forward…and it’s like pulling back a curtain on what is behind it…a police RBT. Sitting right in the middle of the road. Stopping random motorists and testing them.

SHIT!!!!

I panic, blindly. I turn the wheel of the Bambino in a sudden fit of insanity. I cross three lanes of traffic. Miraculously, no one is immediately behind or next to me, so there are no crashes. I screech to a stop alongside the kerb – actually it’s a bridge I have stopped on now. Then I jump out of my car, slam the door, and start sprinting back up the road, running away from the Police RBT…

What was I thinking???

Well, that’s just it, isn’t it?…I wasn’t thinking at all.

Of course, the cops – positioned just over the short bridge – could not fail to see my subtle little park-and-run manoeuvre. So they give chase…

Well, one of them does…he starts sprinting after me.

Now, he’s a young guy, not much older than me, but back then I was a lot fitter and lighter, and my legs were built for giraffe-like escape from the lions. He is running after me, shouting,

“HEY SIR!!! STOP!!! STOP THERE, OK!!!”

And part of my brain (probably the ten-drink part) is thinking…hmm…I can do this…I can outpace him…I can get away...

But – thank God – another part of brain clicks, and says…what are you DOING??? Running away from the cops??? Even if you miraculously manage to escape…well, you have left your car right in front of them. And obviously running away from an RBT is pretty solid proof that you think you are guilty…

So yeah…rational brain says that if I keep running I will be in a lot more trouble than I am probably already in…so I slow, and stop.

The puffing and panting cop soon catches up to me. He is shaking his head. He has obviously seen foolish moves like this before. (Although I suspect that most guilty people try to evade RBT in their cars, not on foot).

“Hi”, I say casually, as if wondering why this guy has disturbed my moonlight jog.

He’s not buying it unfortunately.

“What do you think you are doing, Sir?”

Now, there’s a loaded question if ever there was one. Because we both obviously knew what I was doing…I was running away from the RBT because I was scared of the big policeman and I didn’t want them to see me driving a car drunk and lose my licence. But do I say that? Of course not…

Because…well, I think I had this excuse ready and waiting from the second I saw the RBT and turned the steering wheel. Even though my panic had surged in that instant, in the darkest depths of my brain, in the drawer marked “The Dog Ate My Homework” – I had come up with a good reason to screech suddenly across three lanes of traffic, park on a bridge, and sprint back up the road.

So when the copper asked me, “What do you think you are doing, Sir?”, I was ready for him. No stalling, no pausing, just a little bit of out-of-breath huffing…

“Well I was just going back to the BP to buy a newspaper. I forgot to get it when I drove past.”

Hey? How’s that, ay? Not bad, right? OK, totally lame…I know that. And so did the copper. He shook his head in disbelief at my excuse. But…it could have been plausible. People are stupid (case in point). People do silly things like stopping suddenly on major road and running back the way they have come. It is not – in itself – illegal.

Mr Cop knew that. I knew that. So he didn’t chastise me for my park-and-run manoeuvre. After all, I hadn’t actually run away from him – not for more than a few strides anyway. He couldn’t prove I was resisting arrest. But he didn’t think he needed to. I didn’t think he needed to. Because we both were convinced that he had something pretty damning on me anyway. He wasn’t worried about the parking and the running away because he was sure that – once he breath-tested me – I would be surrendering my licence to him immediately. And I was pretty sure of that too.

“Blow here please. Till I tell you to stop.” He was pretty polite considering he thought I was a bloody idiot.

I blew hard, internally willing all my alcohol-infested C02 down to the bottom of my lungs, so that only the good stuff came out. I don’t think that works though. I don’t think it worked that night.

However…

After I finished blowing the first time into the breath-testing device, I stood there waiting…waiting for the cop to say, “Come with me please, Sir”.

But he didn’t.

He waited…and waited…and waited…all the time looking querulously at the breath-test machine. Eventually he shrugged and said,

“Can you blow for me again please, Sir.”

I did. And we went through the same long wait again. Then he asked me to blow again…and again.

I blew in that machine four times. I never actually saw what the readout said. And the cop never told me. But I guessed that my blood alcohol reading was so close to hitting the illegal limit (0.05) that the cop asked me to repeat my test as many times as possible in the hope that one time, it might just reach it. Maybe I was 0.04999 or something. Whatever it was, I was close. And the cop couldn’t seem to believe his misfortune.

But he let me go. After telling me I couldn’t leave my car parked on the bridge, he let me go. I went through the obvious charade of driving back to the BP to buy the newspaper, and then driving through the RBT Unit again – this time getting waved through by my friendly cop and his colleagues, all off them shaking their heads in disbelief at not only my stupidity…but my luck.

Luck.

That’s what it was. Dozens of my friends have driven drunk before. Only a few have been caught and lost their licences. Unlucky, yes. Stupid, certainly.

Here’s another funny drink-driving flashback. If any drink driving story could be called funny…

One early morning I left The Keg Restaurant and Bar, my place-of-work and my place-of-partying for many years. This time, I guess I was about 24. I was wasted. Too drunk to walk almost. But not…in my sloshed-into-stupidity state, too drunk to drive. It was maybe 4am. Hardly any traffic on the road. I knew the route home so well I was convinced there would be no cops between me and there. I knew the route so well I was convinced I could drive it blindfolded. As opposed to just blind. I probably would have driven better if I had been sober and blindfolded…

It was a foggy, misty night, and my Bambino’s demisting system was not particularly efficient. What I usually did when the front windscreen was misted over was drive with my head out the window for a few kilometres until it cleared. But on this particular morning, I was so plastered, that technique didn’t really occur to me. So I drove merrily out of the Keg carpark staring at a completely opaque windscreen. I can’t remember exactly why, but I guess I was so confident that I knew every turn and curve of the road, I didn’t really think I needed to see any of them.

Anyway…I was proved wrong before I even got on the main highway…

I drove out of the Keg carpark. Just when my booze-addled brain was thinking to itself that the turn from the carpark onto the side street must be coming up, and just when I was getting ready to turn…BANG!!!

Suddenly I am rocked around in my seat like a fishing boat in a cyclone. The Bambino hits something with great force, lurches up like a bucking bronco, kicks its heels a little, settles, and stalls.

My reaction time is understandably slow. Long after we have hit, I’m like…what the???…

I open the car door and gaze blankly around. My dim-watted brain registers what I have done…

I had driven out of the Keg carpark, and without realising it, driven straight across the street it leads onto. I had hit the gutter on the other side of the street dead-on, and somehow my tiny car has vaulted it and ended up sitting right in the middle of the pedestrian footpath.

Very smooth move.

So what do I do?

Do I suddenly realise…oh shit, I must be drunk…why am I trying to drive home?… I should call a cab!!!…do I realise that??

NOOO way. Drunk out of my gourd, I somehow don’t find anything unusual about finding myself crashed on a pedestrian footpath. I don’t consider how lucky I am already to have driven blindly across a street without a big accident. I don’t consider how much more likely it is that I will encounter traffic on the major highway home. I don’t consider the maybe-just-slight possibility that I am too drunk to drive. So, I just calmly start the Bambino up, drive her along the footpath to the nearest driveway, return to the street, and then…

I drive home…

Yep. Even after that, I drive home. Thankfully my footpath collision gives me the insight to drive with my head out the window so as to actually see where I am driving.

Somehow I make it home.

Blind luck.

I am very lucky that I don’t encounter the cops and lose my licence. But much more validly, I am extremely lucky that I don’t kill myself – or someone else.

I wake up ten hours later and recollect what I have done with horror. My spine tingles with shock, with relief, and with disgust at myself. I had driven over the limit before that night, but I had never driven “drunk”.

But that night – or more accurately – my reaction to it the morning after – was a wake-up call. I realised how stupid I was. I realised how lucky I was. I would never forgive myself if I harmed another person while driving drunk. Since that night, I have never even come close to the legal alcohol limit when driving. And I never will again.

It wasn’t just my experience that shook me though. And it certainly wasn’t all the scary television ads, government statistics, or police scare tactics that put me off. That stuff really didn’t connect with me back then. What did shake me, and put me off for life, was knowing people whose lives had been inutterably, irrecoverably changed forever by drink driving. Sometimes just acquaintances. Sometimes friends of friends. But once, a close friend. It’s very sad, and very, very real.

When I think back now to the dozen or so times I drove over the limit, I shudder. I feel sickened. Oh, I can tell funny stories about it now – because I was lucky. But what if I wasn’t so lucky? I shudder about that.

Which brings me (~end flashback~) back to AJ. And why I was so adamant he wouldn’t be taking the wheel that night in Cheltenham. Or at least adamant that I wouldn’t journey with him in he did.

That’s all I based it on. Past experiences. Past memories. So I couldn’t do it. I never wavered in my determination to not let AJ drive. What wasn’t easy was coping with the result of my obstinacy.

Because as determined as I was not to let AJ drive, AJ was at least as insistent on driving. I remained cool, calm, relatively placid (on the outside at least), telling AJ over and over again, “No mate, you are too drunk, you are over the limit.”

The louder AJ yelled, the softer I replied. I figured – from limited real-life experience (and from watching movies about the dark side of the force) – that responding to aggression with more aggression would not have been a good call. Unfortunately, this approach didn’t work, and my pacifist approach simply seemed to fire AJ up more and more.

We didn’t actually leave the car park of the University for half-an-hour.

AJ screamed abuse and profanities at me, insulting my driving skills, my judgement, my character. It was all very irrational, and all very scary.

As if driving Shirley wasn’t hard enough for me, trying to do so with a thirty-year old man screaming obscenities in my ear like a spoiled five-year old was impossible.

I kept pulling over and turning off the ignition and refusing to drive further until AJ chilled out a smidgen, a tactic which only enraged AJ more. When Frances phoned me on the mobile we’d borrowed to check on our progress, the insanity just escalated. She was shocked we weren’t already halfway home, and baffled at the background noise of AJ bawling out abuse at me (he didn’t stop even during the phone call).

I was stressed and distressed by this stage, and told Frances calmly and quietly what was going on, hoping she might have a suggestion for how to defuse AJ’s animosity, hoping she’d maybe stashed a stun gun in Shirley somewhere.

But as I explained my predicament to Frances on the phone, AJ took it personally. And then he got personal.

“Aw, you big cry-baby…running crying to your girlfriend…that’s right Dave, you always do this, you always make me look really bad to your friends, you always put me down in front of them to make yourself look better…”

I’ve removed the obscenities, but you get the drift.

I said a quick goodbye to Frances and hung up the phone – hoping that might calm him a bit – but he just ranted on, letting out all his frustrations, telling me exactly what was wrong with me (well, a bit of it).

“…and you can’t take criticism, you hate it whenever anyone disagrees with your opinion, you always have to be right, you think you are better than everyone else, you get grumpy the instant things don’t go your way. You blow things out of all proportion, you are overly melodramatic…”

And on, and on.

All valid points of course. All mostly true, I would happily concede. Yes I do suck, in so many ways. And yes, I do need to be reminded about those ways every so often, because one of my many failings is my ongoing insensitivity to how and why I suck. So I didn’t resent AJ’s criticism, if fact under other circumstances I would have appreciated his candour and willingness to open up.

And I was completely willing to have an extended debate with AJ, to try and work out exactly what about me pissed him off most, and what I could do to temper my behaviour and prevent his upsets. But I was not willing to debate and resolve his/our issues that night, with him drunk and agro and screaming, and me tired and stressed and worried. I kept asking him if we could please talk about it the next day, when we were both calm and rational and relaxed. I said I would discuss our issues with him anytime, but not as part of a screaming match.

The whole time he was screaming at me and I was speaking softly and dully back at him, my head was occupied by one thought only – anger and animosity between travel companions like this is supposed to happen at the end of the trip, not the beginning. I would not have been surprised at all if this volcano of aggression had erupted towards the end of our claustrophobic five-month journey – in fact I half expected it!!! But after two weeks??? Only TWO WEEKS!!! This was so disheartening. I was quite depressed as I considered it. If AJ was cracking up with latent hostility towards me after two weeks, our chances for sticking together for five months didn’t seem great.

I just sat there dumbly in staring into that dark Cheltenham uni car park, riding out the storms of profanity and insults. Eventually AJ exhausted himself and collapsed onto Shirley’s bed and rested his larynx and lungs. He sulked quietly for awhile but soon feel asleep.

I drove home.

Even without the prelude, it was not the most relaxed drive in history. Driving out of Cheltenham central without a navigator was fine, but I skipped gears and gutters like gangbusters. It had been raining heavily, and the highway between Cheltenham and Oxford was slippery and windy. My fingers got RSI cramps from working the wipers and the high beams in rapid revolutions. I had no conscious company and no radio, which I didn’t turn on for fear of waking AJ.

It was challenging and tough, but sorta fun in a way.

But I’d had kinda a funny feeling that something was up with Shirley – not the old kangaroo-hiccup-tripping condition, but she still felt like she’d been holding back. Then – about 100 miles into the drive, I got a sudden sinking feeling, and reached down next to Shirley driver’s seat. The handbrake was still on. I’d left the handbrake on. For 100 miles.

I released it immediately, praying there was no permanent damage. Obviously my incompetence (noted earlier by AJ), and my stress (caused earlier by AJ) had resulted in my neglect when I had driven off from Cheltenham an hour earlier.

I pulled over in a rest area to get the kinks outta my neck and to check Shirley over for any visible damage to her wheels, any smouldering of her brake pads. There was none. It was raining and miserable weather. AJ didn’t rouse from his slumber. My only company was a blind rat, who kept falling in and out of the rest area’s garbage bin. He was completely unthreatened by my torch, his nostrils quivering inquisitively at his unexpected visitor. After the night I’d had, a blind, wet rat seemed like the best friend I could ever hope for.

For the next couple of days, AJ was gruff and sullen. He agreed to help with any trip organising I did, but he was very sulky about it. He spent as much time away from Katie’s house as possible. He lightened up a little as we left London, and seemed almost himself when we reached the continent. Almost.

But after that night, I don’t think I saw AJ as the “himself” I thought I knew, ever again.


---------------


Bookmarked


Frances was – as usual – a godsend to me the week that AJ and I patched up Shirley and our vacillating hopes back in London.

She – and of course Katie - provided all manner of emotional, practical, residential, and (most definitely) gastronomic support.

The wonderful Farbridge sisters. They never ceased to amaze.

I guess the big tearful farewell scene I introduced this story with many pages ago seems a little redundant now. Frances and I had said goodbye for five months, only to see each other again after ten days. Life is not a Hollywood Romance.

I seriously considered not telling Frances we were coming back. I figured we could sort out Shirley and stay with other friends and be gone before she knew it. But she would have found out eventually, and never have forgiven me for not seeing her that week. So, before we returned, I called her from Zeebrugge to tell her we were coming back, and – just like old times – spent every spare non-Shirley minute with her that week.

But I was ambivalent about it. Frances had been through the distress of my initial departure – the build-up and the sad farewell hadn’t been easy on her. When I told her we were coming back after only ten days, she seemed more…well, not disappointed exactly, but rudely surprised. In a good way. Kind of.

The best way I can explain it is this. It felt like Frances had closed a book and put it aside when I had first left. A good book, a great book, maybe her favourite book even. But she had got to the end of a chapter, and been forced to put her bookmark in it, and put it aside. She had emotionally prepared herself, mentally psyched herself up, that she was not going to pick that book up again to see what happens for five more months. She’d come to terms with that, dealt with that, almost embraced it. So, expecting a break of five months from the book, suddenly, after ten days, she is forced to pick it up again and start reading.

That’s why I got the impression she felt a little inconvenienced, a little “what?…ohh, OK…” Not that she wasn’t as warm and loving and welcoming and hospitable and supportive as ever. But she just struggled a bit to pick that book back up.

It wasn’t really fair of me to ask her to do it. And I wonder to this day what might have happened if that book had lain untouched, as it was meant to, for five months.


---------------


Cupcake Kaffa


During our surprise week back though, it was almost like we’d never left. Frances spent every Shirley-free moment with me. She even volunteered to join us for several of Shirley’s long test drives. As usual, she offered an abundance of exotic meals and relaxing massages. As usual, her sister Katherine offered as abundance of unlimited hospitality and amusing entertainment.

Our first night back I met the Farbridge sisters as their trains arrived at Ealing train station. It was a Friday evening, so both girls were well-lubricated. Frances greeted me with a quick hug and a dash to the loo in the nearest pub. Her sister Katherine greeted me with a drunken embrace and a lot of nonsensical, alcohol exaggerated affection. Katherine – or Katie as a few family and honorary family members are fortunate enough to call her – is legendary when is comes to her alcohol consumption. More specifically, the (morning) after effects. Unlike Jerry Seinfeld, a man noted for the infrequency of his up-chucks, Katie has had many intimate, face-to-face associations with many toilet bowls.

That evening, after we arrived back, Frances as usual, wanted to take us all out to dinner, but we went the cheaper option and were soon all scoffing down a jumbo pack of “Perfect Fried Chicken” from a modestly named joint near Katie’s home that was obviously everything Colonel Sanders had aspired to.

Unfortunately, Katie’s booze-addled gastronomy found the chicken that evening slightly shy of perfection. Shortly thereafter, Katie was hurling that Perfect Fried Chicken right back up again. The next morning before work, Katie was chundering like a true champion. By 11am, Katie had returned home from work to drive the porcelain bus once again. You know, one little quirky idiosyncrasy I dig between Pommy and Aussie lingo differences is this: when feeling generally off-colour, Aussies will always say they are feeling “sick”. For general crapiness, Pommies prefer the term feeling “ill”, and usually use the word “sick” to specify vomit. But when I asked if Katie had came home “sick” from work that day, the term was never used more accurately. She really, literally, came home sick.

Katherine Farbridge was never, ever boring. I remember her chugging maple syrup straight from the bottle – it was one of her addictions. So was teasing the male species. I remember a T-Shirt she once bought, a T-Shirt which would be tight on most girls’…ahh…upper torso’s…but which on Katie was exceptionally snug. It was emblazed with the words, “It’s Rude to Stare”. Like we had a choice…

Katherine Farbridge was very proud of her job. Even after I had left my job at Orchestream, Katie would sneak up and delight in sharing high-level professional gossip with me. I soon lost count of the number of times she whispered to me, “Well, I really shouldn’t tell you this, because I’m in HR, but…”, or “Well, this is top-secret hush-hush, but I know cause I’m in HR…”, or sometimes – “Sorry Dave, I can’t say anything – I’m in HR, you know?” Oh yes, we knew all right. Katie reminded us so constantly of her professional position, she should have had “I’M IN HR!!!” emblazoned across that T-Shirt above “It’s Rude to Stare”. Which actually suggests a literal representation of Katie’s relationship with the world. Often when Katie got the attention she craved, she turned her back in indignation and confusion. On the one hand she was Britney Spears (Look at me!!! I’m incredibly sexy and gorgeous!!! AND, by the way, I’m in HR.). But on the other hand she was Naomi Wolf (Well, I NEVER!!! I can’t believe you’d suggest such a thing!!! How improper!!! I’m in HR you know!!!). HR stands for “Human Resources”. And what a wonderfully spectacular example of humanity’s resources Katherine Farbridge is. God bless, baby.

The week we boomeranged back into London from Europe, Frances and I shared Katie’s bed and Katie graciously crashed on a mattress on the floor. One evening, I woke up in the middle of the night to a rude shock – a silhouette of a girl taking her hair off in one swift move – effectively scalping herself. I was half asleep and half convinced I was dreaming some warped David Lynchian scenario. But it was just Katie – she’d been out on the town, as usual, and come home late, crept into the room, and started taking off the hair extensions she’d previously clipped onto her already rich mane. In the daylight, when I saw the hairclip extensions hung on the closet door handle like a dead rodent, it all made sense. But in the middle of the night, it gave me the willies.

We had many laughs that short week back in London. It was mid-May, and there had been a few glimmers of summer trying to break through the usual gloom. When this happens, every year, the English – so desperate for just a scent of warmer weather - completely freak out with hope and expectation. It’s almost like they are willing summer into existence by indulging in outdoor stuff long before it is comfortable. Katie and her flatmates were no exception – they organised a backyard barbeque one day when they saw the sun. Unfortunately by the time we started cooking, the sun had split behind the ubiquitous London grey skies. AJ and I shook our heads in wonder at our English friends’ bold determination to ride the inclement weather out. They were adamant summer had arrived, and were so desperate for an outdoor feast that not even the return of a cold snap could stop them. AJ and I stopped begging to eat inside only when it became no longer necessary. When it started raining, even the hardcore English relented and moved the food inside. They decided to give summer a chance another day.

Inside was generally much more fun anyway. In the lounge one night we presented a delighted Frances with the fruits of our drug-smuggling escapades: the final Bulldog Purple Sensimilla reefer. She was, in so many ways – totally chuffed. Her beatific smile and dreamy red-rimmed eyes made the risk of arrest oh-so worth it. We all curled up in front on the TV with dinner and the joint and watched Michael Parkinson do his usual solicitous backslap routines on a few guests, including the very funny Ben Elton. This was the first of many Ben Elton interviews I saw in England and Oz over the next few months, so the first time I heard his obviously pre-prepared patter about how every single member of Queen has written a number one song, “including the shy drummer”. Ben Elton had written a musical based on Queen’s music – which I was sure Mrs Meldreth would be bopping along to in the West End – being their number one fan.

As the number one fan of her daughters though, I made the most of my time with them that week. Even if the sleeping arrangements weren’t ideal, the slumber party vibe - with me and two Farbridge girls in the same room - was very jovial. Under the covers, an extremely playful and frisky Frances delighted in getting me excited to the point of (almost) no return, knowing that with Katie in the room, my excitement would soon turn to frustration. Katie didn’t help by fumbling a supposed-to-be surreptitious pass of a condom to me one night, completely busted by Frances.

One night in the kitchen, using silly voices, Frances and Katie started affectionately caricaturing each other, with Katie doing Frances as a pompous, pedantic, stress bucket (“oh, it’s all just too much!), and Frances doing Katie as a narcissistic, flirtatious attention craver (“look at me, it’s all me, me, me!!!”). Frances even drew some cheeky sketches of her sister. One of them showed Katherine (or “Kaffa” as Frances often called her) as a bootylicious-come-and-get-me-boys-man-eating-flirt. One of them represented Katherine as the long-suffering-post-alcohol-morning-after-hangover-victim. And one of them, which Frances labelled “Cupcake Kaffa”, showed Katherine as a sweet-butter-doesn’t-melt-in-my-mouth-little-girl. I liked “Cupcake Kaffa” the best. All three drawings were amazingly perceptive sides of Katherine’s personality - and I loved all three sides - but Cupcake Kaffa was a spot-on representation of the girl I had come to think of as my perfect little sister too. We stuck the sketches on the fridge next to the creative “dirty word” scenarios we had childishly concocted.

But not all of our fun was spent indoors. As well as the slightly pressure-filled test drives she joined me on, Frances and I enjoyed one perfect, relaxed, van-free day together. We spent the morning sunbaking and reading and snoozing in Katie’s gorgeous backyard. We spent the evening on the perfect date – dinner and a movie. Dinner at one of our favourite restaurants – spinach cannelloni and mushroom pasta at a trendy eat-cute pizza place in Shepard’s Bush. Then in the nearby multiplex we saw Star Wars, Episode 2: Attack of the Clones.

OK, so it was maybe more my idea of the perfect date than Frances’.


---------------


Attack of the Moans


What amused me most the evening we caught the new Star Wars flick was not Yoda’s lightsabre duel. What amused me most was when we lined up to enter the cinema with our tickets. In the queue in front of me were a couple about our ages. The guy was explaining to his girlfriend, “OK, so the movies that came out twenty years ago were episodes 4, 5 and 6, right, you got that? They were about Luke Skywalker and his evil Dad Darth Vader, remember? And the one that came out a couple of years ago was Episode 1. OK? That was about Darth Vader as a ten-year-old brat, right? – before he turned evil…so this one we are seeing tonight is about Darth Vader’s coming of age, and it takes place maybe ten years after what happened in the first one. Even though it’s only come out two years after that one. And even though the story now takes place twenty years before the movies that came out twenty years ago…you got all that?”

The girlfriend just looked at him blankly, making polite noises of vague interest.

I was chuckling to myself because it was almost an exact replay of a conversation I’d had minutes before with Frances at dinner, as I’d prepped her for the movie with a concise monologue.

I was chuckling because I was reflecting that it was a conversation that many excitable young (?) thirty-ish blokes were having with their geek-suffering girlfriends in cinemas all around the world that week.

I was chuckling after the movie to. I had, predictably, loved it, whereas Frances was distinctly non-impressed. She knew how important it was to me though, and was very tactful with her opinion. She described the movie in the same manner she would do for a best-friend’s new-born she found really ugly - by being honest, but tactfully trying to come up with something – anything - she liked about it. “Well, I really love his/its belly button/special effects”.

I tried to explain to Frances that she probably would have appreciated the movie more if she understood how the episode fitted into the whole epic saga, and how she would appreciate it better not as a single movie, but as a chapter in a series, if she ever watched them consecutively (yeah, right, that’s really gonna happen!) I did not explain to Frances that the actual reason she didn’t appreciate the movie was that she hadn’t been immersed in geek-culture-overload half her life like me and a million other fanboys.

As we walked out, I saw another young couple, with the guy defending Star Wars just the way I had just done:

“Yeah, baby, but if you saw it as part of the saga, within the whole context, then I think you’d love it…”

Give up mate. Give up me. Give up the millions of blokes around the world trying to justify Star Wars to their other halves.

It is just one of those boy things I guess.

But thank God for boy things.


---------------


Any conflict Frances and I had over movies was interesting, trivial and fun. But that week there arose some slightly deeper conflict over two things Frances was never that crazy about being reminded of: my trip, and the van.

Even before I saw Frances on our first day back, she was riled up and raring to rant about Shirley. After our epic limp across South East England into Wardo Autos, Julio (the original Julio, our friend, not Mr Julio, his mechanic dad) had taken AJ and I out to a greasy spoon café for lunch. I know Julio felt bad for everything we’d been through, and I know he felt helpless and embarrassed that his Dad (at that stage) was proving to be a dud. When Frances phoned me up that day, I took a break from slurping the spaghetti Julio had bought for me and tried to placate her.

“D, you are not taking the van back to Julio’s dad.”

“Ahh, actually babe, we dropped it off there a couple of hours ago.”

“What!!! Why!!! They are so bloody incompetent!!!”

“I know, I know babe. Yeah, I lost patience with them too, ages ago.”

“So what are you thinking??? Why are you taking it back there???”

“We don’t have much choice babe. We can’t really afford to take it anywhere else… And we’ve already paid for them to fix it, so they are obliged to only charge us for parts, hopefully. Plus I think they will look at the van sooner, because they know what hell we’ve been through…”

“I do not agree David. They haven’t seemed to care in the past…”

…And so on. You get the drift. As well as trying to placate Frances, I was also trying to keep my side of the conversation pretty non-specific, because I didn’t want Julio feeling more guilty and embarrassed than he already did. But of course he knew exactly what we were discussing, and squirmed uncomfortably. It was very awkward. Poor guy. He brokered the loan of a VW Polo from his dad’s workshop for the next two days – which we gratefully accepted. It was not only a pleasure to drive a car that worked, but also a weird feeling to be sitting so close to the road again – because Shirley’s seats started about four feet up in the air.

Frances anger and ambivalence about our trip came to a head several more times during that week.

One day there was a lot of stress because I needed to take Shirley on a long test drive. Frances wanted to spend the day with me. She didn’t want to spend the day in Shirley. Hence - conflict.

Another day Frances and Katie ganged up on me, joking about how when we had originally left two weeks before, many of their work colleagues had taken out bets on how far we’d get, most of them very discouraging predictions. Since our return, I had asked them not to tell too many of our friends that AJ and I were back so soon.

“Why, because your trip was a failure?”, Frances remarked with uncharacteristic bite.

Ouch.

I didn’t blame her. I didn’t blame anyone for their negativity. All our friends – especially our closest friends – were sick to death of hearing about Shirley’s problems, sick to death of helping us deal with them.

God knows, so were AJ and I.

Frances’, Katie’s and many other people’s attitudes to Shirley by this time were “just get rid of it”.

But it wasn’t quite that simple. Dumping Shirley at that stage would have been almost like dumping a long-term partner. Now I know that sounds way melodramatic, but just hang with me for a second guys, and see where I’m running with this…

(Just pretend I’m a glamorous lawyer in a David E. Kelley TV show who looks like he or she is spinning completely irrelevant crap and they have asked the judge for a little latitude with their line of questioning. And the judge (you) nods sternly, “I’ll allow it...but a very little latitude.”)

OK, with a long-term partner, you have built up a strong emotional connection. You have invested a huge amount of time, and a massive amount of yourself in that relationship. Even when or if you decide it’s got to end, decide it’s best for both to break up…even then, it’s hard to pull the pin and end it. And it should be hard. Because it’s such a huge part of you.

The situation with Shirley was similar. I’m not suggesting that I had a long-term physical relationship with the van – that would be pretty sick. And I didn’t have an overwhelming emotional connection to Shirley, I hadn’t invested a deep love into her. To be honest, if I’d had unlimited cash, I would have dumped Shirley for a 2001 Winnebago months before, without looking back. But I didn’t have the money. Because I had spent it all on Shirley.

And here’s my point. With a loving relationship, you invest time and love and emotion and yourself. With Shirley, we’d invested time and money and in a weird way also, a large part of ourselves.

And, like so many bad relationships, knowing you should end it was much easier than actually ending it yourself. It was going to be hard to break up with her, if it came to that. We had put so much into it, had so much riding on it, that ditching her would not be easy. Just like any long term relationship, even when you know your partner is bad for you, even when you know they are making you miserable and even when you know there is no bright future ahead, well…a lot of people still stick around. Blind hope is one reason. But another is that they aren’t prepared to accept that they have wasted so much time and so much of themselves.

I think we felt – or at least I felt – the same about Shirley. Maybe I shouldn’t have. Maybe I should have let go sooner. But after the time and effort we’d put in, after the searching and hunting and negotiating and fixing and cleaning and fixing and stocking and fixing and testing and fixing and blood, sweat and fixing we’d already put into Shirley…well, I could kind of work out why I couldn’t let go.

But that didn’t make me right. And it certainly didn’t defuse the Farbridge girls’ frustration with us.

As well as the laughs, the house was filled with stress that week.

One gorgeous weekend morning, the backyard was filled with the sort of glorious sunshine Katie and Co. had craved for the barbeque event. I snuck outta bed, and stretched out on the grass, chilling, just me and my movie magazine and my ultraviolet intake of Vitamin D. It was a Sunday, and it was a sun day. Perfect. Bliss.

½ hour later, Frances joined me.

A little later, AJ joined us.

A few minutes later, Katie joined us.

½ hour later, we were all yelling at each other.

Initially, inspired by the sunshine, a cuddly and affectionate Frances had suggested we forget Shirley for the day, and just relax. Sounded good.

Twenty minutes later, she was yelling at AJ and I, telling us we were hopeless for not being more proactive, not having a plan-of-attack, not doing anything productive, not making a decision. Sounded accurate, but it didn’t sound good.

Frances does not thrive on doubt or uncertainty. She likes to know. The questions that hung over Shirley and our trip were freaking her out.

Katie was teasing Frances for her anxiety. This did not reduce Frances’ anxiety.

As soon as AJ heard it might be a van-free day, he was on the phone making a date with one of his eastern-European harem.

I was sitting there with my movie magazine, trying to remain calm.

When Frances started talking about the “emotional turmoil” I was putting her through with the rollercoaster of ups and downs, goodbyes and hellos, departures and arrivals, plans and uncertainty…well, I started to feel pretty bad.

So when we finally did get Shirley’s issues sorted out, I was happy to put an end to her uncertainty. We left as soon as humanly and mechanically possible. After six days of rest and resuscitation in London, we hit the road again.

My farewell this time with Frances wasn’t as emotional as that of two weeks before. The first overwhelming outpouring had proved to be fairly redundant anyway, because I’d returned after so short of time. I think sweet Frances honestly thought we’d probably be limping back to her in another two weeks, so why put herself through that again? I think she was bracing herself for the rollercoaster again, for more “emotional turmoil”. She gave me a loving, affectionate, brief hug and kiss and disappeared around Katie’s street corner on her way to work.

I was pretty sure it would be longer than she thought before we’d meet again. I was a little less cynical than Frances about our chances.

Perhaps I was a little too idealistic. But I was certainly a lot less idealistic than I had been two weeks before. My hopes were as high as ever, but my expectations had slipped down a notch every time Shirley had met a mechanic in the last few weeks. And that’s a lot of notches. My hopes were as high as ever, but my expectations had taken a tumble the night AJ had turned from mild-mannered jokemeister into the incredible sulk.

When we had driven into London six days before, Shirley had been fragile, unsure, tentative.

When we left town that day, she was confident, powerful, positive.

But I had inherited a little of Shirley’s old neurosis. This time I was the wary one.


---------------


Take Two


Our drive on the M20 motorway back to Dover took a fraction of the time the reverse route had taken a week before. The only problem we noticed with Shirley this time was not mechanical, it was structural. Shirley was just way too tall. I could relate a little to her clumsiness.

On the fast flowing freeway drive, AJ, Shirley and I and experienced some fairly strong wing gusts blowing across the flat fields of Kent. We had noticed the phenomenon before, when driving through the Netherlands and Belgium and when the wind had picked up. But we had never driven at such high speed before in such wind. And it was affecting us - specifically Shirley - really badly. The wind was threatening to topple us over. Often a fierce wind gust would shunt Shirley from one side of her lane to another, and AJ would struggle to keep her going in one direction. Whenever a big-rig zoomed past (as they did every few seconds), the buffeting slipstream knocked Shirley all over the road. AJ became a master at controlling her involuntary lurches towards the precipice of the highway ditch. But it wasn’t easy.

We couldn’t work out why it was affecting Shirley so badly. Sure the wind was strong, yeah – but it wasn’t gale force. It wasn’t like a scene from Twister. Every other vehicle was zooming quite happily along the road, no swerving or wobbling from them. But then I worked it out. Shirley was just too tall.

There were two reasons for this. Her fibreglass hat was an extension that her original designers had never intended. It gave extra and welcome room inside, but structurally it gave an extra few feet of elevation to a body and a wheelbase that wasn’t designed to handle it.

Add to this the fact that when Mr. Julio had “repaired” the rear suspension, he had raised up the rear of the van at least two feet more than looked “normal”. Shirley was now wobbling down the road like a lanky Indian cyclist with her arse in the air and a pile of produce balanced precariously on her head.

But, like that cyclist – precarious or not – we were determined to get there. AJ struggled valiantly and kept our girl from flipping over or skidding into the ditch. No wild weather or vehicular aberrations could stop us.

We were leaving the country that day.

Again.


---------------


Channelling


Our experience at customs in Dover was similar to that of the first time we’d left England – there was more interest in Shirley’s ceiling-astrology-mural and creature comforts than anything dodgy we might be carrying. We supposed that so many more persons and contraband were trying to find their way in to the UK illegally, instead of out, that the customs dudes didn’t really care too much about departees.

The ferry upon which we returned to continental Europe was vastly different from the huge freightliner we had shipped in on with the Buttcrack Brigade a week before. This ship was comparably tiny – a cute little hovercraft, with no room for big rigs, designed just for several dozen types of touristic traffic.

Before leaving London, Frances had researched for us the best ferry times, costs, and routes to the continent, and we settled on the 16.00 SeaCat to Calais. As we shipped out of Dover for 169 pounds between us that afternoon, I stood up on deck and watched the dozens of ferries buzzing constantly around the docks. Ours – called the “SeaCat” - was the smallest, swiftest looking boat of them all. And she was fast. The whole trip was only forty minutes – slightly shorter than the days when the Duke of Buckingham sailed across the Channel to thwart the Three Musketeers.

At 21st century speed, I watched the white cliffs of Dover recede slowly into the distance, her drab port and unremarkable hotels redeemed somewhat by a totally cool ole’ English castle resting on top of the chalky cliffs. I wondered when we would see those cliffs again. Too soon? Too late? It actually turned out to be never.

After twenty minutes, about halfway across the English Channel, I realised a remarkable thing. Looking astern, I could see the white cliffs of Dover. Yet if I swivelled on my feet, I could look forward past the bow and see Calais – France. England and France, just by turning on my feet. The views were surprisingly similar – Calais had low, chalky, white cliffs too.

I reflected about the millions of others throughout history who had also experienced this view, and the fact that so many that had seen it had been going to fight – and die – in the land of their countries closest enemy. From where I stood, it seemed crazy that so much blood could have been spilled over any differences, because from where I stood, looking from one coast to the other, I could have been looking at a reflection. They seemed so similar.

But that short channel could have almost been as wide as the Pacific Ocean when it came to cultural diversity.

Because almost from the moment we docked, we discovered that the view from the Channel was were the similarities ended. Or as the Frenchies say: “Viva La Difference!!!”

But we had to survive the boat ride first. As I mentioned, it only took 40 minutes. But the last fifteen seemed to go on forever. This was because I went to the loo. The ladies loo.


---------------


Conflict on the High Seas


Now honestly, I am not a degenerate, I am not a pervert. No more than the next bloke anyway.

I needed to use the loo. I didn’t know the boat, I thought I’d seen another guy go in through the toilet door, I entered without looking too closely. Once in - an on – though, I began to have my suspicions. No urinal. In my cubicle, next to my porcelain throne was one of those mysterious tampon bins I’d heard whispered stories about. That pretty much sealed it for me. I was in the ladies loo.

No problem. After the initial surge of guilt/fear, I took a moment to appreciate the differences in there. Much cleaner. Smelled much nicer. Made sense really -pretty much the same primary differences as between men and women. After finishing my business, I lay low until I could hear no more sounds of high-heels or flushing or polite lady farts or mace-sprays being pulled out of hand bags. I sprinted for the exit and casually strolled out.

I returned to my seat, breathed a sigh of relief. No impending arrest for indecent infiltration into the opposite sex’s private regions. Ahh…

Then…

I noticed a woman. A very ugly woman. She was about my age I think, but she looked much older. She had pockmarked skin, straggly unwashed hair, dirty clothes and dirtier teeth. She had an evil death stare and a crooked witch-like pointing finger. Both were focused unrelenting on me.

She was talking to her husband/partner/first cousin/all-of-the-above, who was also a disreputable looking chap with crossed eyes and widely spaced gaps between his teeth. The couple had paused from their beer chugging to glare at me.

I couldn’t hear what was said, they were, mercifully, thirty feet away. But it was easy to determine. Hag woman had seen me enter and/or exit the ladies loo, and had taken it upon herself to make an issue out of it. She really worked herself into a frenzy, yelling and gesticulating in my direction, never letting her death stare rest. At about the same time her loutish retard of a partner decided I was too big to confront and turned back to his beer, hag-woman bailed up a couple of ferry staff, and transferred her indignation about me onto them, ranting and raving like she was crusading against a child-molester.

Any doubt that she was taking about me vanished when the ship’s officer followed her witch-finger and looked straight at me. By this stage, my face was still expressionless, yet I was pushing myself firmly back into my chair as if I might actual filter through it and disappear forever from this controversy.

Talk about your conflict on the high seas. Forget your Pirates of the Caribbean. Forget your Master and Commander stuff. This was turning into open warfare.

Hagwoman had now raised her voice so loud that many passengers, including myself, could hear exactly what she was saying. She spoke in a thick cockney, souff-London accent, and what she said was, fortuitously, “just another reminder” of the genre of person we were escaping from.

“He was in ‘dere alrigh’!!! Sick bloke. What da ‘ell waf he doin’ is ‘dere!!! Diffgusting!! Look at ‘im, sittin’ ‘dere all cool. Are ya gonna let ‘im git way wi’ ‘dis??”

I thought for a second she was gonna get creative and suggest that they make me walk the plank.

Thankfully, the ferry dudes had not only the uniform of the Love Boat’s Gopher, they also had his tact and reason.

“Well, Miss, maybe it was an honest mistake…”, one ventured helpfully.

“It wa’nit a honest, miftake!!! ‘E know what ‘e wa’ doin’. Diffgusting!!!”

“Well, maybe he’s a foreigner”, the second ship dude offered, “maybe he just doesn’t understand our signs…”

The first officer had glanced over at me during this comment, and then pipped in,

“Oh, he understands all right, he knows what we are talking about.”

“Yeah!!!”, shrieked Hagwoman, “The dirty fucker is SMILIN!!!”.

Oh shit, I realised, I was too!!! That wasn’t gonna help. I realised with a start that I’d been unintentionally smirking about the surrealism and the inanity, the bizarreness and the insanity of the situation. But when the ship’s crew stared staring at me with suspicion, I realised I’d be better served by a look of complete, innocent, nonchalance, so I returned to perusing my magazine and sneaking glances at the unfortunate quartet through my sunglasses.

Eventually the two hapless crewmen realised that whether I was guilty of cross-gender toilet visiting or not was irrelevant, and what was relevant was that they had been cornered by a rapid retard.

They managed to extricate themselves graciously and departed, and my smirk was free to return. But not too blatantly. That woman, really, really scared me. More that The Blair Witch Project even. Maybe she was the Blair Witch.

I tried to stay cool till we docked in Calais, tried not to aggravate the situation any further by even walking past the ladies loos. She continued to glare at me, continued to rant at her long-suffering partner. She even circled me a few times, for no apparent reason other that to make me squirm. It felt like Dracula sizing up his prey. I started to worry that this woman would not give up after we disembarked in France. I had visions of her and her Deliverance-like compadre shadowing us all across Europe, ensuring that I never, ever used the ladies toilets again.

I would not have put it past her.

I spent my first twenty minutes on French soil with my eyes glued to Shirley’s rear view mirror.

We never saw her again. But be careful fellas. She is out they somewhere. And she might have staked out a loo near you…

Be afraid.


---------------


Coasting


Calais seemed a larger, more provincial, less industrial port-town than Dover, but it wasn’t that exciting, so we skirted it and headed south.

The coast road crooked past a turnoff to a lookout called Cap Gris Nez, which we couldn’t resist visiting after AJ pointed out the similarity between its name and the nickname he’d once bestowed on me when he was in a good mood. And strangely, his mood was improving – within minutes of arrival on French soil, the inner turmoil and angst he’d been struggling with seemed to lift a little. He apologised for his outburst in Cheltenham a few days before. He said he had no idea what was wrong with him. He said he didn’t want to discuss his moods or his problems any further, and he denied that any problems he had were related to me. The classic – “it’s not you, it’s me” - line. But he seemed to accept my offer that I was always there if he wanted or needed to talk – as long as talk –and not SCREAM – was what we did.

We both wanted to move on, I think. And we both wanted to move.

So move through France we did.

Cap Gris Nez was an unremarkable but cute little coastal point, featuring a lighthouse in the middle of a sheep paddock, views up and down the low white cliffs of the channel, and old World War Two bunker fortifications in the best spots.

We noticed more of these military shelters as we headed further down the coast – sometimes at completely random moments – like in a seaside kids playground, or on the side of an old road. Concrete bunkers would often be dug into the side of a grassy hillock like hobbit holes. Campsites abounded on either side of the winding road – often in a farmer’s field. But we did not stop. We wanted to move as far as daylight and Shirley would take us.

One odd thing we needed to adjust to were the street signs in France – or at least in this northwest corner of it. In England or elsewhere, street signs always seemed to face oncoming traffic dead on, with arrows pointing off in the appropriate directions. In France however, on the smaller highways and country roads, the signs you looked at to confirm your route actually just faced the direction you were going. Thus the signs were half titled towards the driver, and half tilted down the road. This meant you didn’t actually see the wording on the sign until you were almost on top of it, which was not only inconvenient, it was also often deceptive. This system was obviously derived from the times of horse and carriage, donkey and cart, and heel and toe travel, where speed was not an issue. It was impractical in the 21st Century, yes, and took some getting used to, but it was a whimsical reminder of those olden days of yore.

Deciphering signs and directions on our way south that afternoon, we managed to skirt via its esplanade the town of Boulogue-sur-Mer– a coastal port topped by an impressive walled city fortress.

The smaller towns in the countryside were cute little villages of crumbly brickwork and loose roof tiles. We noticed an oddity present in many farmer’s fields – large whitewashed crosses depicting Christ’s crucifixion – full sized representations that – while beautiful against the flowing green grasses – were also just about the most scary-assed scarecrows I’ve every laid eyes on. The lush green countryside was in constant motion: the tall verdant grasses blowing like a choppy seascape in the strong westerly winds. The weather was highly strange – no rain yet, but just an all-encompassing mass of incredibly dark and threatening storm clouds that filled the sky and hung over everything – except for the thin strip of clear brightness on the distant eastern horizon. We felt like Bill Paxton and Helen Hunt in Twister (I was Bill).

After journeying for almost an hour on a smaller, slower highway, we realised that the map I had borrowed from Frances’ helpful dad was hopelessly out of date, and that there actually was a faster, smoother motorway running almost parallel to us.

Not long after entering the almost deserted motorway, we found a quiet, plush rest area, decked out with clean toilets, running water, a sunset view and French telephone booths. I used the latter to phone Frances and send her into a panic by telling her Shirley was in cardiac arrest again and we were getting the next ferry back to Dover. I didn’t let her believe this “joke” for too long when I realised there were no wooden surfaces in the phone booth to touch superstitiously.

I realised that I shouldn’t push my luck by joking about Shirley’s stable mood too soon – because this was only the first day of our trip that she had actually driven in a linear direction without a hiccup. In the words of Han Solo, “don’t get cocky”.

But that evening was a perfect one to be grateful for the progress and decisions we had made. The foreboding storm clouds had lifted to reveal a spectacular double rainbow, with a smug Shirley sitting right across its diameter. She seemed more like a pot of gold that evening than ever before, but…time would tell.

The next morning, Day 17 of our trip, we passed from the Nord Pas-De-Calais province into Picardie, and the landscape remained largely flat, largely farms, and largely fields. Our ubiquitous black and white cows wandered alongside valleys of high green grass that were absolutely begging for some alien crop-circle action.

We crossed the Somme at Abbeville.

Shirley was copping a massive buffeting from the wind on the tunnel-carving on the motorway, so we left it and ducked back out to the slower, but more protected, and more scenic, coastal road. We passed through Le Treport and Dieppe, and dozens of other tiny villages filled will oodles of character but not enough characters to rate a mention on our map.

We re-entered the motorway at Totes, and left it at Fauville. It was here that we realised how naughty and dumb we had been the day before.


---------------


Taking its Toll


When we had first entered the motorway the previous evening, we had noticed that there were booths on the other side of the road, occupied by toll collectors. But they were only collecting toll fees for those drivers exiting the motorway. On our side of the juncture road, which entered the motorway, there were barrier gates where drivers were driving up and taking a ticket to allow the boom gate to rise. But there was one lane where the boom gate had been left permanently up. So – not understanding the system, and thinking we were somehow getting around it – I told AJ to sneak Shirley through that open lane and hightail it outta there. It was only later, as we tried to exit the motorway the next day, that I realised the consequences of this deviant behaviour.

You see, the system in France is thus: enter the motorway at various spots, and you take a ticket which shows where and when. Exit the motorway at various spots, and you pay according to how far (and maybe how long) you’ve travelled on it. The only trouble was – because we had sneaked onto the motorway without buying a ticket, when the time came to leave it…we were screwed. There was no gate-free lane to sneak through this time.

We idled up guiltily to the tollbooth. Because of the steering-wheel-wrong-side-of-car-wrong-side-of-road-conundrum, I was the one who had to deal with the cute and luckless French lass manning it.

“Bonjour, Madam”, I smiled in my most charming voice.

“Bonjour”, she smiled politely back, holding her hand out to me, reaching for the non-existent ticket.

“Excuse-em-moi?”, I looked blankly, dumbly back at her. It wasn’t a difficult expression for someone of my experience in life to muster.

“Ticket?”, she asked.

“Ticket?”, I replied.

This witty repartee continued in much the same fashion for ten minutes. I soon gave up on my two words of French, and shrugged hopelessly at her in English, explaining to her that we had entered the motorway up near Calais the day before, and not been supplied with a ticket. It wasn’t a lie. Not exactly.

The French Mademoiselle was incredibly patient, and very civil, and rarely in the conversation did we get the barest hint of what she must be thinking: these stupid bloody English!!! Well, hopefully she did think we were English and not Australians. After all, Australians are idolised worldwide. The English are already despised in France, so it’s not like we were denting their reputation any more than it already was.

After consulting in guttural French about our imbecility with her colleague, French-toll-booth-lady let us through, only charging us 9.20 euro. Maybe that was a fair fare, or maybe she’d charged us for the long route from Montpellier. Whenever we entered the motorway after that, we always made sure we had a ticket.

Back on the coast, we encountered a town called Etreat, a cute little coastal resort village which brought to mind those of Cornwall and Devon in England – narrow cobblestoned streets, souvenir stores and cafes and restaurants. The streets seemed full of cars, but gratifyingly empty of tourists. Well, not empty, there were dozens around – but I cringed at the thought of how overrun the streets and cafes - and especially the parking lots and roads - would be at the height of summer. We hoped to be in Italy by then, where the roads and parking and tourist tempo supposedly reached hysterical proportions along the coast, but…in lovely Etreat that morning, I appreciated the fact that we could find a car park within minutes, and walk the town without dodging around like it was Oxford Street in peak hour.

But we weren’t in Etreat for the shops, or even for the town really. I had read about the Falaise D’Aval – some cliff formation near the town which looked like an elephant. Loving both cliffs and elephants obsessively, I had to check them out. We were not disappointed.

The northern side of Etreat was shouldered by two steep headlands to terminate in a small pebble beach, about a half a kilometre long, and mostly empty. Seagulls shared space with sunbakers. Fisherman cast their lines off groins. Brightly painted rowboats parked up near the esplanade. Tourists gobbled ice cream and sunshine.

But that wasn’t the best part. The best part were the cliffs on either side, sheltering Etreat in style like some spectacularly decorated high-collars of a catwalk fashion outfit.

These chalky headlands, several hundred feet high, were eroded away beautifully into archways and formations which recalled Victoria’s Great Ocean Road, in a humbler, Frenchier version. The coolest cliff indeed brought to mind an elephant trunk, dipping down to drink from the calm azure sea.

It was a perfect day, and tourists like ourselves wandered the grassy cliff tops, enjoying the sun and the blissful scenery. On the eastern cliff top was a golf course – and I can’t think of a better setting to tee off from. On the western bluff rested a solitary, small, spired church, more impressive than many city cathedrals by virtue of it’s setting. Near the church was a massive sundial monument, the white shadow arm pointing up into a bluer than blue sky.

It was a good call to visit Etreat. If you are ever in northwest France, try to check it out.


---------------


Give Us This Day Our Daily…


West of beautiful, intimate Etreat was a town called Le Havre, one side of which was just an ugly, sprawling industrial port. The other side was a slightly less ugly, sprawling resort area – big apartment blocks and casinos fronting an average beach.

Looking for a popular tourist town called Honfleur, we found ourselves lost in a nearby untouristy town called Harfleur. Bloody French names. Harfleur was OK though – cute, cobblestoned, cathedraled - and we took the opportunity to grocery shop. There are no Coles or Woolworth’s in France though. On the highways of France we had passed several massive supermarkets intriguingly named “BUT”...but…the only option in Harfleur was a tiny convenience store. We bought a frozen pizza for 1.80 euro, some cheese for 1.20, but when we looked around the store for our basic dietary requirement – bread – in the form of bread rolls, bread loaves, bread sticks…we struggled. Not an ounce of baked flour to be seen. AJ ventured the question to the elderly French checkout chick:

“Bread?”

He got a blank look in response, so he tried again, louder, slower:

“BBBRRREEEAAADDD???”

Nothing, just a shrug and a grin. One last time:

“BBBBBBBRRRRREEEEEEEAAAAAADDDDD!!!!!!!”

No luck. As I mentioned Harfleur seemed unused to tourists, so English was probably seldom heard. I confidently, culturally, stepped in, brushing a frustrated AJ aside.

“I’ll handle this…”, I said pompously, and then to the shop lady, “…pan?”

And I got the same blank stare and shrug in return. Maybe I had got it wrong? Maybe “pan” was the Spanish word for bread (God knows Brit and I had ordered enough of it when we were last there), not the French translation.

“Pan?…”, I tried again, this time speaking louder, more clearly.

Nup. Same shrug and shake of the head.

I realise now that the store-granny wasn’t shaking her head because she didn’t understand us. She was shaking her head because the store just didn’t sell bread. How do I know this? Well…I just looked up the French translation for “Bread” on the internet. And “Pan” is correct.

Well, sort of…

Check out this list I found on the net when I typed “bread” and “France” into Google:

“Pain” (“Pan”): Bread, or loaf of Bread.

“Boule”: A round loaf sold in various sizes.

“Baguette”: Typical loaf of French bread, crusty stick or wand, offers maximum amount of crust to bread

“Ficelle”: A very thin version of the baguette. Ficelle means string in French.

“Fougasse”: A flat rectangular bread often filled with bacon, onion or herbs.

“Gros pain”: A large family sized version of a baguette. (I liked the name for this one – could really identify with it.)

“Pain de campagne”: This is usually a big rustic loaf (campagne means country) with a thick crust.

“Pain complet”: Loaf made from whole-wheat flour.

“Pain de mie”: Mie means the interior. Sliced, packaged white bread; this is a soft sweet loaf mainly used for sandwiches.

“Pain aux noix”: Bread filled with nuts.

“Pain aux raisins”: A light bread filled with raisins.

“Pain de siegle”: Loaf with two-thirds rye flour, one third wheat flour.

“Pain viennois”: A baguette shape but softer and sweeter.

“Pain d’epices”: Spiced or gingerbread.

“Pain grille”: Toasted bread

“Pain ordinaire”: Peasant bread

“Pain perdu”: French toast

“Pain petit”: Roll.

Whew!!!

Makes your head spin, doesn’t it? Those Frenchies sure do love their bread varieties.

It was probably a good thing we didn’t have the above list that day in the Harfleur market shop. Would have just gotten too confusing. If the checkout-granny wasn’t responding to “pan”, I doubt we would have had much luck with the others. All we wanted was a simple loaf of bread – a core staple of any diet. Was that too much to ask? Apparently, yes.

AJ and I were almost screaming when we left the market store.

Then, directly across the cobblestoned square, we spied a business with a couple of massive blue signs out the front, largely proclaiming “BRED”.

We had found bred.

We had to laugh though. “BRED” was a bank.


---------------


Somehow me managed to find a patisserie in the alleyways of Harfleur, and not believing our luck, we overdid it slightly and bought four baguettes, each a metre long. The menu in the bakery was even longer than the list I have reprinted above, but we just stuck with the basics. We knew how to say “baguette”. We knew how to order by pointing. We finally got bread.

In probably less time than it took us to find bread, we found our way eventually from Harfleur to Honfleur, via the Port de Normandie – which is just a fancy-pants name for a damn big bridge. The bridge forded an huge estuary which was the delta for the famous river Seine, and as Shirley struggled up that modern spired suspension bridge, I remembered the last time I had crossed the river Seine – about a year before, in Paris, with my arm around Frances, by moonlight. What a contrast.

Harfluer was a town Frances would have liked – very cute, very fashionable, full of beautiful people spending beautiful money in beautiful cafes and beautiful boutiques. I loved it too. The central square of town was not of stone, it was of water. The stores and hotels and restaurants looked out onto a lovely little boat harbour, called “The Basin”, filled with gorgeous sailing yachts. One boat was called “Clio”, and Clio had sailed all the way from Philadelphia. Another yacht had a tiny wooden dinghy attached behind it – both painted in the same pine and blue colour scheme - the two boats looked like a mother duck leading a baby duck. Honfleur and its exquisite harbour reminded me a little of Padstow, on the north Cornish coast of England. But this was maybe a little prettier.

Imagine a main square were instead of driving your Porsche, you could sail in your yacht. You could park it in the nearest berth, and admire it while you sipped a beer in a café only metres away. While you sat in the sun, your wife could wander happily through the boutiques and milliners and art galleries.

And Honfleur had lots of art galleries. It is famous for being the breeding ground of a French artist named Eugene Boudin, who kick-started Impressionism and gave Monet a leg-up into the painting gig. As it was easy to see why Boudin had made his home in Honfleur – the town seemed to inspire dozens of modern day artists. Their work – some pretentious, some beautiful, all expensive – hung in many art galleries. The painters’ studios were often obvious. One of two artists sat in the winding alleyways of Honfleur, but most clustered around the Basin itself, painting that perfect scene, I imagine, again and again. Would that become boring I wondered, to sit there day after day, gazing out at perfection, then using your talent to transfer it to canvas or paper? Maybe. But compared to most boring jobs…these artists had it made.

Pulling ourselves away from the Basin, we returned to the road where we had parked the van. Now, Shirley had been behaving herself for days now, and in a way she had lulled us into false sense of security. We never saw her next spac-attack coming...


---------------


French Pissing


Half an hour before we had arrived in Honfleur, we had filled Shirley’s tank with petrol. Then as we had left her to explore the town, we had noticed a tiny leakage from Shirley’s backside, down near the petrol intake. It was a fine spray then, and hadn’t troubled us much. But on returning to the van, we’d noticed that Shirley’s incontinence was more severe: a widening puddle in the gutter, a visible stream emanating from under her rear fender.

We decided driving up the road with petrol gushing out behind us was not a good idea. I’d seen enough Road Runner cartoons to know that if someone tossed a lit match on our trail it would have caught up with us in no time for a big Acme explosion.

So…it was time for Dr Holmes to go to work. I laid a rag and then myself on the road, and wormed up under Shirley’s backside. I felt around to try and localise the bleeding…sorry, I mean the leak. Not having the slightest idea of what I was doing, I wedged my fingers up into the rusty bodywork between the tank and the exterior, following the liquid stream, probing around until I felt a couple of pipes, a connection at their juncture, and a narrowing and pressure increase of the leak.

I could see nothing, and the narrowness of space my fingers flirted within meant I could feel little more. I tried to raise, or detract the connection, or find somewhere I could block the leak, but it was well nigh impossible.

It was frustrating work, and my impatience built. The more I moved the pipes, the worse the leak became, the more petrol gushed out. Suddenly, the entire rusty connection crumbled in my fingers…and all hell broke loose.

I lay there helplessly under the van, struggling to control the ruptured pipe as it spurted petrol all over my hand and straight up my left arm, completely drenching my shoulder, neck and T-Shirt in flammable fuel. I idly reflected on the odds of a careless motorist driving past and absentmindedly flicking an unextinguished cigarette butt out his car window onto the road...or onto me...

I held the pipe in futile fingers, trying to block it with my thumb, hold it above the gravity point…anything to stop the flow. For about five minutes, I lay there, turning into an extreme fire hazard, wondering what the hell I had done.

AJ took over and managed to help a little, stemming the flow by getting the pipe a little above gravity point. Meanwhile I dived inside Shirley and into her toolbox, hunting for reconnection tools, but having no luck. I returned to the operating table and tried to put a plastic clamp on the pipes, but the connection was utterly rusted away, and to even attempt the operation I needed to lower the outtake pipe and start Shirley’s high-volume pissing exploits all over again.

I gave up, returned to Shirley’s interior and retrieved her twenty-litre reserve water container, which I emptied into a drain and then propped up under Shirley’s rear to catch the remainder of her leak – which turned out to be around four litres.

I changed out of my sopping wet and highly flammable T-shirt, collected my Caravan Club breakdown contact numbers, and wandered back into town. Attempting to get some assistance proved to be even more frustrating and time consuming than working on the leak myself. You see, dealing with Shirley was dealing with a machine - a bitch of a machine, yes – but still just a machine. Dealing with the Caravan Club was dealing with people, but it was dealing with a bunch of retards.

The first woman I got on the line – Mary – a snooty, superior snob - was almost pleased to hear from me. As soon as I gave her my name, she knew who I was, and began her interrogation.

“Ahh, Mr Holmes, yes…the “aged” vehicle” from the Netherlands.”

“Ahh, yeah, that’s right”, I said. “We’re in France now, and…”

“So what was the problem in the Netherlands then? What exactly was wrong?”

The last thing I wanted to do was get into Shirley’s complicated breakdown history. I tried to explain to her that the problem had been electrical, spark related, hoping that this would fob Mary off from that line of questioning.

“So did they help you out then in the Netherlands. Mr Holmes”, Mary said, tapping away at some keyboard.

“Yes they did, they were fine”, I replied, in a dull monotone.

The last thing I wanted to do was start explaining the mechanical nightmare we’d had though Holland and Belgium that had caused us to return to England. I wasn’t even going to mention how hopeless the Caravan Club had previously been in every single factor of their promised service. All I cared about was now.

“Now you know Mr Holmes, that you had to pay for the service in the Netherlands and claim it back later, you know that is the policy there”, Mary continued sternly.

“Yes”, I said dully, even though I wanted to SCREAM, “YES!!! I know that now, but I never would have signed up with your stinking company if you’d told me that beforehand!!!” But I didn’t.

I listened to Mary dither and dather on about the policy of her evil business.

I stood there in the phone booth, my clothes and skin reeking of petrol, my brain aching from the stench, listening to Mary lecture me.

“Now you realise Mr Holmes that if you wish to claim any emergency service fees back such as those you paid in the Netherlands, you will have to provide a full service history of the vehicle from its time of manufacture for our underwriters?”

I was obviously at the very end of my tether.

“No I didn’t realise that Mary”, I replied numbly. She has almost reduced me to begging – or screaming! “We were never told that when I booked and paid for the cover.”

“Well, Mr Holmes, it’s your responsibility to check into that, not ours.”

Mary was the only person in years that had called me Mr Holmes. Whenever she said it – “Mr Holmes” – I looked around for my Dad. I was not, could not, be a “Mister”. Anyone else I would have told, “call me David please”. Not Mary though. She sounded so damn officious that I suspect if I had suggested to her she address a customer without a title, she would have said “that does not compute”, in a robot voice before her head exploded. Tempting thought though…

Mary dithered and dathered for ages. Five minutes after she had picked up the phone, I realised that we had not yet talked about Shirley’s current crisis.

Eventually, she asked,

“So Mr Holmes, what can we do for you today”.

I told her, and she wasted another minute sneering at and correcting my Aussie –accented pronunciation of “Le Havre”, and “Honfleur”

“Oh, you mean “On-flu-wer” Mr Holmes”, she said snootily. “Of course we have several garages in the area. Please hold”. Mary then kept me holding – and eavesdropping - while she conference-call-conversed in fluent flowery French with what I assumed to be a couple of local French mechanics.

She finished the call, and switched from French to English, from mechanic to sucker.

“Mr Holmes?…Yes, he says his father has gone to Paris for the day…he might be able to help…He is going to call his father and find out what to do…call me back in ten minutes…”

I wanted to scream. What kind of third-rate outfit was I dealing with? A mechanic that had to check with his Dad first before helping us?

I was tired. I was hungry. I stank of petrol. I didn’t scream. I sighed. And I went and sat by the Basin, watching the artists and the yachts and the dog-walkers, clearing my mind and my temper of all interference.

Ten minutes later I phoned the Caravan Club again, to be told Mary wasn’t available, and to call back. Ten minutes after that, I got the answering machine. An emergency breakdown service where you got the answering machine. This was what our 300 pounds was paying for?

My next call, ten minutes later still, revealed that Mary had gone home. Can’t say I was sorry, but fearing another third degree phone session, I pleaded with the guy who answered. He was heaps more laid back and helpful than Mary, and disclosed that a service mechanic had been despatched to Shirley, so I had better skedaddle back there pronto.

There was no mention whether the breakdown coverage would be paid for by us or by the Caravan Club. By then, I didn’t care.

By the time I returned to the van, AJ was beside himself.

“Griz!!! Were have you been??? I’ve been worried. You’ve been gone an hour.”

I shook my head, and said two words that I knew would explain it all: “Caravan Club”. AJ understood immediately. If Shirley didn’t beat us on this trip, that organisation would.

AJ revealed then that two breakdown mechanics had been and gone. They had looked briefly at Shirley’s fuel haemorrhaging issue and dashed away. AJ wasn’t sure whether they were coming back or not, because they spoke not a word of English. He also revealed that the two “mechanics” were incredibly young – the oldest he’d guessed about eighteen years old, the youngest around ten!!!

This bore out a connection to the blokes Mary had consulted with over the phone, who had told her they would need permission from their dad first before helping out.

This was nuts…


---------------


The Breakdown Boys


The young mechanics did come back. They were young yes, although AJ had exaggerated – but only by a few years each. The older guy was maybe 21, the younger around 15. They were friendly enough to us in a way that suggested they would not bother with a hint of communication, but they quite obviously didn’t have the slightest idea what they were doing.

The first hint of this was apparent when they arrived back with a tow truck that looked a hell of a lot lighter and flimsier than Shirley herself.

Putting aside the fact that Shirley’s damage just required a new linkage, and did not require towing to a workshop, the tow truck they were intending to use was vastly unsuitable. It looked like it could barely tow a four-door-sedan, let alone a two and a half tonne van. It had a tiny cab, a flat bed tray that looked fashioned from Coke-can aluminium, and an itsy-bitsy winch which the young French dudes hooked up to Shirley.

The winch protested from the get-go, and looked like it was about to rip from its moorings and crash straight through Shirley’s windscreen. It whined and winded, revolved and revolted, and somehow dragged Shirley up onto the lowered flatbed ramp.

Then came the hard part. The older kid – who I thought of by then as “21” - had to flick a lever which would bring the flatbed ramp from the angled position –where most of Shirley’s weight rested on the road – to a position horizontal with the tow truck’s wheelbase, were the entire weight was held by the truck itself.

This manoeuvre looked incredibly dangerous and stupid. Even the two French kids looked worried. With zero confidence, they ushered us away from the perimeter of the truck-van, as if suggesting it was more than likely the whole thing would collapse. We needed zero encouragement to move back out of range.

Cringing in fear about what damage he might be doing to his Dad’s truck, 21 manoeuvred himself for a quick getaway if necessary, and flicked the lever. The tow truck motor screamed in protest. The flatbed moved slowly, gradually, reluctantly from the angled to the horizontal position. The French kid stopped it every few seconds to make Shirley’s ride gentler. And, miraculously, she got there without toppling.

One she was flat on the tow truck’s back, all four of us stood back and stared in shock. Shirley was listing heavily to starboard, and causing the tow-truck to do the same. But she looked like she was gonna stay up there for the moment. We couldn’t really believe she had made it. But that was just the first stage of her journey. We now actually had to drive the poor wilted tow truck with Shirley’s oppressive, squishing weight on top.

Before all four of us bundled into the tiny cab, I stood back and looked up at Shirley piggybacking on the tray of that tiny tow-truck. Shirley tripled the height of the truck, and, with her butt hanging a metre or two off the back, added to her length too. It looked a ludicrous pairing. Imagine a whale hitching a ride on the back of a goldfish. Imagine a jumbo jet perched precariously on the wingspan of a prop-powered Cessna. Imagine a rhino beetle riding a stick insect. Imagine a Great Dane coupling canine style with a Chihuahua (ouch!).

That’s how crazy those two vehicles looked together. Definitely not a match made in heaven.

Shirley was tied down to that flatbed with every wire and strap known to man – but this didn’t reassure any of us. Especially the 21-year-old driver. As AJ squirmed uncomfortably on my knees in that tiny cab, I nervously watched the youngster take precise care in every turn, every gear change, every motion he made. He knew what we were attempting was ludicrous.

Things went fine – if very slowly – until we reached the cobblestoned road in front of The Basin. Here, our progress turned from barely plodding to barely perceptible. I’m sure by the end of this report you will realise how much I have always loved those medieval cobblestones in those old towns – I haven’t resisted mentioning them at every turn. But right then I hated them. We crept forward over those irregular bumps and dips at a speed with could have been outpaced by a geriatric tortoise. It took us minutes to cross a small section of road that normally would have taken seconds. The tow truck tyres would creep slowly up the side of one cobblestone and bumped infinitesimally down the other side. The driver was doing a smashing job. It felt like we were carrying a load of nitro-glycerine explosive with a motion-detecting detonator. We were all on a knife-edge.

Then AJ and I glanced across to the basin. Dozens of tourists had stopped in their dog-walking, cappuccino-slurping, or painting-perusing tracks to stare straight at us. Many gawked openly in slack-jawed wonder. I think one or two took a photograph. I certainly would have. I wanted to scream out at them in understanding -

“I KNOW!!! AREN’T WE NUTS?? WHAT THE HELL ARE WE DOING??? THIS IS CRAZY!!! How do we get ourselves into these situations!!!”

AJ and I glanced at each other and grinned in a kind of crazed, suicidal delirium. This was Clark Griswold territory all right. All character building. Just another reminder. And what a surreal, insane moment it was.

After every bump, I glanced through the rear windscreen of the cab, half expecting to find Shirley gone, disappeared, slipped off the back, sinking into the waters of the basin. But I knew if Shirley did decide to part company with the tow truck, it certainly wouldn’t happen so subtly that we could fail to notice. Because, realistically, if Shirley did decide to bail, it would be more than likely with a slow sideways dive, taking the two truck – and us – with her.

After dozens of heart-stopping bumps though, we finally crept off the cobblestones and weaved our way with aching slowness along normally paved streets towards an industrial area near the main port. Here, in the middle of a deserted road, with nothing but a few rundown warehouses and chain link fences in sight, the French teenybopper mechanics off-loaded Shirley carefully, left her sitting in the middle of the road, left AJ and I standing in the middle of the road, jumped back into their tow truck, and sped off.

AJ and I were, needless to say, rather perplexed.

The boys had not dropped us off at a mechanic’s garage. They had dropped us off in the middle of nowhere. In fact, on the slightly dingier side of nowhere. My Hollywood-refined sensibilities pushed a paranoid scenario to the forefront of my mind: the breakdown boys worked for the mob (or the French equivalent), and they collected poor stranded motorists only to drop them off in an out-of-the-way spot where the real gangsters would soon descend to mug, beat, steal, murder, cut ears off…etc…etc…etc.

OK, so I’ve been exposed to a few too many worrying worst-that-could-happen scenarios. Influenced a bit too much Scorsese and Tarantino and my Mum.

But…you gotta admit, this situation was weird.

Would we ever see our little Gallic guys again? Would we ever see the light of day again?

Thankfully, the answer was YES, to both questions.

As the boys returned, we realised immediately why they had departed. They had been too scared to drive Shirley any further on the back of the original flimsy flatbed. So they returned with another towing vehicle. However…

If there was any question about the breakdown boys’ sanity before, it evaporated now.

Sure, there was no chance of Shirley falling off the back of this new tow vehicle, because she wasn’t getting towed on top of it like before, she was getting towed behind it, with a tow cable. Safer sure, but…this vehicle was tiny!!!! A miniscule two-door Peugeot. It didn’t look like it could tow me, let only Shirley.

Reconfigure my earlier similes if you will. Imagine now a goldfish tugging along a whale through the ocean. A Cessna pulling a 747. A Chihuahua lugging a Great Dane. Maybe not as visually incongruous as before (or as painful to the Chihuahua), but any more practical?

Well, the Peugeot had a lot of grunt, I will grant it that. The little beast gamely – but very slowly - lugged Shirley down another couple of blocks and into a modern new mechanic’s garage, called curiously “Garage Terrier”.

Here, the bizarre behaviour of the breakdown boys continued. 21 ushered 15 off into a corner to occupy himself by playing with some Bob the Builder tools. Then 21 jumped into the larger, original, flatbed tow truck and zoomed off. Neither of them had looked at our van.

We shook our heads in defeat and retreated to the waiting room. It was now 8.00pm. We have no idea what was happening with Shirley. Would we have her back that night? Would we be forced to walk into town and find an expensive hotel? Would we be allowed to sleep in Shirley in the garage that night? Would we ever be able to reach any level of communication with the breakdown boys?

15 eventually reappeared from playing tool time to look blankly at our questions and offer us - using sign language - a coffee. Even though neither of us drinks coffee at all normally, we accepted, I think maybe just to see if we had actually understood him for once. That, plus coffee might be a good idea if we were to end up wandering the streets of Honfleur all night. As it was, 15 served us espressos so potent mine kept me up for half of the next three nights.

After not too long, 21 came back, with a smashed-in silver car on the tray of the tow truck. While he and his little bro gave Shirley a cursory examination, AJ and I poured over the language sections of the Lonely Planet and the Rough Guide, trying to work out the French words for:

“How much will it cost to fix?”

Or alternatively and even more appropriately, “How fucked are we?”

The answer to both those questions came in a mercifully short time, and was, even more mercifully, “Not much.”

After a few minutes work, 21 came into the office, and started drawing up what we feared was the beginning of a x-ray diagnosis of the start of Shirley’s problems, or perhaps a five page invoice. He then showed us what he had written: “45 euro”. Apart from the coffee offer earlier from his little brother, this was the only communication we had understood from the blokes all day. Ah, money…no other language is more international.

“45 euro?”, I read off the bill.

“Oui, Oui”, he nodded.

“You mean…you’ve finished???”

“Oui, Oui”.

You mean, it took six trips, two towing vehicles, three hours, and two juvenile mechanics to bring the van back here and plug the petrol pipes with a new connection in two minutes which you actually could have done in the same two minutes on the roadside?

I didn’t say that though. No point really.

We were so eager to get outta Honfleur we paid the bill and shook the breakdown boys’ hands without blinking. I tried to get our money’s worth outta the mechanics by using the washroom in the garage to wash the petrol smell off my hands and arms, but there was little soap left in there, and besides, the petrol stench had sunk well into my epidermis and wasn’t budging for anything less that a bath in turpentine.

I put the smell out of my mind as we drove westerly from Honfleur, around the coast, through Trouville (hotels, casino, upper-middle-class families), Deauville (same but on a smaller scale), and through quaint villages without the tacky commercial glitz of the larger towns. But even in the country, wealth was apparent. The coastal road wound past beautiful holiday chateaus on hillsides that rolled down to private beaches. We couldn’t really find a seaside car park, but from the road we watched another lovely sunset over the ocean – the sun was completely hidden from our viewpoint behind nearby clouds, but it reflected straight down onto the surface of the sea. It was literally brilliant. It was otherworldly, evocative, and bought to mind movies like Cocoon, The Big Blue, or Close Encounters. It was 10.30 before the last light from the sun was torn from the sky, but even then, a full moon took over to illuminate our boudoir for the evening.

We spent that night parked beside a farmer’s ploughed field. As rainsqualls came and when throughout the night, I lay there wishing I hadn’t drunk the garage’s espresso earlier that day, and reflected on our progress. When we had awoken that morning, I had hoped that the day was to be our first Shirley-tantrum-free day of European driving, but alas…

Before bed that night I had smeared my face with Oil of Ulan – part of my nightly beauty regime (ok, all of it). What was uncommon that night in my ritual was that the hand that smeared my face with moisturiser still absolutely reeked of petrol. No matter what I did, how much soap I used…that smell was gonna stick around till I shed that layer of skin.

At least the petrol rupture was a side issue, I could deal with that. That was a one-off, like a leg break or a gallstone. But when Shirely started getting up to her old tricks the next day, her old hiccup-engine-skip-trip-spasms…I just thought…this girl is terminal. There is just no hope. Of course, once again, that green little bitch of a behemoth surprised even me.


---------------


Sands of Sorrow


Day 18 took two men and a van to the Normandy D-Day beaches. First though we visited a large supermarket in Caborg to stock up on food – and especially water – because all our refillable bottles were empty, especially the large 20-litre emergency reserve container we had used to catch a petrol leak the day before.

We got hopelessly lost in the maze of roads around the Baie de la Seine, and – thinking we had found a ferry crossing towards our target, almost hopped on it, before realising the ferry wasn’t a about to cross a piddly little river, but was actually an international ferry heading to Portsmouth, back to England. We weren’t quite ready for that yet, so we wove out way through little villages and vineyards and farmyards of wet and miserable moocows, and eventually found our feet.

Almost fifty-eight years late, we made our own D-Day landing.

It is impossible for me to conceive the epic scope of this battle – this decisive attack which foreshadowed the end of Hitler’s dream of Nazi domination. But being there helped. A little…

On June 6, 1944, 150,000 Allied troops, a fleet of 5,000 ships and landing craft, and 11,000 planes crossed the English Channel, and made the single biggest offensive of any war, by landing on that 50 mile strip of coastal real estate and taking it back from the Germans. The action turned the tide and ultimately – almost a year later – led to an Allied Victory. But at an enormous cost. 4,900 men lost their lives on D-Day.

The Allies commanders of Operation Overlord worked long and hard to develop a plan to breach Rommel’s Atlantic Wall – which involved 2,400 miles of fortifications along the French coastline – bunkers, barbed wire, tanks, landmines, fixed gun emplacements, and beach and underwater obstacles. General Dwight D. Eisenhower and his Allied crew concocted a ruse which would lead the Germans to suspect that they planned to attack in a completely different area – around Pas de Calais – many miles north. The ruse worked and Hitler ordered the heaviest concentration of troops to this region, leaving Normandy less heavily defended. Less heavily defended. Right…

The defences along the five Normandy beaches chosen by the Allies to attack – codenamed from east to west as Sword, Juno, Gold, Omaha and Utah – were almost unbreachable. Tide after tide of human beings were thrown into the line of machine gun fire, struggling over the masses of casualties that had fallen before them. Until the emphasis in the phrase “almost unbreachable” turned from the latter word to the former. From “unbreachable”, to “almost”. How can one word - “almost” - lie between life and death for so many people?

Inconceivable...

Our visit to Normandy was much less terrifying and action-packed than it would have been for those poor, brave soldiers. Our visit was much more sombre, poignant and reverential. It was also a welcome change to visit somewhere in Europe so associated with 20th Century modern history, as opposed to all the ancient, medieval, gothic sites so prevalent elsewhere.

St Aubin-sur-Mer, a cute coastal resort, fronted a wide, sandy beach, once designated as “Sword”, which gave no clue of the slaughter that had taken place on it. Blood doesn’t stain sand for too long, I guess. On the esplanade, a memorial sat next to a concrete bunker, a bunch of flag poles flying Allied insignia, and the idiosyncratic view of a classic red English telephone booth. I wondered if the locals in this region were the exception to most French people, and I wondered if their memories and gratitude permitted them still to welcome British and American visitors with open arms.

A few kilometres further west, the bleak skies cleared, but Shirley’s mood clouded over, and she got down and dirty again. For the first time since we had left England on our second attempt, she seemed to be “doing it”. The engine-tripping thing. It was heartbreaking. While we waited for Shirley to cool it, we pulled over in Courseulles-sur-Mer, and explored the Juno beach memorial, where the invaders were primarily Canadian regiments. We hoped Shirley just had a case of overheating thirst, so we examined her radiator. Having not had the chance to refill any of our water bottles from the usual rest area taps, all we had was shop-bought mineral water. So…you guessed it…we filled Shirley’s radiator with French mineral water!!!!

Fussy girl.

But, she seemed to appreciate it, because she acted like an angel for the next few days. Maybe we should have poured Dom Perignon into her fuel tank as well…

The next D-Day beach we explored was Arromanches-les-Bains. Here, a lovely little town nestled into between two grassy headlands, with a wide expanse of sandy beach before it. The beach however held some fairly hefty reminders of war. Arromanches was the spot which – after their initial offensive - the Allies determined to turn into its principal port for landing troops, battlements and heavy weaponry, in their mission to take Europe back from the Nazis.

However, it was not a natural port, so a gargantuan pier of sorts had to be built out in the bay for the battleships to dock and unload on. The enormous scale of the war effort sunk in just a little bit more when AJ and I saw the remnants of this colossal pier – a huge semi-circular breakwater, built out from and connecting to the beach at Arromanches, 12 kilometres long – made from 115 humongous concrete blocks and 60 sunk ships of different tonnages. The most incredible thing wasn’t that this innovative construction had been completed, but that it had been finished within 12 days of landing. Maybe a quarter of the concrete blocks reminded out in the sea off Arromanches, a man-made bay, a constant reminder of what mankind is capable of when pushed to its limits. A few of the blocks had washed up onto the low-tide beach, and AJ and I were dwarfed by each of them. On the beach, touching these potent symbols of history with our bare hands, we marvelled at the buoyancy designs and the engineering and construction genius that had gone into the creation of this thing, and the bravery of the men would had put it together under such intense pressure.

More than that though, we marvelled at the bravery of the soldiers who had come before them, the men who had first stepped – and died – on the very spots we walked on the beach that day. It was hard to comprehend.

Within 50 square miles of where I stood, thousands of men had lost their lives in a single 14-hour period. More men have died in other modern wars, and even in other single battles. But not within such a short time frame, not in a single day.

This was were it started. Where the tide turned against the sweeping hatred of Nazism. Where the Yanks really stepped up properly into the fight. Where the largest mobilisation of men in modern war had happened, ever.

It was a history that seemed more real, more pertinent, and more relevant to myself than much of the more distant history of Europe. It was a history that had most likely impacted me personally. My uncle had died in World War II. My Dad and his generation had looked back at it sombrely. Too little of my generation look back at it at all.

But…it was very moving being there that day. Walking in the footsteps of those men, those kids who had died for my future. Just being there, on that sand, where they had run and dodged and shot and died…it made it so much more real to me than history books or museum galleries or war movies.

Who knows?…if not for those men, I might be writing this essay German today.

What I do know is that that single day changed the course of world history, and on a personal level, it changed the future and the hopes of many, many families around the world.

Many families from around the world obviously felt the same as I did that day – for there was lots of tourist traffic through those cute French coastal villages. Most of it – judging by accent and bank balance – seemed American. Lots of elderly tour groups from the USA poured through these historical sites. Lots of retired Yank couples in their rented, sparkling campervans. Some young American school groups, and some American GI’s in their pristine uniforms, proudly visiting the site of their fore bearers’ greatest honour.

For a country whose residents seemed strongly disinclined to look and travel outside their own borders, I was quite impressed with the large number of them visiting the D-Day beaches that day. But not withstanding the pilgrimage of respect they were showing to their deceased, heroic countrymen, I still got an uncomfortable feeling that these people would not be visiting this area if it had nothing to do with the good ole’ U.S. of A. They were probably the same people that visited Paris to go to Euro-Disney. Oh well. At least they weren’t in Florida for a change.

Our next stop, Omaha Beach, was filled to bursting with visiting Americans, much like that fateful day 56 years before. This time though, tears were spilled instead of blood. Omaha Beach is the place on which the fiercest D-Day fighting took place, the beach where the most soldiers lost their lives. It was the setting for the most powerful, most potent, most upsetting cinematic depiction of war I have ever seen, in the first twenty minutes of Spielberg’s Saving Private Ryan. It is a poignant, emotional, difficult place to visit. The beach itself is just a long, sandy, attractive beach, backed by grassy sand dunes and a gradual rise up onto the bluff headland. It is longer and a lot more exposed than I expected. I stood looking down onto Omaha Beach, trying to picture the way it would have looked on the morning of June 6, 1944. Old newsreels and photographs I’d seen helped. Spielberg’s movie helped. Being there helped…

Dozens of destroyers out in the bay, on the horizon. Hundreds of amphibious landing craft moving from the destroyers towards the beach. The ramps on these boats go down, and they disgorge thousands of uniformed men, most of them younger than 20 years old. The men jump, swim, crawl, run and dodge their way through the surf towards the beach. Each of them is carrying 80 pounds worth of equipment. Many are gunned down while still in the water. Some make it to the beach. The beach is 200 yards wide. There is no cover at all between the surf and the lowest dunes. The beach is full of landmines and obstacles. On the bluffs above – up to 170 feet above - are dozens of bunkers, containing hundreds of German soldiers, holding hundreds of machine guns. They start mowing the Allied boys down. After a while it becomes more difficult for the Germans to miss a shot than to hit one, if they so intended. The tides of Allies keep coming. Soon the beach is covered with boys in their teens and early twenties. Many are dead. Many are living. The living are still alive more through luck than design. Using corpses for protection, they slowly make their way up the beach, towards the bunkers, towards the Germans.

Towards the headland where I stood that day.

Trying to comprehend…

On this crest of that headland above Omaha Beach, is the US war cemetery, a vast, green, perfectly flat field filled with thousands of white crosses, as far as the eye can see.

The cemetery is situated on 172.5 acres of land given by the French to the Americans in perpetuity, and this patch of the USA in northwest France was very American. It reminded me in many ways of Arlington Cemetery in Washington D.C., where JFK is buried. The layout of the Omaha cemetery had none of the unplanned, piece-meal-style charm of its European counterparts. It was perfectly symmetrical. A few sombre sandstone memorials and altars were positioned on central axes of the park. A surrounding garden wall was engraved with the names and details of the 1557 US soldiers who gave their lives in the service of their country but whose remains have not been recovered or positively identified. Included there were twin brothers. Included were soldiers from 49 of the 50 States of the Union.

The graveyard area itself was done in Yank style - impressive, eye-catching, big-budget. The crosses were lined up perfectly, at least a hundred across, several hundred more deep. They contained the remains of 9,387 servicemen and women. They were – apart from the odd Jewish Star of David – exactly the same - a simple white Latin cross. It was very symmetrical, very aesthetic. It was – if a graveyard could be called this – beautiful.

The effect of white on green – of hundreds and hundreds of identical crosses against the same background, stretching almost to eternity…this really spoke volumes about the colossal loss of life in wartime, and about the truly impersonal nature of wartime death. From a certain angle, the shadows of the crosses on the grass almost looked like the shadows of soldiers on the parade ground, lined up in perfect precision.

The cemetery was a lot like war itself – look at it from a wide angle and all you see is faceless death, mass anonymous carnage. But if you get a little closer…each death had a face, each individual had a character, and each cross in that cemetery had a name. And a home.

“ARTHUR B. BUSCHLEN, SGT 16 INF 1 DIV, OHIO JUNE 6 1944”

“JOHN RADICS, PFC 22 INF 4 DIV, MICHIGAN JUNE 10 1944”


And so on. And on. And on.

Some of the graves, sadly, didn’t have names. These all simply read:

“HERE RESTS IN HONOURED GLORY
A COMRADE IN ARMS
KNOWN BUT TO GOD”

It was very gratifying to see that someone had left flowers at the foot of several of these anonymous crosses.

Those of you who have seen Saving Private Ryan might remember the modern-day prologue and epilogue for this movie, shot at the Omaha war cemetery. I had previously thought these sequences had unnecessarily sentimentalised an otherwise great and grim movie. But being there, walking around alongside other sombre visitors – perhaps war veterans and their grandkids also – I realised what Spielberg needed to say with those scenes. These men – and thousands of others in thousands of wars (or just personal battles) around the world – they died for us. Without them, there might not be an “us”. Their sacrifice directly impacted on our lives and our futures. We should never forget them. And, I figured, the best way to value their sacrifice and the honour of their lives was by living our lives to the fullest.

So, that’s just what I did.


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Cows & Discothèques


Not far from the Normandy beaches is a famous historical town called Bayeux. Its main claim to fame is a tapestry. As we navigated the country roads nearby, AJ and I decided to pass on Bayeux. I mean…it’s a tapestry!!! It could have been the coolest, prettiest, largest, ugliest, craziest tapestry in the world, but…it’s still just a tapestry. After the D-Day beaches, any tapestry, no matter how extravagent or exquisite, was going to seem pretty trivial. We never saw the famous Bayeux tapestry. Sorry. I’m sure it’s great. But we passed.

We drove on.

We drove southwest through the fields and villages of Normandy. There were cows everywhere. Brown cows. White cows. Black cows. Black and white cows. Black and brown cows. Brown and white cows. Cows chewing. Cows plodding. Cows standing. And – for the first time in ages, cows sleeping! I hadn’t seen cow lying down for such a long time. This may seem sad to you folk, but it brought back some fond memories, seeing those dopey quadrupeds flat on the grass with their feet up. I remember the time – years ago – I had gone camping with my friends to Mount Barney, and had begged my dear friend Mark to come cow-tipping with me in a nearby paddock. Cow-tipping is where you sneak up to sleeping cows and push them over. OK, so there’s not a lot to amuse yourself with at Mount Barney in the middle of the night when you are drunk, all right? I couldn’t convince anyone to cow-tip with me that night. I had to be content with watching Chris Farley steal my idea and do the cow-tip thing in the movie Tommy Boy, years later…

…these are an example of the inane thoughts that wander through your head when you are driving aimlessly thorough the French countryside. Who ever said travel wasn’t illuminating…

Another fascinating feature of the northwest countryside in France - besides the cows of course – was the discothèques. That’s right – discothèques. We saw heaps of them, in the most unlikely places. Generally they would be situated half a kilometre or so from the outskirts of a small village. In other words – in the middle of nowhere. They were just surrounded by a farm or scrubland, or maybe some tractor wholesale shops. And these discos – they were basically just low, one-storey concrete sheds, big enough for a hundred or so young French groovers to strut their stuff. They were painted white or brown, and there would be a big sign out the front saying “Discothèque”. Nearby would be a huge patch of cleared land to be used as a carpark. I am guessing these discos were removed from the main streets of those quiet country towns because of the noise pollution factor. But…we just saw so many of them. Where did they get the patronage to stay in business? Maybe they were only used once a year? Who actually went to them? And what music did they play?

...yes, just another set of fascinating conundrums to ponder as we trundled our way through the French countryside…

Southwest of Bayeux in Normandy is a town called St-Lo. For some reason I couldn’t get Jennifer Lopez out of my mind as we squirted it and continued south. And hour or so later – more discos, more cows, more farms – we pulled back towards the coast and headed towards what turned out to be perhaps the most picturesque picnic spot I have ever enjoyed.

We were heading west on the N175 from Pontaubault when I saw it. To our left were rolling green farms and the odd settlement. To our right the highway sloped down to a stretch of very flat farmland which effortlessly moulded into the sea, a lovely little bay. As we came around a hillside, and looked northwest towards the water…we saw it.

One the best views of my life.

Rising from the sea just off the coast was a rocky island. Emerging from the rock on the island like it had been chipped out it piece by piece was a magnificent Gothic castle, layered like a wedding cake from the thick base to the narrow spire on top…beautiful, breathtaking.

This was Le Mont-St-Michel.


---------------


Enchanted


Mont-St-Michel instantly reminded me of two other sites. The first was its twin – St Michael’s Mount, a similar island-castle resting offshore from Cornwall in England. The second was Cinderella’s castle, in Disneyland, where commerce meets childishness. Mont–St-Michel topped those two though. It was more authentic (obviously) that the latter, and more spectacular in scale and style than the former.

I don’t know what the deal with the evening weather in Normandy was, but the sun and cloud formations were patterning those of the previous day. From our vantage point maybe ten kilometres away, the sun appeared to be right above Mont-St-Michel, but the clouds seemed to have blocked every view of the sun from the southeast. This meant that the only place the sun seemed to be shining was directly downwards, like a huge, overhead spotlight, straight onto that magnificent castle, lighting in up with a holy glow, with awesome effect.

If we had been shooting a movie, I would have said God himself was acting as Director of Photography that day.

AJ, Shirely and I drove directly to the Mont, and out along the narrow causeway separating it from the mainland. It was almost dinnertime by then, and we somehow stumbled upon the best place to not only eat, but also to camp for the night.

Most of the tourists had left for the day, so the parking lot alongside the Mont was sparsely populated, and best of all, the entry booths which normally collected 8 euro parking fares were closed. We sneaked our way through and – having no idea if or when we would be rousted – parked alongside a dozen or two other campervans. Shirely stood out like a sore thumb unfortunately. She was the only “van of colour” there – minority report. Every other van was white. Every other van was no more than a few years old. Even other van was dent and dirt free. Most of the other vans looked more spacious and comfortable than our old flat in London. Some of the other vans had satellite dishes.

We didn’t really fit in, but that was OK. We rarely did.

We copped the usual prejudiced glares from most of the other parking lot occupants, but we met a few friendly folk, like an Irish guy who had popped over via ferry from the Emerald Isle for a quick look (at the Mont or our van, we weren’t too sure), and a lonely German chap who had driven directly to Mont-St-Michel in two days from Stuttgart. He obviously had a severe case of white-line fever, and craving company, needed to chat to anyone, even us.

Never has AJ’s cooking been more appreciated than that evening. Grilled chicken breast topped with ham. Boiled broccoli and carrots on the side. Potatoes and liberal amounts of cooking oil turned into cholesterol. All topped off with gallons of tomato ketchup. Not to mention a few slices of French bread and a chocolate milk… Ahh…yummy…

The view we had as we scoffed was at least half the experience.

After dinner, we crossed the main causeway and explored Mont-St-Michel by dusk. This was more a visit motivated by bursting bowels and bladders than by any pressing cultural interest. But, after finding some public toilets, we thrilled to wander the medieval streets of the Mont by twilight. We realised than that the Mont was not just some well-preserved tourist attraction that shut up shop after dark and the tourists went home. We realised then that the Mont was actually a genuine residence for some people – several little homes tucked away behind the alleyways and shops and galleries. Along the forefront, there were even more obvious signs of habitation – hotels. What a romantic place to spend the night. I called Frances from a public phone booth and we were both thrilled when we realised that she had actually visited the Mont – in her younger days – and spent the night in one of those hotels.

Our accommodation budget that night was much obviously less than Frances’ had been. Nevertheless, my experience that night – excepting my snoring company on the floor – was really quiet romantic. I set myself up on Shirley’s bed, aligned the curtains across her front windscreen to just the right spot, and maybe myself comfortable.

For what was truly one of the coolest experiences of my life.

It was perhaps, the best location - view wise - I have ever spent the night. I would periodically awaken from my slumber, and be shaken from one dream - inside my head, to another - outside Shirley's windscreen. It was breathtaking, its impact undiminished each time I opened my eyes. A fairytale castle, a medieval fortress rising from dark ocean and solid rock, its haphazard maze of lower ramparts and Tudor roofs illuminated by soft orange lights, the exquisite unplanned asymmetry creating a cascade of shadows and images in the fortress, and seemingly brighter and brighter illumination building as the island and castle came to a peak, with a brilliant white, almost holy glow rising up to the apex of the topmost spire...

Wow…

If Tinkerbell had flown past, I wouldn’t have been too surprised.

I woke up at around 3am that night to find that all the lights were off, and the castle – just a dim outline ahead - was sleeping too. The distant moon reflected a fraction of its original glow through the looming rain clouds, and the castle seemed completed surrounded by this almost imperceptible faint glow of illumination. It almost seemed to be coming from within. A little later a thunderous rainstorm woke me, and I could barely make out the Mont at all in the curtains of water ahead.

About 5am, as dawn was almost breaking, and light hung in the sky like it was struggling for a foothold, I awoke to an extremely atmospheric – yet very spooky - view. Thick, heavy fog had completely obscured most of the Mont, especially its lower parts, and the uppermost spire and main abbey were all that could be seen. The freaky fog drifted back and forth across the Mont, alternatively hiding and then revealing various spires and ramparts. I felt a little like Jack in the Beanstalk – when he climbs off the top to find the Giant’s castle in the clouds. At that moment, it was easy to believe we had left the earth and were soaring up high on the same celestial plane as a magical castle.

Or maybe it was all just a dream…

I probably should have risen to watch the sunrise but I decided I couldn’t afford the metres of camera film that probably entailed. When we did eventually arise, the weather wasn’t all that clear anyway. We were parked on what was basically a fortified mudflat on the edge of the long thin causeway which ran up to the Mont from the mainland. It looked like it flooded periodically with the tides, but we had been spared during that night. AJ wandered off to find somewhere to take a morning leak. The only trouble was, the only cover around were the other campervans, and it was not a good idea to wee up against the sides of one of those. The mudflats were extremely…well…flat…so no matter how far AJ wandered along the beach, exploring mild rises and ridges, he could not find anywhere discrete enough for his morning abolitions. The only thing he found was a sign that read “Pist Pour Pietons”. Piss Poor, all right. When he returned in defeat to the cosiness of the van, his thongs and his tracky-dak cuffs were covered in mud, and I was sitting there smugly holding a plastic bottle filled with warm yellow liquid. Sometimes the most practical solutions are also the laziest.


---------------


We spent the next few hours exploring Mont-St-Michel. I have been calling it a “castle”, but the most spectacular structures at the peak of the Mont actually form a medieval abbey. In the words of Maupassant, “the most wonderful Gothic dwelling ever made for God on this earth.” It was difficult to disagree with that assertion.

To get to the Mont topped abbey, we entered the island through a gate in the high surrounding wall at the base. We wandered up through a cobblestoned alleyway, full of souvenir stores, expensive restaurants, and expensive snack food outlets. In this narrow tourist trap of an alleyway – the only way up and down in this part of the Mont - everything was for sale: from gargoyles to tea towels, postcards to paintings, wine to waffles.

Each establishment was advertised with those overhanging, hand-painted signs – as in the Post Office featured the word “Poste”, with the representation of a pantyhosed postman riding a white stallion. We wound our way around the circuitous maze of cobblestoned paths to arrive at main part of the abbey, shaped around the pyramidal shape of the Mont’s peak. Access inside cost 7 euro each. From here there were spectacular views across the bay, and back across Normandy to the southwest, and Brittany to the southeast. The land looked very flat and very green, and the bay looked extremely silty and tidal. From one viewpoint, we could see a small pack of religious pilgrims – a dozen or so - trekking across the muddy beach from the far side of the bay. It was probably a very inspirational climax to their journey – walking through the mud towards that marvellous castle. If only they knew what AJ and had gone through to get there.

On the expansive western terrace of the abbey, we waited in the sun with a bunch of other anglophiles for the 11.30 English-speaking tour. It was well worth the wait. Our guide was named “Franc”. Pronounced like I wrote it – “Franc”. More like “Fronk” than the way an Aussie would say “Frank”. Try it with a droll emphasis on the “Fra” – more like “Fraahhhnncc”. You might remember “Franc” from the film Father of the Bride – he was the camp wedding co-ordinator played by Martin Short. Well, our “Franc” was at least as entertaining.

Franc was a little French guy, named after his country’s old currency we assumed. Franc had spiky hair, a cheeky grin, and a well-used patter of bad jokes. “Only joking”, Franc said dozens of times. Franc kept playing on the fact that he was a Norman – from Normandy – and kept affectionately slagging off Brittany –the province right next door. I reflected that exactly the same thing would have happened if Mont St Michel had sat at Coolangatta, or at Tweed Heads, or near any border in the world – either way, the tour guide would have been casually slurring the good name of his neighbouring state. Some things are the same wherever you go.

But the best things about Franc, even better that his provincial jokes, was his passion for his subject. And his subject was Mont St Michel.


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Holy Monastery Batman!


Mont St Michel has been a major focus of pilgrimage since the 8th Century. In the 10th Century, the Benedictine monks settled in the abbey, and for the next few centuries the village grew up around its walls and down to the very foot of the rock island. During the Hundred Years War, Mont-St-Michel proved its worth as an impressive military stronghold, its ramparts and forts resisting all English assaults. After the French revolution, it was used as a prison, until 1874, when its value as a historic moment was recognised, and the perpetual task of restoration begun.

Franc took us from the western terrace into the main church of the abbey. He showed us a wooden statute of Saint Michael. Now, even though you pronounce “Michael” like the girls name “Michelle”, Saint Michael was actually a bloke. These French are funny like that you know. Saint Michael, head of the heavenly militia, is always represented – like in the famous golden statue at the top of the abbey spire – as carrying two things: a set of scales, and a sword. He is famed for slaying a dragon with that sword. Perhaps he used the scales for weighing his ingredients when he cooked the dragon for dinner. More culturally, Saint Michael was famed as the one who lead away the dead and put their souls in the balance on judgment day. Saint Mick was pretty trendy in Europe at the turn of the last millenium (around 1000), and a proliferation of churches and chapels dedicated to him jumped up on top of hills and promontories all over the place. It has to be said, he still looks pretty impressive.

Franc told us how the abbey – built right up the top, three stories high – stands on a platform of crypts designed to take the colossal weight of a church 80 metres long. Those 13th Century architects really excelled themselves, perching various building blocks at precise angles to provide spot on buttressing and support. They also planned the higher buildings to be made of lighter stone than the lower ones. Smart cookies. Franc pointed out the contrast of architecture styles all around the abbey, and how they showed the history of its renovation. The church was initially built in the Romanesque style, but after the choir area collapsed, an entire side of the interior was rebuilt in the dramatic Gothic format. Bits and pieces were added or destroyed, here there and everywhere. The whole place had a seemingly random, patchwork design, but it all fitted together in a perfectly geometric way.

Franc noted that in their heyday, the dour grey interior walls of the abbey would have looked vastly different – painted brightly and decorated with elaborate tapestries.

In the cloisters, Franc showed us an expansive wall window, which looked out on to the bay, and led to an area which was never completed, the planned “chapter house” (reading room) for the abbey’s occupants, the Benedictine monks. The cloisters and their garden themselves were designed for meditation, and to represent a gateway to heaven – and with their elevated locality and their peaceful, reflective surrounds, this was easy to accept. In the exquisitely carved frescos around the cloisters, Franc pointed out some cool looking monsters hiding among the typical heavenly decorations – put there, he said, to remind the monks that the devil, that evil, is always lurking, everywhere, and often hiding where you least expect it. A pertinent lesson not just for the monks, but for all visitors to the monastery till this day.

In another large room, the refectory, it appeared as we entered that there were only two tall windows providing illumination, and these were directly opposite the entrance. Franc advised that the windows were placed in the best spot to catch maximum sunlight all throughout the day, and were intended to provide the impression that as you entered the room, you were walking directly towards the light, the only truth – in other words, making a beeline straight for heaven, God, or whatever.

In fact, this impression – like many religious assertions – was a myth, because as you got further into the refectory, it became apparent that the numerous vast pillars on either side of the room were flanking tall, narrow, side windows, which did at least as much to illuminate the room as the two rear ones, but which were obscured by the columns from the front of the room.

The room served another fascinating purpose too. The monks used the refectory (like any good students) to take their meals in silence. They were not allowed to face each other or speak. However religious chanting was allowed, and the design of the room amplified its effect wonderfully. Franc demonstrated the way one particular monk would put on a concert at meal times by taking position alongside a pillar, and letting loose with that classic Latin monotone chant you hear in movies like The Name of the Rose. Franc’s sombre cry echoed back and forth in a zigzag fashion across the room, the pillars bouncing it back and forth with acoustics to dream of.

Showing us next through a crypt with dozen of symmetrical pillars flowing up to the vaulted roof like trees meeting a rainforest canopy, Franc told us that much of the best stuff at Mont St Michel had, sadly, been destroyed in two of the great conflicts which had swirled around it – the French Revolution, and World War 2. In the former, revolutionaries had smashed dozens of priceless stained glass windows and burned dozens of priceless works of art.

In one room, called the monks’ ossuary, we saw what looked like a gigantic wooden hamster wheel – and it turned out to be just that – but not, in this case, designed for hamsters, but instead for men. When revolutionaries had taken control of the Mont in 1820, the monks had been taken prisoner and set to work – and one of their tasks had been to walk in this giant hamster wheel (it could fit five men) which would operate a pulley system to hoist supplies up the steep hill just out the window.

Not fun for the monks, but then again, their non-captive, voluntary lifestyle didn’t seem much better. These masochistic religious nutters were not permitted anything that could be defined as a comfort. They couldn’t have fire unless they were ill. They couldn’t eat anything with four legs, or that came from anything with four legs. They couldn’t have kegs of beer, M&M’s, or video nights. Talk about deprivation.

After the Franc-specialty tour of the abbey, AJ headed downtown to the shops, and I explored as much of the Mont’s reminder as I could. I ended up on the turrets and ramparts that zigzagged randomly around and across the town, and I got lost in alleyways, dead-ends, stairways to nowhere. It was wonderful. I looked into the backyards of those few residents lucky enough to live on the Mont, including a spoiled white pussycat preening itself in the sun. I wandered on the ramparts and crosswalks above dozens of homes, hotels, cafes, shops and restaurants. I marvelled about how wonderful it would be to bring Frances there for a weekend getaway. I looked down far, far below to the distinct car park across the causeway, and I marvelled too at the dirty green smudge - among all the clean white dots – that had brought us to this remarkable place.

As we left the Mont, we sat for a while by the large gate archway, and were soon surrounded by a huge group of American students. They were either late high school or early college age students, and they shared out baguette sandwiches from a large box, which had AJ and I salivating in greed.

From their brand-labelled clothes and narrow-focused attitudes, these kids (or more accurately their parents) where obviously pretty rich. They talked inanely and loudly amongst themselves, punctuating every other word with either ”like”, or “oh my God”. They were no different from the dozens of Americans AJ and I had worked alongside – and grown to love – in the USA not that long ago. But, here, in Europe they really stood out. Especially when they travelled in packs, like this group. They were completely oblivious to, and totally indifferent to, any outsiders nearby. Their behaviour was something we’d become so used to in the States, but after living in reserved, aloof, restrained London for so long…they all just seemed so obnoxious. But they weren’t obnoxious, really. They were just themselves. Just the way they were. They just stood out here because they were different from Europeans. They were loud, brash, completely outgoing, had no inhibitions. They had to show off and shout and perform to stand out above the rest of their ilk. They were probably as self-conscious as any English person, but their self-consciousness did not manifest itself in any form of restraint – in fact I think it worked against restraint. The more insecure they seemed, the more they pranced and danced and “oh my Goded “ for attention. They were cute. They were entertaining. They were loveable. They made me glad to be Australian.


---------------


Haloed Turf


The area that Mont-St-Michel sits in is obviously a pretty hardcore religious ‘hood. Or least it was when the town naming went on. Check out just a few names – all within a few hundred kilometres of each other in Brittany or Normandy. Saint (or St) Lo. St-Germain-Plage. St-Jean-le-Thomas. St-James. St-Brice-en-Cogles. St-Aubin-du-Cormier. St Aubin-d’Aubigne. St-Brieuc. St-Quay-Portriex. St-Cast-le-Guildo. St-Lunaire. St-Jacur. And of course St (or Saint) Malo.

Slightly obsessive about their Saints weren’t they? Haloed turf, that’s for sure.

The town of St Malo is maybe 60 kilometres from Mont St Michel. So, even though Shirely had a very short drive through Brittany that afternoon, it was also her first hassle free day of driving in Europe. St Malo was a great place to celebrate.

The cheap campsite we stayed at in St Malo was on the grounds off an old walled fortress. The toilet and shower blocks were actually built into the fortress. Most of the original buildings had crumbled away. The campsite-fort held a panoramic-strategic position on top of a hill overlooking the River Rance, the bay, the sea, the port, and the spectacular old city of St Malo. Just outside the campsite were a few scattered batteries left over from World War 2 – old iron-steel machine gun bunkers on which the surfaces had been pitted to almost complete decimation by cannon shells.

St Malo is a large town, and much of it is a modern town, but our campsite was situated a short walk from the old city – the tourist Mecca of the area.

In between were an exquisite yachting marina, plus a strange inland beach. This beach was separated from the main bay by a wall – such that when the tide was out, the beach was wide and scattered with stranded boats, but when the tide came in, it ran over the wall to completely cover the beach all the way up to the semi-circular esplanade of humble hotels and cafes and dog walkers around it. A bridge linked the new city to the old. This bridge looked just like a normal, modern, bitumen-tarmac road, until orange lights flashed, boom gates came down, and the bridge somehow retracted into the river bank to allow massive container ships or tiny sailing yachts to pass from the channel into the port. It was a modern engineering masterwork, but as masterworks go, it had nothing on the old walled city of St Malo.

The old city itself is spectacular, perched on a promontory between the sea, the river and the port. The inner parts of the old city after often rather droll and unremarkable, with rows and rows of six-or-seven-storied buildings, all in the ubiquitous grey or brown besser blocks so popular in Europe. But the fence is what makes St Malo, and I’m not talking chain-link. The old town is completely surrounded by these awesome, high walled ramparts, maybe a dozen metres high. Perfect for the keeping bad guys out for the past 400 years or so.

It was cool to look over the edges of these fortified walls and imagine the sieges that might have taken place right there. A stroll completely around these ramparts gave some great views of the beaches and headlands below. One side sees the walled city end and a long stretch of resort hotels and cafes begin, as the ocean beach stretches off into the distance. At another spot we could see a couple of high hillocked peninsulas out in the bay, one of which had a crypt on it, which could be reached at low tide by foot from the main beach. The key words in that sentence I’ve just typed are: “at low tide”. Because as we stood on those turrets in the midst of a sudden thunderstorm, we spied a few meteorological geniuses who had obviously missed the concept of tides – and got stranded out on those islands as the water rushed in and cut off their land escape within minutes. The peninsulas were now islands. We watched a very brave, very patient bloke take on the blustery surf in a little dingy, to save these stranded people from the island a few at a time and transfer them to the mainland. How many times a week did that poor guy have to get into his little dingy and contend with sudden tides and idiotic tourists?

Around the corner a little further, after AJ and I had descended from the ramparts to the beach, we found the same scenario in effect. This time – even after what I’d just witnessed – AJ and I were almost the tidal fools. On the ocean corner of the beach, another small rocky peninsula jutted out, this one carrying a small, ancient, and interesting looking French fort. AJ and I wandered across the beach, and were mere seconds away from crossing to the rocks when I noticed the nearby surf lapping at the sandy causeway, and a glimmer of reason, a hint of memory, and a douse of intelligence took over for a change.

“Maybe we shouldn’t”, we said. Good call.

For within ten minutes, there were several groups of people standing on the edge of the rocky outcrop – now an island – looking back forlornly at the beach and an the increasingly large tide separating them from us.

Before it got too deep, one lady took her shoes off and took the bolt – but in the wrong direction – from the mainland across to the island. Maybe she lived in the fort and was heading home for the evening. We watched her confer with the panicked few on the island about the best place to cross the fast flowing tide.

A couple of young blokes did the first dash – one took his shoes off, the other filled his shoes with water. Next were a few jabbering Japanese – they were totally freaked out, and took forever to muster up their courage – but finally they waded in. Within minutes, the tide had gone from ankle to knee height. Thinking that was all, AJ and I turned away, but a sudden yelling came from the island, and a couple of men and a young girl – maybe ten years old – come bolting down from the fort towards the waters edge, at top speed. They looked in two minds about what to do – spend the night on the fort, or risk drowning. They choose the latter. A woman on the beach didn’t seem too impressed – maybe she was the girl’s mother, the partner of one of the blokes, or both – and she screamed either abuse or encouragement in high pitched French at them as they prepared to cross. The young girl got hoicked up onto one of the blokes shoulders, and they half-waded, half-swam across. The water was above waist height now. They made it, just. The guys were soaked to the skin. They were also very lucky.

If we’d got to that fort fifteen minutes early, or hadn’t seen the stranded tourists on the other islands, that could have been us. Or worse. Because AJ can’t swim.

The weather – as you may have gathered – was very strange in this part of France. Heavy rainsqualls one minute, clear-skied the next. About the only consistent thing was the wind – fierce, perpetual gales from the northwest. The best place to shelter from the wind in St Malo was inside the ramparts, in the inner city. The buildings were high, the windows were tall, the streets were narrow, and so the protection was utmost. But the high buildings and narrow confines meant the view inside St Malo weren’t too exciting. The cathedral was fine, and had some great gargoyles, yet because it was surrounded by many other tall structures, its exterior could only be appreciated from directly outside it, or at a great distance. I don’t mean that I disliked St Malo, I actually really dug it, especially from the ramparts, or outside - but inside it seemed different, less intimate, and more aloof than many other medieval cities in the region. Sure there were the usual cool things – wobbly cobblestones beneath our feet, hanging sings above our heads, tourists in our faces. Old women with terriers on leashes, young women with babies in strollers, old fogies with lots of spending money in opulent boutiques. It was interesting. But the city seemed too symmetrical, too grid-patterned, too stiff, to relax in.

But I was going to try.


---------------


Sweet Blondes and Sulky Brunettes


The best way to relax this time was a solution I knew AJ would leap at – a beer. We enjoyed a sweet blonde (beer) called Affligem in an undistinguished bar (essence of chipboard), with undistinguished service (a sneer and a grunt as soon as they heard our foreign accents).

The beer was cold and tasty, and I decided that – now that AJ was back partially in his comfort zone – this might be a good time to broach the subject of his dour moods, his outburst in England a week before, and anything I might do to help him.

I never pushed him, never directly broached the subject of his drunken tantrum – I was very tentative and didn’t want to incite him again. I didn’t want to upset him, but I thought a beer might relax him enough to want to talk. Because – apart from a brief, dismissive apology for his behaviour - he hadn’t talked about it at all.

Whereas AJ drunk and upset equals AJ psycho and loud, AJ relatively sober and upset equals AJ sullen and quiet. From the morning after his outburst in England, he had retreated into himself and…well, I’d like to say he came back…but I don’t think I ever saw AJ in the same carefree, crazy, careless mood again after that night.

He was still AJ, still a fantastic guy, but…he’d lost something. It was like he was examining everything he did from that point on, everything he said. He never just rolled with it, surfed life like he used to, let himself go. He examined his motives and moods. He became self-conscious. He had entered some sort of crisis.

He had never bounced back to the AJ of old. His old joy of travel and new experiences seemed to have disappeared. He was a great travel companion still, in so many ways – always eager to help, cook, drive, anything he was asked – but his participation in the trip had turned from relatively active (Netherlands and Belgium) to completely passive (post-England).

He seemed to have lost all interest in our journey. He never looked at a map or a guidebook. He took very few photos. He told me to make every single decision about where we went, and how we got there. He was sullen and sulky.

So many times through France and Spain, I felt like a father who had dragged his pubescent, sulky kid off on a trip that he didn’t want to be on. Every attempt I made to involve AJ in a decision or a joyful moment met with failure.

But here’s the thing: AJ and I may have had some weird spin on a father-son relationship, but ultimately he was supposedly an adult. He had to go his own way. He had to make his own choices. I hadn’t forced him to come on the trip. And the last thing I could do – the last thing I would want to do – is force him to stay.

I told all this to AJ over those sweet blondes in that bar in St Malo that day. I told him, very gently, in a way I hoped might register with him.

“I don’t understand what you are going through Charles, but, if you want to talk about it…”, I opened delicately.

That’s about as subtle as I get.

AJ stared into his beer.

“Nah Dave, it’s nothing. It’s fine. I don’t even know what’s…”, his high strangled voice trailed off.

“Well as long as you know I’m here if you want to talk, mate. And if you want to talk properly about all those issues you have with me that you brought up in Cheltenham. I am happy to talk about those anytime – as long as we aren’t screaming…I just can’t have a conversation like that.”

“I know, Dave, I’m sorry…there’s nothing to talk about, it’s nothing.”

I suspected otherwise, but refused to push him.

“OK, that’s fine. But you can talk anytime you know. And I also want to say…AJ…if you aren’t enjoying yourself on this trip, you can bail anytime, you know? I’d hate for you to stay here with me if it’s not what you wanted. I mean, I’d be devastated, but it would be tougher watching you suffer for months on end than having you leave. I just want you to know that. You have to do what you want to do. Don’t do what you think I want you to do. It just seems…like you aren’t getting much out of the trip in the last week or so. Just…well…you decide mate. It’s up to you.”

AJ’s eyes welled with tears, not a good look in a coastal French bar. But no one seemed to notice.

“I…don’t know what’s wrong Dave. I do want to be here. I just…I don’t know what I want…I just…I just…”

AJ was really struggling. Whereas I will often attempt to articulate my emotions to an often-untactful extreme, AJ…unless he is plastered-happy or plastered-miserable…he will really struggle to do likewise. Sensing AJ was taking a distinct route towards the later option – plastered miserable – I steered the subject to trivial matters and shortly thereafter, steered AJ from the bar.

Neither he nor I seemed to understand any better where his listless, dour moods were coming from, or how to resolve them. I felt incredibly helpless. AJ, my best friend, was lost. And despite spending months on end barely metres away from him, I had no idea where to look to find him.

I did however come up with a crazy idea with might prove to be a bonding exercise between AJ and myself – something to symbolise to each other, and to the world, our solidarity to our friendship.

I suggested we shave our heads.


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Hair Cares


Now, those of you that know AJ will know that shaving his head is no big deal. When I met him it was a different story, he had a decent patch of wiry black hair. But of course when I met him, he wasn’t going bald. Nowadays, even at his most hirsute of times, AJ’s hair is little more than a centimetre long. Most of the time he gets his entire hair cut with a number one blade, which is just a fraction away from complete baldness anyway. So it wasn’t that drastic a move for him.

Me, on the other hand…shaving my head was a big deal.

Those of you that know me (and you all do, I hope), will know that my hair is…well, my hair. It’s integral to me. Not in a vain way – I hope, but just in a way that my hair somehow defines who I am. Big, messy, one-of-a-kind, out-of-control, great to touch. Just like me.

When people describe me, they invariably say, “You know David - big tall blonde guy…”

Big. Tall. Blonde. Guy.

My external life summarised in four words. Guy – check. Big – check. Tall – check. Blonde – what is this damn fascination with my hair?

For some people it might be their nose (You know who you are). For others it might be their boobs (You know who you are). Sometimes it’s their skin colour. Sometimes it’s their body structure. Sometimes it’s a combination (For example, you know AJ: “skinny black guy”).

For everyone, there are one or two physical attributes that are constantly observed by shallow people, or just by anyone who prefers to use the efficient descriptive shorthand of physical characteristics rather than the more cumbersome and subjective technique of noting character or personality traits. So yes, these external cues get constantly commented on, joked about, noted. For me it’s my height (just get over that one too, will you! ) and my hair.

Not that I mind too much.

I gotta say – without a trace of vanity – I love my hair. Not to look at, but just to run my hands through - in frustration, in fidgitation, in fun. It’s cool to have something to do with your hands when everyone else is smoking or wanking.

And it’s cool to have hair that likes to party – that defiantly resists style or definition, that is in a constant state of change…

OK, I admit it, I’m obsessed with my hair.

I love my hair, I’ve got great hair, and I am keeping my hair.

Except…back now to St Malo in Europe…when I proposed losing my hair.

Why?

Why not?

Like I said – it was a chance to demonstrate solidarity and commitment alongside AJ. Remember “The Mean Machine”, those 4 x 100 metres relay swimming champs who shaved their skulls at the 1984 LA Olympics in a display of loyalty and commitment to each other and their cause? Maybe I was hoping for something like that.

Maybe I wanted to show AJ I was so serious about the trip that I would take drastic action and stand proudly alongside him as a fellow follically challenged.

Maybe it was to celebrate Shirley’s first hassle-free-drive-day, and to show my confidence that we were not going backwards this time.

But ultimately, primarily, my decision was a case of…what the hell?…why not?

Very cerebral decision-making.

But it kinda made some sense. Short hair is easier to travel with. It’s not like I was going to be out to impress anyone with my appearance for a while. Seeing Frances again was not planned for at least two months. I had no vanity issues. (Although I am beginning to suspect that because I had mentioned having no vanity issues several times throughout the last few pages, that it’s quite likely that I subconsciously do.)

AJ shaved his hair first. He disappeared into the St Malo shower block, and was gone for more than an hour. An hour!!! The guy had nothing really to shave in the first place!!!

Why was he taking so long??? I began to worry about AJ, envisaging various grim scenarios. He had slipped on the bathroom floor and knocked himself unconscious? He had fumbled the electric clippers and dropped them in the water filled sink and electrocuted himself? He had been gangbanged by a group of French hairdressers?

Eventually he reappeared and allayed my fears. And his head looked GREAT. Total skinhead baldness really suited him. Even if his ears stuck out at an angle which would have put Dumbo to shame, AJ’s gleaming dome looked awesome – round, smooth, dark, a perfect ball.

Then, it was my turn.

My hair wasn’t really that long to start with – by my standards. But even short hair on me, is still a lot of hair. Like its owner, it’s pretty thick.

AJ took one hour to shave his head completely. I took almost three.

I started with the clippers. This was like trying to mow a jungle with a pair of tweezers. Not even close to happening. So I took the scissors and chopped chunks away from the sides until the clippers could get a toehold. I gave myself a Mohawk, which I admired then dismissed about midway through the haircut. I was committed to going all the way. It required patience and persistence. I used the clippers, I used the scissors, I used my electric shaver, I used my Mach3 razor, I used hot water from the sink, the shower…when I finished, I looked around the little shower cubicle, and it looked in there like a little furry mammal had been torn limb-from-limb and ripped into little pieces. So I swept up all my hair.

And returned to the van and to AJ. Before he could enter deep shock from the sight of my bald head, I asked him to tidy up some stubborn patches on the back and top of my skull that I just hadn’t been able to remove. When I was stark raving naked all over my head, I finally relaxed and checked myself out in the mirror.

And recoiled in disgust…yyyyuuuuueeeewwww!!!

I had hoped I would look like Bruce Willis in Pulp Fiction. I looked more like Marlon Brando in Apocalypse Now. AJ, in a bit of shock himself, helpfully suggested I looked like one of the keystone cops from the Police Academy series - I think he mentioned “Lt. Mauser” and “Sgt. Proctor”. All this evoked for me was that slow dancing scene in the Blue Oyster gay bar.

I looked terrible.

I mean, some people – like AJ or Brucie-baby – look great with bald heads. It suits them. They have great round, perfect skulls.

I do not. My skull is unspeakably ugly. Instead of round and smooth like a cue ball, it sorta comes to a sharp point like an Intercontinental Ballistic Missile. Or, for a more direct metaphor, like those aliens in Coneheads.

Then there are the ridges and divots and notches in my skull. All these ugly bumps and furrows – not a hint of smoothness.

It’s bad. It’s ugly. It’s me.

But…I don’t regret doing it. It was a great experiment. Now I know how it feels to rub my hand across my bald skull (pretty cool). Now I know how it feels when the wind blows across my bald skull (also pretty cool, but literally “cool” this time). Now I know how I will look if and when (shudder) I ever go properly bald. So…it was a worthwhile experiment.

But perhaps the best thing it taught me was this:

The obsession all those people (and yes, maybe me too, subconsciously) have with my hair - is not trivial, is not annoying, is not a bother.

My hair is valuable. My hair is worthy. My hair is important.

But it took me shaving it off to realise why…

My hair is valuable, my hair is worthy, my hair is important - for one very vital reason.

Because it takes attention away from my face.

(And I think the less said about my face, the better.)


---------------


Chasing Rainbows


My hair normally grows pretty quickly, but for the next couple of months at least, it was very, very short. I enjoyed the feeling of rubbing my hand across the initial naked scalp, and then later through the stiff little bristles, and I enjoyed the low maintenance required for almost non-existent hair. Otherwise, I was ready for it to come back.

Apart from the main cosmetic issue – my big scary fat head!!! – I craved longer hair just because my skull used to get so darn cold. Sometimes I wore a beanie, but then later on, in Spain, I stuck to a bandana. In all weather types, the bandana was extremely useful. Not only did it stop my pasty-pale head from getting sunburnt, it also looked really cool, and gave me a lot of traveller cache.

I was curious to see how quickly my hair would grow too. The great hair growth experiment continued throughout Europe. All I hoped for was that by the time I saw Frances again, enough length would have returned to stop her from focusing too long on my face.

A short distance inland from St Malo, up the river Rance, was perhaps my favourite little town in all of France (on this visit at least). The inner citadel of Dinan – like seemingly every town in the region – was encircled by three-kilometres of walled ramparts, which gave awesome views not only of the high turrets, arched walkways and the steep river valley below, but also of the humble, charming, overrun little backyards of some of the local residences. This town was like a living, breathing, medieval museum. The only thing that didn’t ring true was the modern clothing on the locals as they tended their gardens and vege patches. Everything else seemed suspended in time. We were ambling through history.

Dinan was just as impossibly gorgeous within the rampart walls – a haphazard warren of cobblestoned streets, sloping Tudor homes, impressive chateaus, stunning gothic chapels, and inviting, enticing creperies. Apart from the time warp factor, the biggest surprise in Dinan was the absence of crowds. Not for the first time in France, I wondered why the streets were so quiet. Maybe everyone was in Australia.

After we left Dinan, AJ, Shirley and I accomplished a miracle. We drove for five hours straight without a problem. It was very, very strange. Maybe Shirley was happy to be away from the coast. Maybe Shirley liked the follicle-free state of AJ’s and my skulls. Maybe we were just due a break. Whatever.

We drove…

We drove more than 300 kilometres without a hitch.

Well…they was one slight problem, but that was more related to my paranoia I think – or perhaps my disbelief that Shirley had been running so well for two whole days.

Not far out of Dinan, a strange wobbly-whirring sound seemed to be coming from Shirley’s tyres/wheels –I couldn’t tell which. It just sounded like she had a flat tyre. But every time we stopped and I got out to check, the tyres seemed fine. AJ said Shirely was driving fine. But the sound persisted for ages. Maybe it was the unusual bitumen on the motorway. Or maybe Shirley was just being cheeky and playing a trick on us. Nevertheless, it was nothing.

What was not nothing was a problem in the early evening – not mechanical, but structural. We were just grateful then that Shirely was not a boat. She sprung a leak. In the midst of a heavy rain/hail downpour, Shirely started filling up with water, courtesy of a hole or three around her rusty windscreen seals. It was almost a relief though to discover a problem we could deal with. And by “deal with” I don’t mean “fix”, I just mean “get wet till it stopped raining”. Problem solved.

The aftermath of the rainstorm created some amazing rainbows in the road as we headed east, with the sun at our backs. It felt like we were chasing a pot of gold towards where the rainbow’s base met the horizon of the road, or illuminated the overhead motorway signs “Le Mans”; “Paris”; “Rouen”: “Blois”. Whenever a car passed us on the dual carriageway – which was often – the light would reflect off their rainwater back-spray and throw up a smaller, mirrored rainbow, which seemed to be generating from us, from Shirley.

All was good. AJ’s mood was amiable, if not chatty, and he drove like a champion. Speaking of champion drivers, we skirted Le Mans in the afternoon.

Our route took us from northwest France across to north-central France, an hour or two away from Paris. We passed from Brittany, back into Normandy again, and eventually got central. We didn’t travel far in the whole scheme of things – I mean - France is tiny compared to Australia – but it’s still the largest Western European country. And 300 kms was quite an accomplishment for us. Our motorway bypassed Rennes, Le Mans, and the turnoff to Chartres and Paris. I would have loved to have made a return visit to the nation’s capital, but such a side trip deserved more time than we had to spare. AJ had never visited Paris before, and I’m sure if I’d desired to go he would have turned Shirley’s wheel northward – but he expressed little interest in the nation’s capital. Then again, he expressed little interest in anything on the trip.

Of course, I was likely interested in just too much. As we drove I juggled maps and guidebooks, excitedly trying to work out the next tourist stop, the best route, the goal after that. In between I hunted for signs and turnoffs, took photos of road-rainbows and caught up a bit on my reading of The Lord of the Rings – the first chance I’d had to read for pure pleasure (instead of pure trippin’) since we’d left England on the first D-Day. It felt good to be doing something that wasn’t purely a driving force behind - or a direct benefit of - the trip. Most of those days I was just so consumed with motivation to keep the trip going, or else gratification at enjoying something we saw or experienced, that I often forgot there was a world outside those two forces. Getting a peek into that world via my chunky novel was good. It was relaxing to do something with no underlying time pressure. I was up to Book Two.

The motorway we drove on was wonderfully bump free tarmac, a big expressway. The big expressway meant we drove faster and more directly to our target. We missed a lot of cute stopovers, but there is a potential lifetime of cute stopovers in just that tiny chunk of France, if you’ve got a lifetime to spare. We didn’t. We traded scenic stimulation for time. The view from the motorway was mostly undistinguished: flat, green fields, the odd distant town or city, the odd clump of woodland. The further we got from the coast, the more the wind died down.

Long before dusk descended we turned off form the main motorway onto a smaller highway heading south. A tollbooth here collected 9 euro from us for the pleasure of using their expressway. Now 9 euro isn’t much, but…like Momma always said, “It all adds up.” (OK, it’s not a box of chocolates or anything, but…)

French motorways are expensive!!! Sure you get there quicker and more comfortably, we realised, but you sacrifice scenery and savings to do it. A few days before this we had spent more than 15 euro to use the motorways in Normandy, including 5 euro to cross the Pont de Normandie Bridge. Two days later, the motorway between Bourges and Clermont-Ferrand would charge us 16.20 euro for the pleasure of its company. Maybe the price was boosted on that stretch because we camped there overnight, maybe because we took extra long, but geez…16.20 for a drive that would normally take three hours or so…highway robbery!!!

Maybe that’s why we saw so few cars on these precious motorways. Unfortunately, we had little choice but to use them sometimes.

Another annoying issue that raised its Gallic gob at us on those French highways was petrol. We had no concept of the proper type to pour down Shirely’s throat. In Australia it was called Super. In England it was called Four Star, or Lead Replacement. In France…it was a case of eanie-meanie-miney-mo. The varieties included Essence, Sans Plomb, Super Plombe and Gasoil. The first time we filled up with petrol was not long before Shirley’s internal rupture near Honfleur – and I half thought that major leak-explosion was an allergic reaction on Shirley’s part to the wrong type of fuel. But it turned out we’d guessed right.

If the petrol issue wasn’t confusing enough, whenever we pulled into a service station we scratched our heads over another – tyre pressure. Hey, I’m all for different cultures and languages. I can even deal with the stupid steering-wheel-wrong-side-of-the-car-car-wrong-side-of-the-road thing. But come on guys!!! Can’t we at least work out an international method of measuring tyre pressure???

Aussie and UK tyres have a tyre fill measurement in psi, and most tyres have a fill requirement between 25 and 50 psi. Shirley’s were around 44. Air tyre pressure machines in Australia and England actually noted the pressure they provided in psi. Not in France. Every single tyre pressure machine we encountered had a fill scale of 1 to 6. That’s it!!!! 1 to 6!!! Slightly less accurate than 44 right?

French motorways kindly provide free tyre pressure machines at some of their tollbooth rest stops (all part of the aforementioned toll charge I’m sure). But what’s the point if we couldn’t use them???

We hadn’t filled our tyres since we’d arrived on the continent, but we thought it was probably way past time. We phoned Julio from the A81 motorway that day and asked him for his specialist European advice. We should have known better. He told us to check all the tyres for their current pressure, and then fill all the tyres to the level of the highest one (about 3.1). We tried this highly scientific method, and then amused the entire patronage of the rest area when AJ drove Shirley in circles and I ran next to them trying to work out where the funny noises where coming from. Eventually I gave up.

Our fingers were so crossed by now they were in knots.

We just drove.


---------------


Here Be Dragons


AJ and I woke the next morning surrounded by a green van surrounded by a green clump of trees surrounded by a green landscape of flat, flat fields.

It was a beautiful day, a little breezy maybe, the high grassy crops of the fields waving hypnotically back and forth, and our little isolated clump of much higher vegetation dancing around a little more vigorously. The sky was clear and blue, and the fields were green and infinite.

We had camped in this incongruous little spot by a full moon, the night before. The landscape was not unusual – endless wheat and maize fields. What was unusual were the odd clumps of high trees and scrubs scattered throughout the farmland in seemingly random patterns. Some would be alongside the road, some would just sit forlornly in the middle of a field. Our own little protective hedge-fence was in a corner of an intersection between a narrow yet busy highway, and a tiny country road. The landscape was generally so flat and featureless, that when I went and stood in the centre of the intersection, I felt like the skinny groomed version of Tom Hanks in the scene at the end of Castaway, where he stands in a similar intersection in the vast plains of the mid-western United States. I reflected how funny it seems that landscapes can evoke memories of places you’ve never been, but still seen. I didn’t reflect for long though as I stood in that intersection, because the traffic on the road that morning was building.

We were in the Loire Valley, a lush tract of flat land a hundred or so kilometres south of Paris. The landscape is beautiful and green and occasionally forested, and evokes memories (also cinematic) of aristocratic stagecoaches and fancy-panted musketeers. The Loire itself is a harmless looking river, low and fast flowing, but a river in which no one swims or boats in because of the dangerous tides and eddies.

It passes through a town called Blois. Now I had some trouble pronouncing “Loire” right (I sounded like “liar” with an Irish accent. The correct way: “Lor-Wa”). But Blois completely defeated me. I’d say “Bloys”. Correct way: “Blaaawaa”. Let’s call the whole thing off. How could a name spelt B.L.O.I.S be pronounced “Blaaawaa”??? It was like the sound a ghost makes when trying to scare you. Crazy Frenchies…

“Blaaawaa” was a very quiet town, nestled on the banks off the equally quiet “Lor-Wa”. Perhaps it was waiting for the summer rush hour, perhaps it was busy from noon til siesta, and in the evening. But at 10am it was dull, dull dull.

It was very pretty though – cobblestones, check…narrow streets, check…cool arched bridge, check…imposing cathedral, check…but it was almost a ghost town.

In fact, near the fantastic and varied facades of the “Chateau” at Blaaawaa, an eclectic, massive, cobbled-on, mismatch of varied architectural styles from three different centuries (13th Century, Gothic, Renaissance), we were confronted by the largest group we were to see in Blaaawaa, and they weren’t even people. Here be dragons.

From Hugo Square, a cute little coffeeshoped area next to the Chateau, AJ and I turned – at the sound of some music - to the three-storied façade of a large gabled mansion. Here, from five full length windows, gradually emerged five gargantuan dragon heads, all gold, all glaring, and all dancing and snapping their jaws in time (but slightly out of time with each other) to the accompanying music.

It was a surreal experience. AJ and I were the only ones around. The coffeeshops were deserted. Some men tending the chateau’s gardens were out of earshot. Just me, AJ, and five gold, dancing dragonheads. In a town called Blaaawaa.

Was the performance for us? Was it a rehearsal for later? Was a regular hourly thing? What connection did the dragons have to sixteenth-century French royalty? Were the dragons pleased to see us? Were they hoping to eat us? Were they actually not dragons but mutant gold crocodile heads? So many questions…so many mysteries…in a town called Blaaawaa.


---------------


Sonny and Chenonceaux


Our stop in Blaaawaa wasn’t our main reason for visiting the Loire Valley. Our main reason was the chateaus. Now, till my visit to France in 2002, if someone said “chateau” to me, I’d think - Château: cute, wooden lodge on mountain, maybe with lots of snow and some skis outside. Not anymore.

Because these French dudes just don’t know how to hold back. When they say Château, they mean extravagant, opulent, futher-mucking massive mansion/castle/palace.

And there are dozens of these scattered throughout the prime real estate of the Loire valley.

We only had time to explore two, so we picked the largest and (by reputation) the prettiest.

Chateau Chambord cost 7 euro each to visit. It is vast. It is situated in a midst of a huge garden estate, surrounded by forests still stocked with deer and wild boar. It has a grandeur of design and scale far in excess of Buckingham Palace. It seemed wrong to arrive at the gates without a stagecoach and funny stockings, curly wigs, boat-shaped hats. It is surrounded by a narrow moat and high walls. The extravagant building is visual feast of colossal round towers, conical roofs, dormer windows, chimneys, turrets and viewing platforms – a veritable celestial city.

The Chateau came about in 1519, when the ambitious 25 year-old King Francois I decided to establish his power. So he requested Chateau Chambord be designed and built as his little “hunting lodge”. Yet Chambord is no mere lodge. It is more like a gargantuan castle, a huge fortress with an internal keep, a surrounding wall and moat, and broad corner towers. Maybe Francois was expecting trouble. More likely he was just showing off to his neighbours. From the outside, Chambord is huge – 156 metres long and 56 metres high. It’s the equivalent of an 18-storey building. Some lodge!!!

Inside, Chambord is just as overwhelming as out. We wandered the vaulted halls of the mansion in the footsteps of Francois I. Francois was obviously not against a bit of self-promotion because the letter “F” was emblazoned everywhere throughout the palace – chipped into marble walls and ceilings, crafted into wooden doorways and furniture, grafted onto window handles. I took plenty of photos of all the “F”s to show Frances in case she ever decide to turn Chambord into her own weekend retreat. As well as the letter “F” – Francois’ favourite festoonment was the emblem on the salamander, a slippery lizard/dragon-like creature who stared down at us from its place within sculptured ceilings and amongst turreted gargoyles.

The rooftop turrets outside and the vast spooky halls inside had more than enough room for screaming school kids and US tourists. The high-ceilinged, drafty rooms featured rich, gluggy, four-poster bedchambers of the rich and famous (Francois/King Louis), and places called things like “the drawing room” and “the music room”, featuring opulent collections of paintings, sculptures and tapestries. A predominant theme of all this heavily textured artwork suggested Francois hadn’t dubbed this pad his “hunting” lodge for nothing – there were dozens of representations of packs of hunting dogs ganging up on single wild boars and tearing them to pieces. Charming.

My favourite part of Chateau Chambord was the Great Staircase, a marble masterpiece of art and functionality, attributed by some to Leonardo De Vinci. This staircase was spiral and wound its way up the four floors of the palace. However, this was no “ordinary” marble staircase. It was a double spiral staircase – two separate entrances started on separate sides of the hall, and each stairway wound separately across from the other. I stood back in wonder and tried to work out how the thing was engineered – it took me a while. It was not only a beautifully detailed work of art and engineering, it was also a really cool thing for kids to play hide and seek on.

The other Chateau we visited that day in the Loire valley was called Chenonceaux – also a pronunciation minefield. Chenonceaux was the sort of Chateau to look over at Chambord and say, “size isn’t everything.” Or: “It’s not the quantity, it’s the quality”. And Chenonceaux certainly had the quality.

The palace (sorry, but I just can’t think of them as “chateaus”) had perhaps the most stunning setting I have every seen for a royal residence. Alongside the castle were exquisitely sculptured gardens of hedge-work spirals, pruned trees, and rainbow flower beds – again it felt wrong not to be walking slowly and stiffly with my arm outstretched escorting a tightly corseted and elaborated costumed lady of the court, discussing court intrigues and royal gossip. AJ tried, but didn’t even come close.

But the gardens were only part of Chenonceaux’s exterior splendour. These gardens sat alongside the River Cher (as in “Sonny and…). But the palace itself was not just situated on the banks of “Sonny and…” as well.

Because Chenonceaux was actually built on the river. It was stunning. The castle rose from the still waters of the “Sonny and…” like a fairytale. The river ran through it – under the castle and through the buttressed archways holding it up. A lowered drawbridge gave us access from the riverbank to this very special island castle.

Before I entered Chenonceaux I much preferred its setting and surroundings to that of the colossal, intimidating Chambord. But once I crossed that drawbridge I was sold. Chenonceaux was almost as perfect inside as it was out.

Compared to Chambord, Chenonceaux was much smaller, much more intimate. Still a mansion yes, still a huge residence for a family, but so much more manageable when it came to mopping the floors – or playing that aforementioned game of hide and seek. The rooms weren’t huge and drafty, they were comfortable and intimate. True, the interior decorating was still way too rich and plush for my taste, but after Room for Improvement had done their work…

It was a great little p(a)lace.

The main part of the 16th century castle was a three-storied structure with the usual exotic furnishings, paintings and tapestries – although these decorations could have been called understated compared to those of Chambord and Versailles. Perhaps that is because of its most famous resident.

Chenonceaux is famous for being the haunt of Diane de Poitiers, the mistress of Henry II. Now this brings to mind two questions: Did any of those royal dudes not have mistresses? And did each lucky bit-of-fluff-on-the-side score a pad as awesome as Chenonceaux? Who knows…but I don’t think Camilla Parker-Bowles scored quite as well centuries later.

Anyway, Diane de Poitiers apparently got whatever she wanted, and understandably, she wanted Chenonceaux. That was until poor, unfortunate, adulterous Henry died in an accident during a combat tournament, and his wife – the Queen, Catherine de Medici – wanted Chenonceaux back. But, royals being royals and not Jerry Springer guests, the Queen didn’t kick Diane out on her backside, but instead provided another (presumably humbler) Chateau – Chaumont-sur-Loire - for the ex-mistress to spend the rest of her days in. How civilised.

Catherine de Medici, then Regent of the kingdom, ruled France from Chenonceaux.

The relatively intimacy of Chenonceaux meant that we had to jostle for position in the smaller rooms and stairwells with rowdy school kids and pushy tour groups. But I still preferred it to Chambord. We explored the modest chapel, the rib-vaulted hall, and the kitchen area below the main floor and the secret hidden entrance into the castle from the river below.

Next to the main living part of the castle was a 60 metre long gallery, which stretched across to the southern bank of the Cher. This gallery – basically just a bridge enclosed in marble and stone – was wonderful – a long stretch of simple black and white tiles on the floor, windows hidden in arched cubicles, subtle fresco-bust-plaques of royal dudes on the walls. It was a great place for royal strolling or skateboarding. In both World Wars, it had been used as a hospital. It was a strange concept – these hallowed royal walls containing rows of bloodied, bunk-bedded soldiers – but standing back and looking down the length of the gallery, I could imagine it. The blood, the pain, the fear, the death…and yet this setting, with its airy, spacious confines, with the large amount of natural light flooding in and reflecting off the white marble…I could also feel a great sense of peace.

I am sure people died in there.

The weather in the Loire Valley was as odd as it had been on the coast of Normandy – very changeable. One minute there was blue skies, the next - heavy rain. One minute sunglasses, the next - umbrella. Most unusual.

After our overdose of French Chateaus, AJ and I sheltered in Shirley from the rain, dug out our maps and guidebooks, and tried to work out our next stop. Well, I tried to work it out. AJ just agreed with anything I spit-balled.

Our problems with Shirley before and during the first few weeks of our trip had put our schedule back a little. But so far – apart from missing the Napoleonic battlefields of Belgium – no major travel targets had been sacrificed to time and misfortune. We had seen the two main areas of France – the Normandy/Brittany coast, and the Loire Valley – that I had wished to see before we entered Spain. I mean, there were many other French areas I was equally excited about seeing – the South of France Riviera, Provence, The French Alps, Alsace-Lorraine – but these were to wait until after Iberia anyway. They were still on the schedule.

But deciding on our next step was tough. We were basically dead centre in the middle of France. We would have to head south to get to Spain. But which way south? Possibly southwest across to the coast again, to explore the historical port of La Rochelle, the famous sand dune mountains of Arcachon, the tasty vineyards of Bordeaux?

Originally, we probably would have taken that route, and entered Spain on its northwestern border with France, and then explored Iberia in an anti-clockwise direction, exiting up near Montpellier to explore the French Riviera. That made the most practical sense.

However…variables. Always variables. Our good mate Julio, he of the dud mechanic father and Spanish ancestry, had promised to meet up with us in north-western Spain in late June, and introduce us to his family, show us around. He promised boozy sangria-filled nights out in tiny Spanish villages, relatives who would not speak English but would welcome us with open arms, and an experience to stay and help out on a genuine Spanish farm.

This opportunity sounded too good to miss – genuine cultural contact as opposed to manufactured tourist contact. People as opposed to guidebooks. There was no way we were going to miss it. The only thing was, Julio could only get time off work in late June, not earlier, and so we would have to rendezvous with him towards the end of Spain, not before.

Which meant we would have to keep northwest Spain to the end of our Iberian experience, and enter Spain from the east, up near Barcelona. So, based on this, we told our friend Jane – who was joining AJ, Shirley and I for Spain – woohoo!!! – to change her original travel plans and meet us in Barcelona instead of San Sebastian.

Which meant two things. We were committed to meeting Jane in Barcelona in a little over a week. And the best route to Barcelona was dead south, across the Massif Central plateau.

I wasn’t gutted about missing the Atlantic Coast, Bordeaux’s vineyards, or Arcachon’s sand dunes. After all, missing something meant seeing something else. My glass – at that stage of 2002 anyway – was still half full.

Instead, I was excited about exploring the volcanic valleys of the Massif Central, the strange town of Le Puy en Velay, the spectacular Gorges du Tarn, the walled city of Carcassonne, and the curious province of Andorra.

This route was fine. Things were good.

We headed due south, and – perversely – up.


---------------


Bogging to Britney


On our first night on the road between the Loire Valley and the Massif Central, we camped in a rest area alongside the motorway not far from Bourges. Like the last time we had parked in a motorway rest stop (our first night in France, up near Calais) we found it as unusual experience. Obviously – as I have said – travelling the French motorways is not a cheap way to go, but, I have to acknowledge - their rest areas are up there with the best in the world.

They have the usual parking spaces, toilet block, picnic table, etc. But they are all so damn nice.

The parking areas are spacious – perhaps too spacious, because they are almost always empty. The picnic tables are numerous, the gardens neatly trimmed, the telephone booths functional, the kids playgrounds well outfitted. The toilet blocks are incredibly clean and pristine.

All very unusual. But get this:

When I went to use the toilet in this rest area near Bourges, I found something I hadn’t seen since Asia, or Africa. A squat toilet!!! What was a squat toilet doing in the middle of France? And why was there a disabled toilet in the ladies toilets which was a normal porcelain bowl arrangement? And why was the rest stop so deserted that I could sneak in and use the disabled toilet no worries? (If I’d been caught I could have plead I was disabled by cultural toilet habits).

OK, so I wasn’t expecting squat toilets in Europe. I got over my narrow expectations soon enough. We encountered them a few more times anyway, no biggie.

But get this:

Even more outrageous than the squat toilet arrangement. Whenever I used the loo or when I washed our dinner dishes at the handy stainless steel sink, or when I gave myself a basin bath with baby wipes in the bathroom sink…each of these times I conducted my business to the dulcet tunes of Britney Spears, Celine Dion, or Aerosmith.

The toilet block had piped music. And not just any music. American music. Cheesy music.

There I was, washing our dishes, in a rest stop dead in the middle of France, listening to Frank Sinatra or Bing Crosby crooning about Strangers in the Night. Listening to some Rodgers and Hammerstein showtune. Listening to 1990’s pop crap.

What a surreal experience.

But the most bizarre thing of all was that…these songs were all in English. The radio announcements were in French. But the songs – all English. We heard English (nee American) songs getting played wherever we went in France – much more than any French tunes. The French obviously loved songs sung in English.

But whenever we spoke to a non-tourist-industry French person in English, they looked blankly at us. Like they did not understand a single word!!!

Now, c’mon guys!!! Even I know that “Que Sera, Sera” means “whatever will be will be”. And that “99 Luft Balloons” means “99 Red Balloons”. Try a bit harder…


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Sneak Peak


We had a few visitations by Strangers in the Night in that rest area that evening – but they were just semi-trailer drivers taking a kip or a crap. Shirley was so well camouflaged in the corner up against the forest we feared some of the rig drivers might inadvertently crush us. But the only disaster was arising in the morn to find the heavy rainfall through the night had saturated the boots I had foolishly left outside the van – I had to hold them over Shirley’s air vent blower all morning to dry them out.

Our drive that day was long and mostly unspectacular. The crappy weather didn’t help. The scenery started out flat but gradually the rolls started coming in, like the onset of a middle age belly. The motorway was smooth and boring and cut effortlessly through the rolling green hills.

Within these pretty, undulating valleys, we passed Vichy – a town famous for the curative powers of its sulphurous springs, and for its bottled waters. We also passed Clermont-Ferrard, a modern, sprawling, ugly town with an incredibly dramatic cathedral at its centre – not for its size or style of its two slender, imposing spires – but for its colour. The cathedral was not the normal dull grey or soft brown. The Cathedrale Notre-Dame is Clermont-Ferrard is black.

It was a little freaky. A little Gothic, a little Batman.

The cathedral – and many of Clermont-Ferrard’s older buildings – were constructed from local volcanic rock – black volcanic rock. As well as a little strange, it was also pretty cool.

The heart of the Massif Central is known as the Auverge – a rugged landscape topped with dozens of extinct volcanoes – the peaks of which are known as “puys”. One of the tallest and most accessible puys is Puy De Dome, which AJ, Shirley and I set to scale.

Throughout the day, we had been gaining altitude on the A71 motorway, but at such a gradual rate we had barely noticed our ascension. As soon as we paid the fare of 4.50 euro per auto and hit the road in the Puy de Dome national park though, we noticed our ascension.

It was only a short drive from Clermont-Ferrard, but it was incredibly steep.

As we headed up the winding forest road, the gradient increased by the kilometre. Shirley went from 4th, to 3rd, to 2nd, to eventually, 1st gear. She went from purring to screaming. It felt brutal to punish her like that. It felt like she was our child and we were screaming at her to cross the finish line at an athletics meet when really all our child was capable of was staggering in circles and drooling. I felt like a bastard as I encouraged AJ to nurse Shirley up the last few kilometres to the peak. Shirley had been so good to us for what – four days now? - and sure enough, with that short but brutal drive, we pushed her over the edge, and she spat the dummy again.

Her temperature needle gauge tried to abandon the dashboard and her engine started missing beats again. Just like old times. It did not bode well for our planned route across the French Alps, because this was a mere hill in comparison.

The last few kilometres of road to Puy de Dome’s apex hugged the sheer sides off the dome like a snake hanging on for dear life. The road was narrow and had a solid granite wall on the right, and a sheer drop-off on the left. We had zero chance of turning around, so we nursed Shirley to the top, and then gave her a long, long rest as we explored the Puy.

It was debatable whether the view was worth the damage we had done to our precious van. It was nice though. Pretty spectacular. Far-as-the-eye-can-see sorta stuff. The fact that we were actually in the clouds from time to time kinda prevented some presumably awesome views, but conversely made us feel really high. Which we were. 4800 feet. 1465 metres.

We had seen Puy de Dome from miles and miles away during our approach up the motorway – but we hadn’t been able to see the peak, as it seemed perpetually shrouded in low fluffy clouds. But from the peak, the clouds parted from time to time and allowed us a sneak peek through their atmospheric curtain. And what a peek it was.

Green valleys, lush farmlands and forests, from which would periodically arise big chucks of extinct volcanic rock, generally clothed in thick green vegetation, but often showing naked, black solidified lava on their peaks. Think Ving Rhames disguised as a rainforest from the eye-line down.

On the summit of our Puy were the remains of a Roman Temple, the Temple De Mecure. Now I am always up for a good batch of Roman Ruins, but these were disappointing. Maybe because the “ruins” aspect was more prevalent here than the roman aspect. Maybe because my imagination was on strike that afternoon. Maybe because an enormous television antenna loomed up right on top of the ruined temple and kinda spoiled the ancient ambiance. The antenna was so high up it served TV to all of France. For that I could forgive it spoiling the ambiance.

The cultural – or natural - ambiance wasn’t helped at Puy de Dome’s summit by the visitor’s centre/exclusive restaurant/tourist trap building near the car-park. But, with its expensive view across the immediate world, it did remind me of Ernst Starvo Blofeld’s Alpine fortress in On Her Majesty’s Secret Service (in a kind of a downbeat, humble way).

Inside was pretty cool too – a natty little museum explaining the geological and cultural history of the region. We watched videos of the Tour De France bike ride culminating at the Puy de Dome, and cringed at the ease with which these cyclists had conquered the steep peak compared to Shirely’s agonising effort. The most interest was to be found in a gallery on volcanos, looking into the how, why and when factors. The coolest display – because it was so relevant to our experience that day – explained why the rainfall on the top of Puy de Dome was twice as high as that on the town only a few kilometres away. The “Foehn Effect” occurs in the Chaine des Puys (Chain of Peaks) area, where cold, humid air cools further as it hits the lee side of a mountain and rises up, condensing and giving rise to heavy precipitation at higher altitudes, thus causing the air on the other side of the mountain to heat up and dry as it goes down to the plain. Hence, the remarkable view of the Chaine des Puys region where dozens of cloud bunches snuggled up against only peaks themselves, leaving the low valleys and plains lonely and neglected.

It made more sense than my Grade 10 geography teacher did anyway.

We didn’t get too much further across the Auvergne after we descended Puy de Dome that day. Shirley was exhausted from the battering we’d put her through and kept acting up. In a tiny mountain valley village I tried to change her coil, but found that without the right tool I could not operate on Shirley till she was cooler than her current scalding temperature. We made our way further south in fits and starts and drives and breakdowns that bought to mind the good old days of two weeks before.

It was though, an undeniably beautiful area to experience crushing, soul-destroying frustration in. As we descended the Puy de Dome, our milk bottle fell over in the back of Shirley and stained precious dairy products over her floor instead of into AJ’s and my bones where it belonged. We got lost after our initial descent and found ourselves in a world unbeknownst to maps for almost a day. We spent the night parked in a neglected rest area which was a complete contrast to the pristine motorway rest-stop/hotel of the night before – this place had no running water and crap everywhere in the toilet block except in the toilet bowls themselves.

But…none of that stuff mattered. It was worth it. To be in the Massif Central, it was worth it. I was very happy we had come this way. It was the best scenery I had seen in Europe thus far.


---------------


Massif Attack


It was a quiet, untouristed, very special area. Grassy fields and wooded valleys. Narrow country lanes. Roadside flowers, purple, white and yellow. Little spired churches or ancient stone ruins sat atop steep hillsides. Farms in springtime – dopey brown grazing cattle with long spiky horns kept the laws trimmed. Chunky brown chickens crossed the narrow roads enmasse. Horses roamed through fields of golden flowers. Spring foals and calves struggled to find their feet and galloped clumsily after their mums. Farmers milked cows. Cute little villages. Space.

The higher we got, the better the views became. We crossed into and over France largest regional park, the Parc Naturel Regional des Volcans d’Auvergne. Soon we found ourselves not looking up at the rugged landscape of puys, but down at them. Down across a vast green sea of long ridges and jagged peaks. We crossed the vast plateau of the Massif Central. The plateau itself was generally flat, easy driving, a huge gentle plain. But whereas before we had driven through flat gentle plains with hills or mountains surrounding us, here we were driving across a flat gentle plain on top of the mountains. The plains didn’t slope up on the horizons, they sloped down. It seemed like we were on top of the world. It seemed like the alpine field Julie Andrews had felt alive from the Sound of Music in.

Despite there only being a few roads in this rugged countryside, we managed to get lost a few times – but we followed Shirley’s nose and kept going in vaguely the right direction.

We passed through Bourg-Lastie, Ussel, Bort-les-Orgues, Riom–es-Montagnes, and Murat. Several of these towns bought to mind the valleys of Morocco, where I’d seen townships built down onto the steep valley walls, as close to the river and lushest vegetation as possible. The main difference being, of course, once you got out of the valley in Morocco, you were surrounded by desert. Here, you were surrounded by verdant mountains.

We stopped in Riom-es-Montagnes, and were reminded that we were strangers in a strange land. Not that they repelled tourists or anything, just that they were so obviously unused to them. It was nice change.

There was very little sign of life. Curious kids hung around Shirley as we waited for her to cool down and chowed down on some lunch ourselves. In a lovely park, old men played boules. This is a sorta high-culture version of the game of horseshoes. Or a more-shiny, throw-not-roll version of lawn bowls. In boules, players toss and try to land silver balls as close as possible to the target ball – in the meantime trying to slam their opponent team’s balls away. Like professional lawn bowls (and probably professional horseshoes too), there is just as much posturing and displaying of intense concentration among the more hard-core players as there is of the actual physical throws. Cute little old guys!

The shops in tiny Riom-es-Montagnes town - including the supermarket, hairdresser, and florist - all closed at lunchtime. Most unusual concept. Don’t think it would float on Oxford Street or Fifth Avenue somehow.

Despite the obvious fact that we were in a tiny village up in the mountains in the middle of France, AJ still was very put out by the facts that (a) there was not an internet café or three in town, and (b) even if he had found an internet terminal, it probably would have been closed for lunch.

AJ was not exactly embracing the travel thing that day. In fact, the futher we got from a big city, the more grumpy and agitated he became, the more desperate he became to connect with his old life via the phone, the internet, or – at the very least - The Sun newspaper.

It was extremely frustrating for me, but I had no idea what to do. Here I was, in exactly the place I wanted to be, going into orgasmic raptures about possibly the best scenery I had seen in Europe, trying to get a positive response from AJ, some sort of validation…but…nothing. Just the odd grunt. He was incredibly mopey and miserable. It was a gorgeous day, and undoubtedly a gorgeous, special place, but AJ’s mood put a pall over the whole experience.

What to do?

Gentle encouragement didn’t work.

“Isn’t this great, Charles?”

Grunt.

Even suggestion of the return of a familiar element in his life didn’t work.

“Isn’t it gonna be great to see Janeo in a week?? Can’t wait!!!”

Grunt.

Nothing.

The harder I tried, the less response I got.

He was never nasty or malicious to me, but he was just completely ignorant and rude. Utterly miserable.

It was an overwhelming effort just to get two words out of him.

Eventually I gave up and retreated into two old friends who wouldn’t (well, couldn’t) ignore me, my guidebook and my camera. Talk in the van turned from one-sided to non-existent. In this manner we crossed the Massif Central…


---------------


A Little Less Conversation, a Little More Fraction


I tried not to let AJ ruin it for me.

But damn, did he try! Maybe not consciously, but…

AJ knows I hate him smoking around me, but he smoked every chance he got. He drew the line at smoking in the van but even if he had, I doubt I would have had the courage to object. Because by now, I was so terrified of upsetting AJ, of pushing him even further over the edge, that I basically agreed with anything he did, anything he said.

But it was so hard to agree with his driving.

Let me say, straight off the bat, AJ is a superb driver. Now I can say in complete modesty that (despite much evidence to the contrary) I am a damn good driver. But AJ is a champion. Video games and teenage joy rides had given him split- second reflexes behind the wheel, and nerves of steel. He is very confidant, and more than competent. I was not only grateful that he had volunteered to do all the driving on our trip, not only grateful that he loved driving (even loved driving Shirley when she worked), but I was especially grateful that AJ was such a good driver.

Cause most of the time, I felt I was in very safe hands.

However, the day we crossed the Massif Central, I didn’t. I thought we were going to die. I thought AJ was going to kill us.

The road from Ussel to Murat is a highway, but it is a narrow highway. As I’ve said, it is not generally steep, but it does go up and down some fairly long, high slopes. In some places, it clings precariously to the side of the hill sides, with just intermittent white markers between yourself and a long skydive to the valley floor. In some places the road corners so sharply it almost seems to cut back on itself.

On this road, on the 29th May 2002, I was truly glad I did not suffer from carsickness. At times, our journey felt so tumultuous, so topsy-turvy, so gut-wrenchingly, nerve-tingly thrilling, that I felt like I was on a rollercoaster. At other times, I felt like I was going to die.

AJ was driving like a madman.

Like I said, he’s a great driver, so he had the skills to back it up. But my main worry was that we did not have the van to back it up.

AJ pushed Shirley to her limits, and beyond. Whenever we entered a shallow valley from the top of one peak, he would put the pedal to the metal and floor it for all it was worth, caning Shirley’s engine so she screamed for relief…which came when she started making her way back up the hill on the other side of the valley. Any veering or turning combination with these high speeds meant Shirley’s body – which sat way too high on her wheelbase remember – would shudder and skew dangerously.

AJ was driving Shirley at speeds she wasn’t used to on the motorways, let alone on precarious mountain roads. He was driving Shirley like she was an Aston Martin, and he was James Bond.

The cornering was the worst. AJ never missed a turn, never skidded off the road, never drove us to death, but geez…did he come close…

He slowed down just enough to take the corners at the maximum possible speed, with Shirley juddering helplessly and hopelessly on her poor suspension and tired brakes. One wrong turn, one misplaced bump, one slight twitch of the steering wheel, and I had no doubt Shirley would have rolled over and lost all of us forever at the base of some French ravine.

I have never seen better driving than I did that day in France. But I have never seen more dangerous driving either.

It was terrifying.

So why didn’t I stop him? Why didn’t I insist he slow down, chill out, take a break, relax?

Because as terrified as I was of dying in a horrible flaming wreck of a mountainside car crash, I was more terrified of AJ’s bad mood.

Pretty sad, huh?

But he was just so damn sensitive and prickly about everything, I was incredibly tentative about even a hint of criticism. Dr Hyde was already seeping through the edges of AJ’s psyche, and I was loath to release him one more time. I would do anything to keep the peace. Even die in a blazing wreck.

OK, I did try. With incredibly subtlety. I never actually said anything to AJ, but I hoped that my actions might suggest to him that I thought he was driving dangerously and should cool it a bit.

What actions? Totally involuntary actions. Just holding on for dear life and holding back my screams.

For much of the drive along the highest and windiest of those mountain roads, my left hand clutched the safety handle near Shirley’s windscreen, and my right hand found a grip behind her engine mounting. Any though of abandoning this white-knuckled stronghold to take pictures (of what I thought was the best scenery we’d seen) was pointless. All I could do was hang on, and stare goggle-eyed at the onrushing road, titling my body severely as we shot around each corner like I was in a bobsled. On the worst corners, my stifled screams came out as a sort of sharp intake of breath through my teeth:

“Shhheeeeesssssssssshhhhh.”

The longer the corner, the longer Shirley seemed to balance up on two wheels on the edge of the precipice, then the longer the “Shhheeeesssshhhh”.

Even AJ could not fail to notice. After me twentieth “ssshhhheeeessshhhh”, he glared over at my ashen face.

“What’s wrong?”, he demanded sourly.

Now, if I had been a man instead of a mouse, this would have been the point at which I screamed, ”YOU ARE DRIVING LIKE AN ABSOLUTE MANIAC!!! PULL OVER BEFORE YOU KILL US BOTH!!!!”

However –

“Nothing”, the mouse replied meekly.

I wasn’t just fear of offending AJ further that stopped me objecting to his driving. I was also terrified that confronting him while he carried a deadly weapon – Shirley on that road – my push him to do something stupid.

Now, I know I’m melodramatic. I know a morbid fascination with my own death arises sometimes. And I know I exaggerate for dramatic license in prose and in speech sometimes. But I did carry the fear of death that day. In fact, the next time we stopped and I was out of AJ’s earshot, I recorded my fears into my dictaphone diary, just in case anything happened to us on the next stretch of road. I was scared I wouldn’t get a chance to say goodbye to Frances.

But still, even after we took a driving break, I didn’t suggest AJ cool it behind the wheel.

Anything not to rock the boat, that’s my philosophy.

Even die.

In retrospect, I probably should have insisted AJ chill out and drive more safely. Because my constant tiptoeing around his sensitivity was obvious even to him. And he hated that behaviour just as much as he hated the rest of me.

The more amiable and understanding and pandering to AJ’s outrageous behaviour I was, the more upset AJ seemed to get. The less of a grumpy bastard I was, the less he responded to me. Perhaps he couldn’t understand why I was refusing to act in the anti-social way he was. Perhaps he was so desperate to sabotage the trip and get home, he was hoping that his mood would push me into a similar one and let him off the hook when it came time to call it quits.

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps…

All in retrospect.

At the time, I was amiable and agreeable purely because I could think of no other way to get AJ out of his funk. I wanted to set an example to him of how travel could be enjoyed if you opened yourself up to it.

And I was scared of him.

My best friend. I was scared of being honest with him. Is that not just about the saddest thing you have ever heard?


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Virgins & Elephants


Le Puy En Velay is the southernmost city in France’s Auvergne region. It is also one the coolest, most unusual places I have ever been.

Le Puy En Velay sprawls across a wide valley in the mountains, a haphazard mismatch of red roofs, grey walls, cobblestoned streets and elaborate churches. For just these features alone it is beautiful, fascinating, and interesting.

But the landscape of the valley makes it special. And special is – as always – a nice word for “weird”.

The town is dotted with steep puys – sharp, jutting protuberances of jagged rock. On one of these puys – near the entrance to the town - is a medieval castle. On one – dead centre of town, is a massive Cathedral. On one – the highest puy of all - sits an enormous crimson statue of the Virgin and Child (for those non-religious among you, that’s Jesus’ Mum holding him in her arms). On one – the steepest, most dramatic puy of all - sits a tiny abbey, seemingly chipped away from the volcanic rock by hand.

The view of Le Puy En Velay is breathtaking. This town – rarely visited by tourists because of its remote location, seems almost impossible, otherworldly, unreal. I loved it.

We stayed in a little park near a caravan village for a nominal fee. We parked in such a position that I would have a nighttime and morning view from Shirley’s bed – a campsite view that was second only to that of Mont-St-Michel, a week or two before. Coincidentally, like Mont-St-Michel – this view was also of an abbey named after Saint Mick and built on rock. But this abbey in Le Puy En Velay was much smaller, and this rock outcrop was much more slender.

The 10th century chapel of St-Michel perched precariously atop a narrow 80-metre-tall pole of volcanic rock called the Rocher d’Aiguille. We toughed out the hike to St Michel one morning, and once I could breath again we explored the eleventh century abbey at the top, an odd series of tiny, holy rooms moulded out of the puy, filled with etchings and mosaics and reverent candles, and topped by a beautifully decorated bell-tower.

The nearby puy straddled by the famous Virgin and Child Statue was not as steep or as tough a climb, but the higher vantage point made for an even more satisfying view. Corneillie Rock is 757 metres tall. The statue itself is 22m tall and was fashioned in 1860 from the metal of more than 200 cast-iron cannons captured by the French in the Crimean War at Sebastopol.

Best thing about the Virgin was that you could enter her.

I’ve never been inside a 110 ton virgin before.

We climbed up inside lady Virgin – and her innards reminded me a great deal of the Statue of Liberty’s insides. But whereas the Statue of Liberty involves a long, leg-limbering climb to the crown, mounting the good lady Virgin took no time at all. She was as pink on the inside as she was on the out. At the highest point one could stand in Le Puy En Velay, we peered out through a hole in her neck at the back of a gi-normous, pink, 1100 kg, baby-Jesus head, and beyond, down to the wacky town of Le Puy En Velay.

The town itself is dominated by these puys of course. But despite the looming, nutty nature of a massive pink Virgin and a tiny puy-top abbey, the most dominant structure of all is probably Le Puys’ 12th century cathedral. It is built on top of a solid, sturdy puy – Mont Anis. At the cathedral’s size, the puy needs to be sturdy. The old town – a mass of streets and steps and winding lanes - fans out it all directions from the cathedral, down to the valley floor. You could get lost for weeks in all these medieval alleyways - filled with dead ends and lost corners to nowhere. Shops sell lace – a famous trade, and old ladies sit stitching this bobbin lace at the storefronts. Cars and mopeds whip around the narrow streets with the agility of pedestrians. Their owners park them in the most improbable, impossible spaces. In the long shadow of the cathedral, I encountered a schoolyard built on the slope of the puy, where uniformed school kids played, lunched, gossiped –just like any school kids in the world. They seemed completely oblivious to the fact that their schoolyard was so unique.

The cathedral itself is called the Notre Dame Cathedral, which left me wondering if every damn cathedral in France had the same name. But similarities to other Gallic houses of God I’d visited ended there. Like everything else about Le Puy En Velay, this cathedral was unique. For starters, the 134 stairs between the street and the front door looked daunting enough to discourage even Rocky Balboa.

At the top of the stairs the frontage of the cathedral was unlike any I’d seen – mosaiced brickwork and masonry. Browns and whites predominated. The style is a mix of Romanesque, Byzantine, and Arabic. You can see the influence of the Eastern world and Moorish Spain. The cathedral’s base colour was not black like Clermont-Ferrand’s but it was built from volcanic rock as well, so its colour was a dark, rich brown. On this were alternate layers of light and dark masonry. The cathedral did not seem to be just one building, but instead a conglomeration of several wings and annexes, with an internal courtyard leading to a multi-terraced bell tower. The cathedral inside was full of shadows and niches, and had a gloomy, spooky, lonely feel to it. It seemed almost as messy and unstructured and oddly beautiful as the town itself.

According to centuries-old legend, the cathedral was the site of a miracle when a woman was cured of fever there. I needed a few miracles of my own right then, but I didn’t ask for them that day. No reason to push my luck.

Like most ancient European towns, the older part of Le Puy – which mostly squatted around the steep alleyways of the cathedral puy – gave way to gradually more modern establishments the further from the centre you wandered. These “newer” buildings were still pretty special, their walls painted in bright primary colours, and with the ubiquitous orange terracotta tiles on their roofs. Some of the three-storied buildings with their high, shuttered windows bought back Parisian memories.

But as if reminding me that this town was still as odd as they come, my stroll through the 19th century “newer” streets slapped me with an experience too odd to suggest that Le Puy En Velay was like any other town in the world.

In the Place du Breuil square - in front of the magnificent Palais de Justice and Government Prefecture buildings, under the watchful eyes of the Virgin and Child and the cathedral bell tower - were a couple of Indian Elephants. Elephants. Here, in a remote French plateau town.

The circus was in town.


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Gorgeous Gorges


You may have noticed that when describing many of my explorations of Le Puy I have written above “I”, and not “we”. This is because AJ opted out of my much of my wonderful wanderings. He was still in a mood, and still preferred to seek solace on the internet or within a pub.

Our journey south from Le Puy En Velay was much like our journey into it. The scenery was truly outstanding. AJ said nothing. AJ drove like a maniac. I prayed.

Luckily the highway south from Le Puy En Velay was much wider and flatter than the one we had taken into it. Generally we just crossed the plateau’s upper, central reaches, and we seldom played around on its edges. It was a much calmer, more comfortable drive.

Until…

Mid afternoon on Day 24. We had been pushing Shirley along the plateau, higher and higher up roads that became progressively steeper and steeper. Just when we thought we could go no higher, we did. Shirley performed like a champion, doing everything we asked of her. The terrain became less flat fields, more woody forestation. The gradient became steeper and steeper. How much higher could we get? How much higher could Shirley get?

Then at the highest point of the plateau, just when the landscape seemed endless, we came to a severe cut, straight through the elevated plain. It was like we had been driving across the top of a birthday cake and suddenly hit the spot where the knife has cut down towards the base. Imagine a tiny little matchbox car on top of a vast, four-foot high sponge cake. Imagine the cut down into that cake from the top to the bottom of the tray. We drove Shirley to the top edge of that cut. And we looked down.

Way down.

For days, we had been driving “up”. Basically since we had left the coast at St Malo, but particularly since we’d met the Massif Central at Clermont-Ferrand, we had been titled backwards a lot more often than forwards. And here, on the edge, we looked down into a large chunk of that altitude.

We looked down into the Gorges Du Tarn.

The Gorges Du Tarn was a name which had come up during my pre-trip research. The pictures, the descriptions of the valley had entranced me. But nothing could have prepared me for the beauty of the Gorges Du Tarn. And nothing could have prepared me for the damage they would do.

From our plateau promontory, we could see the deep cut of the gorge through the landscape. We could not - at that altitude – glimpse the river Tarn itself, running far below. All we could see were the steep walls of the gorge.

We seemed to have arrived directly above a town in the gorge, nestled around the lower reaches far below. This was Ste-Enimie, and like Le Puy En Velay, I have never seen another town like it. Many differences though, between the two. Ste-Enimie was tiny – its permanent residents would have numbered in their dozens. And – unlike Le Puy En Velay, where a large town had been built amongst the puys – and adapted the puys into the town itself - Ste-Enimie was completely at the mercy of the landscape it was built upon. Every building struggled for a foothold along the sheer cliff walls.

But Ste-Enimie had a few advantages. It was built in a strategic spot of the gorge were the river took a sharp 90 degree turn. Using my previous metaphor if you will – imagine a huge quarter piece had been cut into the aforementioned cake – and we had arrived at the spot were the two cuts met. Ste-Enimie was down near the cake tray itself.

And we had to – somehow – get down to it.

The road was straight down and very, very steep. For once, AJ took it easy, and kept us slow. But it didn’t matter. It was too late. By the time we reached Ste-Enimie, the damage – possibly started days before – was done.

Shirley had been whinging and whining at us for a day or so, grumbling and grumping. Her engine hiccups seemed to have cleared up, and we had been very cautious not to overheat her. These new noises were coming from elsewhere. Her tyres…her wheels…her suspension…we couldn’t be sure. Somewhere up the front.

Long before we reached the gorges descent, we suspected there might be a problem. Many times, when AJ had turned left on the steep winding roads, and braked at the same time, a funny, objectionable sound had emanated from Shirley’s front wheelbase. We thought it was coming from the left wheel, but we couldn’t be sure.

It came and went. I first noticed it during AJ’s suicidal rally rush two days before. It had returned again on this day, on the tighter, steeper roads. It seemed worse when braking, worse when turning. It started out as imperceptible, almost imagined, and then crept gradually into our consciousnesses, and our fears.

We barely noticed it as we left the top of the cake and plunged Shirley straight over the edge of the gorge like we were the Men From Snowy River riding our trusty pony. All we needed was a whip to crack.

We headed straight down – with a few switchback turns – for the next quarter hour. AJ rode the brakes and I rode my panic. The hill was so steep we leaned back in our seats involuntarily. AJ’s hands turned white on the steering wheel. My hands desperately wanted to grab for my camera and capture the view of a lifetime out the window, but self-preservation took over and I held on tightly too.

Because a few minutes after we entered the Gorges Du Tarn, the sound from below our feet was anything but imperceptible, and far from the edge of our consciousness. It was coming through loud and clear. Our Shirley was in agony.

The noise didn’t start instantly though. It rose in direct proportion to our drop in altitude.

Within minutes the front wheel area of the van was shrieking and warbling profanities at us like a flock of seriously pissed-off jungle birds.

We cringed in sympathy for the pain we were forcing upon poor Shirley as she descended into the canyon. I guessed that the problem was somewhere in the front suspension, and related to the massive strain that was placed on it as we headed downwards – and maybe also from the strain AJ’s maniacal driving had put on the poor girl over the last few days. I surmised that the front suspension had been put under added pressure since Mr Julio’s crew had hoicked up the Shirley’s rear suspension so high and forced her backside up, and her nose down. These were just theories.

What was for sure was that the noise emanating from just below our feet wasn’t good.

We took a major chance and stopped in the middle of that narrow road, which was chipped into the rock canyon wall and hung on the edge of the precipe. Praying no traffic would stumble upon – or across – us, I scooted out of the van onto the slope and did a quick check of the axle and wheelbase. I was expecting a broken axle at worst, a flat tyre at best. But from there at least, everything looked fine. (If you could consider Shirley on a cliff edge with her nose tilted down at a severe angle towards the ground “fine”).

We continued on down the road, and as the road became progressively less steep, it was tough to decide if I was freaking out more about Shirley’s condition or the amazing scenery. Then something switched in my head, I entered the denial phase, and I concentrated on the Gorges Du Tarn, the most spectacular natural scenery I had seen in Europe. My camera clicked. Shirley moaned. AJ held his amazing concentration and kept it together.

We survived.

When the canyon levelled out, we made it to the cake tray, to Ste-Enimie.

Adrenalin pumping out of all control, I motioned AJ to the nearest car space on the main street.

We got out, and – without even looking at Shirley – locked her doors, crossed the street, entered a bar and ordered two beers.

Seemed like the thing to do at the time…


---------------


Tripus Interruptus


Ste-Enimie, the Gorges Du Tarn, was perhaps my favourite place in France, on that trip. My experience there was not my favourite experience, but to judge a place simply by the time you have spent there is unfair. So…while Paris will always hold the number one place in my heart for French memories, as far as natural, scenic beauty goes, I can’t imagine anything topping Gorges Du Tarn.

Our place – if not our method - of arrival was a superb way to meet the landscape. Getting dropped into it instead of sneaking up on it gave it enormous “wow” factor.

Ste-Enimie was situated at a crook in the River Tarn, at a spot where the gorge opened up to a little more space than along its usual straight run.

The River Tarn was only a few dozen metres wide, and was running low that spring. It bubbled westward through random sandbanks that stretched out from the gorge walls. Red canoes and their paddlists drifted lazily down the river, and brown horses and their riders sauntered along the rocky river banks and through the shallow edges of the river.

One slender highway ran completely along the gorge, only a few metres above the riverbank itself. A few other roads – including the one we’d dropped in on – snaked down into Ste-Enimie from above. It was the main intersection of the Gorges Du Tarn. Rush hour involved a few canoeists, a horse rider or two, some locals kids on the bicycles, a sexy leathered-up couple on their Harley-Davidson, and a friendly Labrador dog. And one clapped-out VW van carrying a couple of idiotic Aussies.

It was quiet, it was peaceful, and it was bliss.

The forest on top of the plateau struggled for a foothold as the walls became steeper and steeper – and in many places dropped away to sheer grey granite.

One high, arched, stone bridge crossed the Tarn at this intersection. Up higher, on the canyon walls, a few homes, abbeys and shrines clutched on precariously. The town itself nestled into probably the only decent sized spot in the Gorges Du Tarn that was more horizontal than vertical.

There were probably fifty buildings in Ste-Enimie, and most would have been geared to the tourist trade – housing restaurateurs, gift shop owners, canoe tour operators, and of course, hotel proprietors.

The homes were brick and stone and wood and basic. The views of the homes weren’t important. The views from the homes were what it was all about.

AJ and I watched one French family shut up their shop (a general convenience/tourist gift store) on their main street, before reappearing upstairs on the shuttered veranda above the shop to enjoy their evening repast, with their incomparable view down the gorge before them.

As AJ and I enjoyed our beers and the view, I pondered the lifestyle this family had – far removed from city life. A permanent escape from the rat race. Calm. Chilled. Cool. Perhaps slow, probably quiet, possibly boring at times, but…so relaxing. One of nature’s best views right in front of them. One of nature’s best playgrounds to enjoy. It seemed like heaven to me. Space. Peace. Fresh air...

Not surprisingly, AJ did not share my sentiments. I had directed our route to pass through the Gorges Du Tarn because, like so many other places, like Le Puy En Velay, it was (a) vaguely enroute, and (b) my research suggested it was well worth the detour.

AJ – although he never objected once – quite obviously didn’t agree. While I went into raptures at the scenery, he made mild noises of approval before clamming up entirely. When we enjoyed our Heinekens in the patio bar which looked straight onto the gorgeous valley, he seated himself with his back to the view. While I contemplated the purity of the mountain air, AJ sneezed and snuffled and complained about his hay fever.

No thanks to God, he wasn’t a country boy. That was for sure. He did not enjoy the outdoors at all. And all my attempts to encourage him to do so were falling on deaf – or ignorant - ears. I was realising that it was a hopeless case.

I felt like a father dragging a son along on a holiday which the son just didn’t want to go on, and during which the son did everything he could do to make his Dad have a horrible time. Reminding myself that AJ was not my son, but was an adult, did not help. AJ might have decided on – and committed himself to – this trip, he might have invested as much money as me and been prepared to travel for an equally long time, but I was realising now that AJ had made those commitments as carelessly as all his others. When I had looked him in the eye several months before, and explained the depth of commitment we’d need for this trip, when he had looked back at me and said “sure”, he probably didn’t know what he was saying. When I had asked him if he was happy enough to see the great outdoors and the cultural highspots of Europe for five months, and he had said “sure, sure, sure”, he probably hadn’t thought about what he was saying. He was so afraid of instigating conflict or disappointing me, he had most likely agreed with me because he had been afraid to rock the boat. What he hadn’t realised was that by going on a trip he didn’t want to go on, and acting miserable most of the way, was much more disappointing to me than if he had told me before the trip that he wasn’t too sure he could cut it.

But that’s AJ. Whereas I think way too much, he barely thinks at all. Whereas I consider, he reacts. And he obviously wasn’t reacting favourably to the trip now.

Because the boat wasn’t just rocking now, it was sinking.

However, he amazed me in Ste-Enimie. Perhaps it was the alcohol – definitely AJ’s primary catalyst for accessing his true feelings. After a beer, he finally acknowledged that his commitment to travelling for the entire five-month total might not be a firm as he’d originally promised.

“I don’t know Dave, it all depends on my visa, I’ll have to see what happens with that.”, he told me. Even though AJ normally talks very fast, whenever he is nervous or telling someone something he thinks they don’t wanna here, he doubles his vocal speed.

“But I don’t know, we’ll see.” (1.6 seconds)

What AJ didn’t realise was that I wanted to hear him admit he didn’t want to be there.

Visa???

What garbage. He had no visa requirements – in fact the longer he stayed away from the UK the better his changes of sneaking back in on yet another tourist visa were.

I didn’t want his feeble excuses. I wanted the truth.

I guess I got part of it, though – and this amazed and thrilled me. AJ was beginning to admit that he didn’t think he could travel with Shirley and I for five months. He probably had no idea of the reasons himself at that stage, but at least it was a start. At least he was acknowledging his confusion, and pulling away from his commitment.

Which made me happy, in a weird way.

I was devastated that AJ wasn’t enjoying our journey as much as myself, devastated that he wasn’t throwing himself into the travel experience in the same way he had done during our trips through the US, Canada, and England.

But I was lost…at my wits end. Nothing I did to try to perk him up, to try to break him out of his funk, worked. His constant sulking and misery was driving me closer to the edge. He was bringing me down. Over the last week, I had decided that if he didn’t say something about making a change, I would have to confront him and suggest it was time we went our separate ways. I was waiting for Spain and for Jane and Sam’s company to try to get AJ out of his foul funk. But each day got tougher and tougher.

So when he acknowledged he might not be with me for the next four months, my heart leapt. It wasn’t like it was out-of-the-blue. I didn’t feel the shock of disappointment - because a huge pall of disappointment had been building and growing over me like a storm cloud for the past two weeks. AJ’s announcement was like a bolt of lightning in that storm cloud. A bolt of lightning which suggested that even if the storm cloud didn’t lift or drift away, then at least it would open one day and everything would pour out the hard way.

The sooner the better.

So I replied to AJ encouragingly.

I think he though I might rant and yell and scream stuff about broken promises. Maybe I would have if I hadn’t half-wanted him to split too. But I just accepted his news and gently told him that while I would be saddened if he couldn’t finish the trip with me as planned, I would hate to have him do that if it didn’t make him happy. I gently encouraged him to do what he thought was best for himself, and not for me or the trip. I told him whatever he decided was fine with me. The more positive feedback I gave him, the more uncomfortably he squirmed and brushed it all aside, suggesting it might never happen. We would see.

Right then, we had a more pressing and immediate case of “tripus interruptus” to worry about. Shirley. And – no matter how miserable he might have been – one thing about AJ was that when the chips were down, he never turned his back. The more in trouble Shirley was, the more AJ’s morose mood lifted and the more dedicated he became to helping her get well. AJ truly came into his own during those times – in fact, many times when I approached despair over the van – AJ’s positive (or perhaps careless) attitude reminded me that in the scheme of things, it was no big deal.

AJ cooked a pasta and tomato sauce dinner in Shirley that night while I crawled up under her forefront to examine what ailed her.

Everything seemed attached and in place, yet the front suspension – compared to the high sitting back – was resting dangerously low, pushing down on the two protective rubber bushes, forcing them forward. There was also a massive amount of black gravel scattered around the axle, suspension and wheels – it had been thrown up there during our drive down the recently tarred road into the valley. I prayed delusionally that the awful sounds Shirley was making were coming just from the gravel stones caught up in her underbelly and brushed as much of them away. I wasn’t too confident.

After dinner, AJ drove Shirley around in circles in a wide car park down near the river, and – although the sounds of mechanical agony were lessened (perhaps from her rest) – they were still there.

It basically sounded like one or both of the front wheels were about to fall off.

Well beyond our feeble diagnostic or surgical skills. We found the only garage in town – actually a few kilometres out of town – but it was deserted, and the proprietor stuck his head out of the residence above the garage to tell us they were closed for the evening. Which was fine with us. Dusk was approaching so we trundled our vocal van up the gorge a little and found a small space on the side of the road to camp.

If Mont St Michel and Le Puy En Velay had provided the most scenic nightime views from Shirley, Gorges Du Tarn certainly provided the most naturally beautiful and relaxing. From the road, a grassy bank ran down a dozen metres to the river, which gurgled happily off into the distance, creating the lower point of the “V” formed by the steep canyon walls rising ahead of us.

A car would only roll past us every hour or so – unfortunately one of the earliest of these visits occurred before nightfall when AJ stood in full view on the roadside and emptied his bladder onto the riverbank.

The sun set out of our view, but the changing light reflected off the canyon walls, turning them from grey to fawn to russet to black. Soon, the outside of the “V” shape ahead of Shirley was as black as ink, and the inside of the “V” was filled with brilliant stars. It was the first time on the trip we had seen the stars. The, next morning, as dawn broke, the “V” was filled by a large, low, morning moon.

There were certainly worse places in the world to be broken down.


---------------


It is a wonderful experience to wake from slumber to the sound a running river. Those of you that haven’t tried it, I suggest you give it a go one day. Of course, the sound of running water can also give you an uncontrollable desire to pee, so it helps if you have somewhere handy to go.

Having somewhere handy to go was not a problem in the Gorges Du Tarn. It was nature. We could go anywhere. Number Twos though necessitated a little more forethought. Thus on the morning of Day 25 I found myself scurrying down the steep slope between the road and the river, butt cheeks clenched tightly together, seeking shelter. With gratifying speed, I found a great, discrete place to fertilise the French shrubbery.

Afterwards, I washed my hands and splashed my face in the cool, clear river. And I looked around. The morning sun sparkled on the irregular little waves in the running water. A canoe drifted sedentarily around a corner up ahead. I could have stayed there a month.

But…

I didn’t have that luxury.

And I didn’t want to be forced to stay there for a month.

Shirley…


---------------


A Mile at a Time


We drove back up the gorge towards Ste-Enimie, and to the garage we had been turned away from the prior evening. Thankfully, this time, the place had a few vehicles parked around, and showed some sign of life. I dug out from my bag a few sheets of paper I had printed off the internet. These were basically the specific international phrasings to translate English into whatever language necessary and say, basically, “We’re fucked” and “Help!”

As a large hairy Frenchman in overalls approached Shirley, I hunted through the French section and found the phrases for “front”, “wheel”, “suspension”, and “can you fix?”

As his querulously eyebrow I launched into my embarrassing routine, repeating the words in no particular order until he waved me to silence.

AJ and I looked at each other hopefully as he got a hydraulic jack and lifted Shirley’s front, before checking the wobbliness (technically speaking) of the wheels by grasping them in his huge forearms and hugging them back and forth. Unusual diagnostic technique, but effective, it seemed.

He turned back to us and jabbered a string of completely indecipherable French at us for a few minutes, waving his arms back and forth.

AJ and I looked at each other in mute incomprehension.

We had no concept what he was saying. But I bet if we had taped him and then played it backwards it would have come out in English like this: “You’re fucked…you’re fucked…Paul is the Devil…you’re fucked…”

All we could guess was that the greasy mountain mechanic was telling us what was wrong. Excellent!!! At least someone knew.

It didn’t actually matter to us – at that moment – what was wrong. So I dug out my phrase sheets again and started chanting the French words for “can you fix?, can you fix?”…

AJ and I watched with baited breath as the Gallic garageman screwed his face up in frown, pondered something for awhile…and then…as AJ and I got to the edge of our metaphoric seats…he nodded amiably.

“Oui…Oui…”, he said.

I felt like kissing him, although his filthy black stubble might have scratched a bit.

“Demain…demain…” he said, and, after looking at our blank faces searched his memory and came up with “tomorrow”.

Fine. One extra day – or even two - in paradise. Small price to pay for a safe vehicle.

He retreated into his workshop and made a few phone calls…for parts, we assumed. He returned a couple of times to us to ask for info about Shirley’s year of manufacture and her engine and chassis number. Each time he came back, my confidence slipped a notch. The final time he returned, he shook his head with something resembling regret.

“Non…non…”, he shrugged apologetically. “Year…year…”, he said, his greasy blackened finger pointing at the year of Shirley’s birth on the rego forms we’d given him. Basically, we thought, he was saying he couldn’t get the parts because Shirley was too old. Basically confirming for us that tried and true sentiment of today’s western society – if you are too old, forget it. Only youngsters need apply.

AJ and I were crushed. Our dirty friend here was saying he could not help us. It wasn’t his fault. He seemed genuinely sorry that he couldn’t get the necessary parts. There was no other garage around for at least thirty kilometres. We had no idea if Shirley was even safe to drive around the corner, let alone on a narrow canyon road.

"So how far do you think we will get like this?" I asked the Gallic Garageman.

He looked at me blankly.

"Five kilometres? Ten kilometres?" I held up my fingers, with a numeric display of my dialogue, and waved down the canyon to demonstrate motion through it.

His face screwed up, all his features concertinaing into a massive cringe. He looked down at the wheel of the van again, as if calculating something, then stared down the road, into the distance, beyond landscape and tangibility.

He looked back at us. His shoulders moved upwards til they were next to his ears. His hands swivelled till the open, helpless palms faced us. His face relaxed from its ridgy cringe into a sad, almost pitying look of sorrow.

This colossal Gallic shrug said everything that words could not. No translation necessary.

He had no idea whatsoever how far we might get before the wheel fell off.

His guess was as good as ours.

We had no option but to continue. So we did. It was not a very pleasant day. But it was certainly memorable. Actually, in a similar way to our drive into the canyon the prior afternoon, the day was balanced out nicely. Spectacular scenery. Stressful drive though it.

But the drive out of the canyon took a whole lot longer…

Again, I entered denial as we trundled along the canyon road, ignoring Shirley’s building screams and concentrating on capturing a mere fraction of the beauty around me through my camera lens.

I wasn’t sorry we were there. It was stunning. It was staggering. The further east from Ste-Enimie we travelled, the more spectacular the gorges scenery became. The cliffs became higher and even more steep. The road along the base of the northern cliff was cut - bored in places - into the cliff, and we passed through small granite tunnels, archways and overhangs. Some of the overhangs we so low I wondered if a tour bus would fit under them. The rugged, unrelenting nature of this…nature, well, it staggered me. This gorge wasn’t taking crap from anyone. The building of just the mere narrow road must have been a massive accomplishment.

The area reminded me of some of the more dramatic national parks in Utah and Arizona. In some parts the cliffs were sheer, and we saw a bunch of rock-face-clinging orienteers doing the Tom Cruise-Mission Impossible 2 thing, but thankfully these blokes had ropes. A more relaxing sport in the area, which I could relate to more easily, was canoeing. There were many little canoe-hire places and tour operators scattered along the highway, and we got many glimpses of these colourful boats paddling down the river. The weather was perfect: clear and cloudless, warm and wonderful.

Great day.

Bad day.

Even without the noises coming from below, it would not have been the most stress-free drive ever. The road was very narrow, and as such, AJ had to be constantly vigilant for oncoming traffic – and make sure he gave them plenty of room. He did this very well, but was not helped by me. You see, in any normal country-car relationship, the driver sits on the inside, near the middle of the road. Shirley in Europe however, meant AJ and the steering wheel were on the kerbside of the car, and the passenger seat and myself where on the inside, closest to the oncoming traffic. Not usually a problem, but on a narrow canyon road…

AJ was very patient with me, but it can’t have been easy for him sitting there driving as every second time an oncoming car passed us I threw my hands in front of my face and screamed like a four-year old girl. It was wimpy I know, but it was involuntary. I honestly thought we were so close to those oncoming cars we were going to have sideswipe incident.

And once, we kinda did.

Traffic was very minimal, but it often consisted of campervans even wider than Shirley. Unlike Shirley, these campervans were always new, white, clean and wheel-shriek free. Once, as we approached one of them, I did my cower-and-shriek routine, and then heard – and felt – a definite “whack”.

This time we had hit him.

I pulled my hands from my face, and turned to see if the Winnebago deluxe was slowing down to take names and numbers. He wasn’t – probably because it was his fault as much as ours, if not more so. I wondered where he had hit as I looked at the rear view mirror on my side door to see the other campervan’s progress. Look no further, I needed not. (Apologies to Yoda there). Because their side mirror had obviously collided with ours, and ours had been flung back on its mount till it was almost inside the window. Narrow escape.

It was a good thing that not just the traffic coming towards us was minimal, but also that the traffic heading outbound on the same road as us was also low density. This was because we were driving along so slowly that the canoes in the river below were overtaking us.

Because of our problems – and the nature of the road – we drove along in 2nd or 3rd gear, between 10 and 20 kilometres an hour. This obviously didn’t impress anyone who came up behind us, so we made sure we kept our hazard lights blazing and waved people past us whenever there was clear run ahead. But because the road was so quiet, I don’t think we stressed too many people that day.

Except of course, ourselves.

It took us almost five hours to drive 60 kilometres.

The first hour was pretty bad. There was a constant rubbing sound from the front driver’s side of the car, a horrid whirring like we were torturing someone with an electric sander. Then there was the other side. Whenever AJ turned the wheel – even slightly - for a bend in the road, a horrible screeching sound emanated from the front passenger wheel, and this sounded like we had just ran over an evil witch. Because the road followed the river, it was pretty much constantly winding, and thus the screeching sound was quite consistent.

Both sounds were much worse whenever we turned a corner or whenever AJ applied the brakes. The sounds were horrendous when he did both simultaneously. There wasn’t much we could do about the corners, but we decided to drive as slowly as possible to prevent the necessity of braking.

On straight, brake-free runs the sounds retreated somewhat, and I thanked fate that even though the road was windy, it was completely flat – no hills or valleys to be added into the equation. AJ noted that the wheel alignment felt pretty shoddy, but we couldn’t be sure because of all the turns in the road.

Eventually, the witch-shrieking coming from below my feet became unbearable. It sounded like bits were falling off the van or being dragged along under us – a horrible, clattering, metal-rending sound. We had to pull over.

That was the first break we had, and we had many.

Each time we stopped, there was nothing to visually suggest the van was falling apart. Each time we restarted, the sounds would slowly build up to fever pitch again. It was not the most pleasant drive in the country I have experienced.

We trundled along very slowly, the sounds of sorrow echoing off the canyon walls.


---------------


Thriving on Rejection


AJ kept his driving focus by being cool, and I kept my camera focus by going into denial.

Driving Shirley at length in 2nd and 3rd gear wasn’t ideal for her engine, and after she stalled a few times, we gave her another rest on the roadside. We’d been driving for almost two hours and had travelled about 10 kilometres. Not encouraging.

We left the gorge a couple of hours and no more than 20kms later. We passed several more canoe-hire places and a few humble hotels, but there were only two more service stations. The first place gave us a blatant “non” to our request for assistance. At the second, we approached more cautiously - while AJ filled the fuel tank, I did my atrocious French phrase book “can you fix?”, “wheels”, “suspension” thang with the lady attendant. She shrugged and mumbled something which I took to mean that despite appearances, the petrol station did not actually double as a mechanic shop. She then waved us further off down the gorge, holding up six fingers, which was either the sign for “piss off” in regional France, or an indication of the number of kilometres to the next mechanics.

We took the opportunity to refill Shirley’s poor tyres with air, again using total guesswork as to what was the right level. Maybe, I hoped, the front tyres were just flat, so I most likely overfilled them. Maybe Shirley’s progress improved a smidgen after that, or maybe it was my imagination.

As we approached with agonising slowness the western end of the Gorges du Tarn, the scenery became less dramatic and spectacular. Small villages became more proliferate in the gorge, and I was reminded again of my journey through the Atlas mountains in Morocco, and the little communities huddled in the lush green river valleys there.

The canyon walls eventually dropped away from sheer to gradual, opening out to a flatter, wider landscape of gentle hills and valleys.

Soon the road became thankfully less winding, and we left the most spectacular scenery in France so far behind for good. At least we had driven through it at a speed to appreciate it. A memorable experience.

As we met a larger, busier highway heading south, we had no choice but to use 4th gear and let Shirley build up a bit more speed. Her wails and warbles did not dissipate at higher speed, but they did not, thankfully, get any worse. We stopped at the first service station in the next settlement – a place called Aguessac. It was a small town but a positive metropolis compared to Ste-Enimie, and we had no doubt we would find a mechanic there.

We stopped at two mechanic workshops in Aguessac, both obviously open, but both obviously unwilling to take on a 1977 VW. They waved us on, chanting the name of the next town to the south “Millau”, “Millau”…”Volkswagen Millau”.

By now – five mechanics later, we were just thriving on rejection.

Millau was a slightly larger dot on our map, and probably had a lot more repair shops than Aguessac. But it was another 20kms away. On a busy road.

Oh well, we figured, less chance here of tumbling into a river if the wheels fell off. We continued south, as fast as we dared, as slowly as we could.

We arrived in Millau around 2pm. It had taken almost five hours to drive 60 kilometres. Not the best way to see Europe.

The manager of the first service station we stopped at in Millau, predictably, waved us away. But she was a nice lady, and hence, waved us away with direction, walking out to he kerb and pointing to a wheel-and-brake specialist shop a little further down the road into town.

The friendly Frenchman at the wheel clinic took a little longer to wave us away. By this stage I was so proficient in my “wheel”/”suspension”/”can you help?” routine I didn’t even need my phrasebook. We waited for the inevitable gesture for us to go further down the road, to the next place…but it didn’t come… immediately at least. The mechanic nodded noncommittally – but he still nodded, and he told AJ to drive Shirley around the back of the mechanics’ yard.

Despite the embarrassing fact that Shirley kept stalling and conking out from the overheating we’d subjected her to that day, I kept assuring the mechanic that our main problem (that moment) was not engine - but wheel - related.

AJ thought the mechanic looked like a younger version of the Dad from The Wonder Years. By now I didn’t care if the mechanic looked like Lucille Ball, I just prayed for some help. I told AJ to worry less about a cheesy TV look-alike competition and more about positioning Shirley over the big concrete hole in the ground the mechanic has told us to drive her over, without slipping her off the side and into it. He managed the delicate manoeuvre quite deftly. Thank God Mr Julio didn’t have one of those pits in his workshop.

Wonder-Years-Dad scooted down into his little examination hole and got intimate with Shirley’s undercarriage. He emerged back out, very shortly, unimpressed, shaking his head.

His diagnosis had taken two minutes. The resulting conversation took at least ten.

I believe he was initially trying to tell that the wheel alignment was stuffed.

Well, der…

We didn’t say that though, we just chanted, “can you help?” in French a few more times.

Then we got the apologetic Gallic shrug we’d got so many times that day.

And…you guessed it…he waved us on.

At this rate, we’d be waved on all the way to Barcelona. (Don’t laugh).

“VW Millau…VW Millau…VW Millau”, our Kevin-Arnold-Dad-look-alike kept saying encouraging.

Hmm…”VW Millau”…what was he trying to tell us…that Yes, we had a VW, and Yes, we were in a town called Millau? Nah, too simple.

He was trying to tell us what almost every other mechanic in the region had told us – there was a Volkswagen Specialist in Millau, and we should be heading there.

OK. Then the fun part. Where?

Millau is not exactly the tourist centre of France, and did not warrant a map in any guidebook we had. All we had was a large driving atlas with a yellow dot for Millau, and a few yellow and white lines bisecting it. But it was a decent sized sprawl of a town. How on Earth could we find the VW place?

We asked Mr Arnold. He was very helpful. Or at least he tried to be. Ten minutes later he was still trying.

He kept throwing in the words “Montpelier” and “Albi” into his directions – which wasn’t very discouraging. For a while I thought he was telling us we would have to drive to Montpelier and then suggesting we go to Albi. Both towns were a hundred kilometres away, and neither was on our planned route. Albi especially was in completely the wrong direction.

Eventually after much head scratching and quizzical looks, Mr Arnold drew us a map and we worked out what he meant. Go through town, take the turnoff to Montpelier, and then once on that road, take the next turnoff towards Albi. Then we’d find the VW specialist on our way out of town.

Our confusion banished, we nodded gratefully to Kevin’s dad and said “merci” several hundred times.

We managed to navigate Millau and, on the eastern outskirts, we found our Nirvana. A large warehouse with shiny showroom windows, clean V-Dubs out the front, and a massive sign, proudly showing those two little letters we’d been praying for all day. V. And W.

VW Millau.

We had made it. The light at the end of the tunnel.

And guess what?

Yep. That’s right. They turned us away.


---------------


Oasis or Mirage?


Our experience of arriving at VW Millau made me understand the despair of a man, dying of thirst, crawling through the desert, who drags himself on his hands and knees through the desert towards a promised, promising oasis…only to arrive at the oasis and have it shimmer away into the heat-haze-delusion of a mirage. As AJ and I dipped our thirsty spirits to drink from the mechanical salvation of VW Millau’s lagoon, our parched lips hit nothing but boiling sand.

Because VW Millau was not the oasis that the word on the street had led us to believe.

Oh, it looked like a vehicular oasis all right. Sparkling clean workshop, and not a tool out of place or lying around. Diagnostic machines humming. Expensive European cars being lavished with kind attention. Mechanics in pristine overalls that appeared to have not a smudge of dirt or grease on them.

It was, on first appearance, the exact opposite of Mr Julio’s workshop. Unfortunately, the service could not have been more similar. I approached several mechanics and did my phrase book begging thing. They simply stared me down and growled at me, glancing at poor Shirley with disgust. Their looks communicated more than words could say: “how dare you drive that pathetic excuse for a vehicle onto our lot!!!”

One vaguely civilised garage-hand waved at me to wait, and went into a side office and called for the garage’s public relations guy. This chap – dressed not in overalls but in immaculate, conservative office wear, came outside and without even a brief nod of acknowledgment to us, continued a ten minute phone call on his mobile.

Eventually he looked at us and jabbered in French. His English was very limited, but I think I finally got him to understand our problem.

“Non”, was his initial and immediate response.

WHAT!!!

“Non. We…umm…don’t do that here…”

He didn’t want to know us.

AJ and I could have screamed. Instead, I took a deep breath and slowly, patiently, and calmly explained that we had already visited eight other mechanics within a 60 kilometre radius that day, and almost all of them had referred us on to VW Millau. I tried to infer, without a hint of the sarcasm that was begging to be released, that

(1) We had a VW in trouble. (I waved at Shirley.)
(2) They were a VW repairer. (I waved at their impressive signage.)
(3) Nowhere else would look at it in the region. (I did big circling motions with my hands and shrugged hopelessly.)
(4) Everywhere else had suggested VW Millau. (Pointing at sign, ground, workshop.)
(5) They were our last – and only – hope. (Pleading gesture, hands held up, palms outward.)

About the only thing we didn’t do was get down on our knees to beg. But I think we almost certainly would have …

But…

Thankfully PR Guy noted - with distaste - the desperation in our eyes and gave us a reaction. I think maybe he was just so disgusted with our pathetic pleading, he wanted to get away from us.

He still didn’t say anything. He still didn’t agree to fix Shirley. But he shrugged, and nodded, and without saying another word to us, walked around to the driver’s side, opened the door, got in, started her up, and drove away as fast as he could.

AJ and I did the double-take-what-just-happened?-look at the retreating van and each other. Either PR Guy had taken Shirley away for a test drive to suss out her issues for himself, or he had done the bolt with everything we owned in the world.

Thankfully, it was the former, and he returned within minutes, and in a fit or screeching, skidding tyres. He appeared to have certainly pushed Shirley to her limits, a fact that AJ confirmed a few minutes later when he said the brake pedal was so hot it was almost scalding.

When PR Guy jumped out of Shirley, his regard of us was no longer disgust, but more like pity. He actually showed some empathy for our situation.

“Front wheel…bad…oui?…”, he nodded, pointing at the driver’s front wheel.

“Oui, Oui”, we salivated hopefully, thrilled at this first hint of interest.

“OK…we look at…”, he nodded begrudgingly, “But not today, tomorrow.”

Yippee!!! We had been led on and teased with repair offers from mechanics before, but this time…after such a desperate day of trying, this victory tasted very sweet. We were even thrilled to spend the evening in dull Millau if it meant future Shirley-related-stress-reduction. We jumped into the van and clattered her away.


---------------


Gypsy Kings


It was only about 2pm on that warm afternoon in Millau, but we were exhausted. We were hungry, and we were hot. After a morning of almost complete rejection from roadside establishments, we turned to the only establishment in the world that we knew would never reject us. McDonald’s. Lovely, comfy, comforting McDonald’s. If we didn’t deserve McDonald’s at any other time in our lives, we deserved it then.

It had turned into an extremely warm day, and the air-con in the local roadside Macca’s was bliss. In fact, everything about the Macca’s experience was bliss, much more so than usual. The service was exceptional, in fact the young do-you-want-fries-with-that-girl was very patient and helpful, and probably the nicest person we encountered in France. Unlike most French people, she seemed interested in helping us, looked at us when we spoke, and even – GASP! – smiled! Maybe she was just so nice because she was Spanish and not French - she had the look of Latin blood.

But it wasn’t just that her burgers were fresh. The fries were salty. The Coke was cool and the ice was crunchy. The newspapers might have been in French, but that didn’t stop AJ from thrilling over the pictures and the sports scores. I read the ubiquitous McDonald’s nutrition information brochure: “Nous faisons des hamburgers et nous les faisons bien.” “Les boucles d’oreille: la carte d’identite de l’animal.” “Un respect constant de la chaine du froid.” “100% Muscle”. I understood that last one.

In tribute to Pulp Fiction, I ordered a Royale-with-Cheese. Gotta love that metric system. I noted that the large combo meal deals in France are called “Maxi-Best-Of” deals. My Maxi-Best-Of cost 6 euro and came with a commemorative World Cup (Soccer) glass, which I presented to AJ. He knew, of course, who the players emblazoned on the glass were.

By four o’clock we had exhausted the newspapers, bathrooms and tolerance of the Macca’s staff, so we returned to Shirley. We had at least six hours of daylight left, and not the most exciting French town to kill them in. We were too scared about wheels falling off to drive Shirley out of town too far, so we decided to hunt around Millau for a nice place for the three of us to spend the night. We had spied a large parking area alongside the river when we had driven through town, so we headed down to that.

It took us four times to get the correct combination of exit ramps and road off-shoots and find the entrance to the parking area, and once inside we wondered if the entrance hadn’t been purposely hexed to prevent intruders.

You see, the rest area was lovely, or would have been, normally. It was large and spacious, with plenty of parking, large grassy banks, toilets blocks, and water supplies.

But it was full of gypsies. Almost every parking space was occupied by caravans or campervans or pickup trucks. Every water faucet had been connected to a hose system, which provided each of these homes with water. Portable generators and gas bottles rumbled on the grass. Clotheslines were hung up everywhere with drying laundry. Satellite dishes emerged from the roofs of caravans.

Granted, AJ and I had used – and would continue to use – many supposedly civically funded rest areas for more than their intended purpose. Generally these places are designed so that motorists can grab a kip and/or a wee, and sometimes maybe a picnic, before being on their way. AJ and I pushed that definition quite a bit around Europe, often using them for overnight sleepovers. Sometimes this was illegal, sometimes not. We generally got away with it.

But compared to us, these gypsies were, to use an English expression, taking the piss. They were not overnight slumber-partiers. They had moved in for good. Kids played on their bikes. Dogs chased each other around. Adults sat around foldable picnic tables and drank. Young girls in gypsies’ shawls and hoods wandered around giggling. Young blokes arrived in utes. Grandmas hung out washing to dry. Babies cried. It was a little microcosm of a community, an easily transportable suburb. They looked comfortable. They looked like the rest area was their home. They looked like they were there for the long haul.

They also looked like they didn’t want visitors in their neighbourhood. Not that it was “their” neighbourhood – technically speaking, it must have been owned and cleaned by some form of local government – because of all the roadside signs pointing to it.

Although I realised now why a few of the closest signposts near the rest area were missing their signs.

These gypsies discouraged visitors. Again, we weren’t really, technically, visitors. We were actually just sharing a public rest area. But I don’t think the gypsies saw it as such. There was one other non-gypsy vehicle in the rest area – a large semi-trailer - but we guessed its occupant was sleeping in the cab and oblivious to any negative vibes.

We parked discreetly off to the side and tried to grab some much needed naptime. But we could feel the dirty looks coming from at us from all sides. I think some of the little kids even started shouting abuse at us. The older women were the least subtle in their death stares, and even grumbled a few words towards us.

There was a real, horrible uncomfortable feeling of animosity from these people. There was a palpable disgust that we would intrude on “their area”.

After about twenty minutes, one young, heavily-moustachioed gypsy man approached Shirley and started asking us questions, in very stilted English.

“What are you doing here? Sleeping…Oui? Resting…Oui? Is very hot…Oui?”

His words were not confrontational, and his face not aggressive, but still…he wasn’t smiling, he wasn’t exactly friendly…and he contributed to our uneasy feeling.

AJ assured him that we were merely resting for a short time, and not planning to spend the night. AJ thought that if he had told the guy we were there for a while, there would have been some issues.

Shortly after this – and after the semi–trailer had lumbered to life and driven away – AJ noticed something which troubled him. Over the course of five minutes, three separate pick-up trucks have arrived in the gypsy camp, filled with young, muscled men in singlets. They parked right alongside and behind us. AJ started to freak, and I did too.

“They’re boxing us in, Big Fella!!! There gonna trap us in here and not let us out!!!”

“No Charles. I think they are just trying to intimidate us. Just let us know that it’s their space, that they are in charge.”

Whatever they were trying to do, we didn’t wait for a fourth vehicle to arrive. If they were trying to intimidate us, it worked beautifully. We left. The whole community death-stared us all the way out. We gave them a few goodbye waves. No one waved back.


---------------


Millau Milieu


After that unsettling experince, a walk around Millau itself was extremely relaxing. It was a very pleasant yet completely unremarkable French town. The old quarter had the usual bell-towered churches, arched passageways, narrow laneways, and Citroen 2CV’s. The new(er) part of town had wide streets, bustling traffic, busy boutiques, and tree-shaded cafes. Like all French towns, there was an excess of dog poo on the footpaths and cobblestones. One stationery store had a huge sign out the front proudly advertising TAMPONS in big, red capitals. It was only on closer inspection that I realised that “tampons” in France are rubber stamps.

Millau had –obviously – very few tourists, in fact most tourists there I supposed were probably just enroute to Gorges Du Tarn. But the locals, apart from the usual smattering of dodgy characters (like gypsies), were very normal, happy people: sipping their wine in cafes, zipping around the streets on their scooters, spending their money in the boutiques, chasing their children in the parks.

AJ’s French was coming along well, and he said “Bonjour!” to every street urchin we encountered. Some even responded.

As the evening set in, I returned to Shirley to read and watch the sunset, and AJ wandered off to call one of his London harem, and to grab a beer in a pub called “Rugby Bar” that strangely, it turned out, had no television to show sport on at all. We had parked Shirley in an open, inner-city car-park that charged only a few euro for the evening. When AJ returned, I heated up some Carrot and Coriander soup from a small cardboard box I’d found in the van when we’d bought it months before. It tasted horrible.

The sky was dark by 10pm, and we set Shirley up to look like she had no occupants. We bolted Shirley’s doors from the outside with the exterior padlocks. Instead of pulling the front windscreen curtains closed, as we would normally do, we hung some towels down from the roof between the driving cab and the rest of Shirley’s interior. That way, if any cop or security guy came to check us out during the night, it would look less obvious that we were camping illegally in the middle of the city.

We remained relatively undisturbed, yet had a fairly restless night nevertheless, with all the Friday-night-is-party-night traffic coming and going in the car-park till the early hours. We could have a had a more peaceful, restful night parked somewhere out of town on the highway, but we figured the risk of us getting rousted by the cops in the city was lower than the risk of Shirley falling apart on a short highway drive.

The next morning I began to regret the decision to camp in the city. I wasn’t woken by any rumblings outside the van, but rather from rumblings inside my body. My insides were in more turmoil than Shirley’s wheel bearings. I needed to take my regular morning crap. But…we’d done a reconnoitrer the day before and not found any nearby toilets on the streets of Millau.

In a semi-sleep state, I had been holding back for hours, squeezing my sphincter, plugging my escape route. But it was no good. Mount Vesuvius was bubbling ferociously. Little impulses ran around my body screaming…”look out…she’s gonna blow!!!”

My control was extreme, and impressive, but when the stomach cramps kicked in, it was all over. I had to go, and I had to go then!!!

Now, inside Shirley, towards the back, there was a large compartment, basically a big cupboard. Inside this cupboard was a chemical toilet, basically just a large removable potty. Anytime it was used, it would have to be removed and cleaned out manually. Til then, it would stink up Shirley like a clogged sewer.

AJ and I had made a pact never to use that toilet.

But that morning in Millau, the pact was about to be broken.

AJ was sleeping on cushions on the floor in front of the toilet door.

“Charles, I am really sorry!!! But I gotta use the toilet. I’m sorry. Can you get up!!!”

AJ, to his credit, didn’t whinge. I think he saw my cross-legged pose and cross-eyed expression and knew we were in a state of emergency. He moved to the bed as I threw open the toilet door and frantically tossed out the backpacks and extra bags we normally stored in there.

The sight of the toilet itself caused an involuntary Pavlov’s Dog reaction in my guts and tossed my insides into overdrive, and we reached DEFCON 5. Within 1.65 seconds, I stuffed a couple of extra-ply garbage bags into the loo to help with clean up duty, hoicked down my shorts, and sat down…

…Hmm…

You know that old 1960’s wartime footage that they always replay on TV of the atomic bomb going off?

Anyway…

Turned out I didn’t break the toilet pact, not technically, that morning. Turned out I didn’t fill those super-ply garbage bags. Turned out all my bowels needed right that second were a little flick of the pressure relief value. All that came out was enough air to run the lower bass section of the New York Philharmonic. With a consequent amount of sound.

AJ, with either great tact or great sloth, slept through my entire performance.

And after breakfast, he told me there was public toilet only a few dozens metres away, just outside the car-park…


---------------


At 9am on Day 26 of our journey, AJ, Shirley and I were waiting patiently outside the front doors of the VW dealership in Millau, waiting for someone – anyone! - to acknowledge us.

The doors were open and workers were milling around, but none of them appeared at all interested in helping us.

Eventually, PR Guy came out, and without so much as a perfunctory nod of recognition in our direction, gabbled some orders at a young mechanic while pointing at the van.

The young guy came over bearing a plastic seat-sheet to protect the seat from mechanic dirt - it was that sort of place. I wondered it Mr Julio had even heard of those disposable seat covers. Young French Mechanic went to the passenger side of Shirley and started to put the plastic protectors on, before realising that Shirley was dyslexic in his country and that the steering wheel was on the other side. When he was finally sorted, and seated, he struggled for a while with the choke and the gears until AJ got both of them in place for him.

With Shirley in the workshop, the YFM started to work on her. AJ and I were standing around helplessly, wondering when of if we were going to be told, “Come back in three hours”, or “Come back tomorrow”, or “Do you have a gun we can shoot this van with to put it out of its misery?” We had withdrawn several hundred euros from Millau’s best ATM’s the previous day in anticipation of this visit. We waited to part with it. But no one said a thing, so we just watched.

Sparing you the subtleties, the mechanic routine went something like this:

YFM looks at front drivers wheel. Uses sign language to tell us wheel alignment is stuffed. AJ and I use sign language to say we-know-you-idiot but in a nice way. YFM takes driver’s side wheel cover off, then tightens up the hub where the wheel bearings are, returns the wheel cover, stands up and shrugs, as if to say, “Fin”. AJ and I are like, you are kidding me??? That’s it??? YFM jabbers away for five minutes in French, and AJ and I shrug for five minutes multilingually. YFM goes and gets a dodgy bearing lying around and demonstrates the problem Shirley has with a visual example. AJ and I ask in phrase book French, can he fix it? YFM doesn’t appear to understand, and goes and gets OFM (Older French Mechanic). AJ and I ask him the same thing. OFM doesn’t appear to understand either, and goes and gets AFM (another French Mechanic, this one capable of understanding a few words of English). AFM finally tells us, “the piece that you need, we do not have.” AJ and I basically get out a calendar to try and get them to understand our next question, “How long will it take you to get the piece that you don’t have?” AFM, OFM, YFM, and PR Guy all confer together for another five minutes, with lots of head-scratching and frowning going on. AFM then says…

“Wednesday.”

Wednesday. It was then Saturday. We had already lost a day due to this particular problem. Assuming the part did arrive Wednesday (and by international mechanic law, it was almost guaranteed not to), it would probably be at least the following Saturday before we left Millau, long after our date to meet Jane in Spain, and putting us even further behind schedule. Even if did have a week up our sleeve, we didn’t want to spend it in quiet, dull Millau.

Wednesday.

PR Guy confirmed this with an almost gleeful look of satisfaction. I would not have been at all surprised if they could have got the part by Monday, or even if they had had it on the premises – after all they were Volkswagen Millau!!!

Quite obviously, these guys had no desire to fix our van, to soil their precious diagnostic fingers with a 25 year-old, bastardised version of a van model no longer for sale. And they would come up with every reason they could think of not to.

We then asked our posse of intimidating mechanics if it would be safe to drive the van, and how far?

Their arrogant swagger dropped away then. They didn’t want to fix the van, but they also didn’t want to be the ones that told us it was safe to drive away. There were lots of shrugs and lots more muttering.

“How far are you going?”, AFM asked.

“Barcelona”, I replied.

There was no need for AFM to translate for the rest of the group. As soon as I had said “Barcelona”, they had all looked at each other in shock.

They mumbled for a minute more amongst themselves and then nominated AFM to speak to us. He didn’t like the responsibility this time. He shifted from toe to toe and said uncomfortably, noncommittally,

“Oui…possible…maybe…if you drive very slowly, very carefully…”

OK.

Barcelona was a long way. It wasn’t like the 60 kilometres from Ste-Enimie to Millau. More like 1000.

But, hey, we were wild and crazy guys. Living on the edge. And anything was better than hanging round a garage with those guys.

We said “merci” profusely, and put on an elaborate display of shaking their hands and smiling our gratitude. Not that they had done much, but I find that profuse expressions of thanks are always a good idea. If the recipients have helped you, and know it, then the thanks is deserved and makes them feel good. If the recipients haven’t helped you and know it, then the thanks is undeserved and makes them feel guilty.

I had a feeling we made PR Guy feel a little twinge of guilt that morning, so much so that he didn’t even charge us for that minor consultation and wheel-hub tightening.

Then, we set course, straight and true, for Spain.


---------------


The Little Green Van That Could


For a van that sounded like she couldn’t make 10 kilometres the previous day, Shirley really pulled it outta the bag on Saturday, June 1st. Within the next 14 hours, we drove 900 kilometres. We left France and entered Spain. We almost made it to Barcelona.

It was not, of course, all smooth sailing.

Getting out of Millau was a struggle. The town is set in a valley, which means a pretty view of the surrounding hills and the paragliders who jumped off them regularly. Unfortunately, to get out, it also means a long way up. Slowly but Shirley, we puttered up the southern hill highway, a long line of cranky French vehicles queued up behind us. Eventually the Little-Green-Van-That-Could-On-A-Good-Day made it to the top and we powered down the other side. Within an hour we were on a large, spacious motorway, which tunnelled though the mountain range in places and made for a very level drive in others. Unfortunately, in still other places, the motorway was still under construction, and we diverted from the easy freeway onto rough, circuitous country roads, which showed me great scenery, and showed Shirley great grief.

AJ kept his focus and his grip on Shirley for hours on end. We didn’t hear the clanking noises too often, or the rubbing noises too loudly, but they came and went. The sound of speed on the motorway – rushing wind, roaring engine – drowned out any noises the wheels might have been making, but a few times, as we flew down a wide motorway at 120kph, with nothing between us and the massive valley below but a steel guardrail, I prayed we’d made the right call in leaving Millau.

I thought of those delicate wheel bearings and imagined the wheel falling off and Shirley flipping over that guardrail and not even bouncing before she met the bottom of the valley, fifty seconds later. I murmured a mantra Han Solo used in Star Wars to keep his beloved Millennium Falcon from falling apart: “You hear me baby – hold together!”

She held together.

AJ noticed the steering wheel pulling to the right, but not too severely. The wheel and suspension protests were worse on the smaller, slower roads. As the morning wore on and we bypassed Montpellier on the south coast of France, Shirley started skipping a few beats, doing the tripping-over-her-own-feet thing we knew so well.

We soon we met the A9 motorway, a vast, busy highway running parallel to the Golfe Du Lion coastline and the Mediterranean Sea. It was a road we planned to join a month or so later, after Spain and Portugal, as we headed east to check out the South of France and Italy.

But today, we were headed southwest on the A9, and not long after meeting it, we gave Shirley and AJ a well-deserved break in a plush, extremely busy rest area not far from Beziers. After more than two hours respite, Shirley’s fragile engine seemed to have cooled down not one iota, but the breather had given me a chance to power through more of Lord of the Rings, and AJ a chance to get excited by a magazine in the service station gift shop which featured the girls from Charmed.

Thirty minutes after resuming the road, Shirley’s tripping engine issue meant we needed to stop yet again, and this time we stopped not far from the turnoff to Carcassonne, about 60 kilometres. Shirley’s multiple disorders, especially the looming threat of her front wheels falling off, meant that we couldn’t afford the extra kilometres – and possible time wastage – that planned detours to places liker Carcassonne would have meant. We didn’t know if we would make it to Barcelona in one piece, or in one week, but we knew that the odds of that wouldn’t be helped it we took our previously planed detours, especially ones which took us into the hills or mountains again – like those to Carcassonne and Andorra. So we sacrificed these options. I knew anyway that – time permitting –we could swing by them again on our way across the Pyrenees a month later. And, sadly, we couldn’t see everything.

When we left France later that night however, I was thrilled with the route we had taken, and what we had seen in the ten short days of our Gallic visit. “Under the circumstances” was a phrase I was thinking way too much on that trip, but…under the circumstances, we had done all right. Natural highlights had been the Gorges du Tarn, and the Cliffs de Falaise. The cultural highpoint was undoubtedly Mont-St-Michel, with the Loire chateaus, Le Puy En Velay, and the Normandy beaches all up there as well. As towns, I had loved Dinan and Honfleur. Nothing compared to Paris of course, and many of what we had seen in the past week and a half would hopefully not compare to other parts of the country we planned to see later on our trip: like the French Rivera, Provence, the French Alps.

But for now, France sat solidly in our rear view mirror, and Spain lay over the horizon straight ahead.

Our hope to make it to Barcelona that day was dashed though, as Shirley just wasn’t up to the task. We couldn’t begrudge the poor girl, she had worked wonders, from dawn to dusk. As the later settled, we chilled out in a rest area very unlike the one we had stopped in a few hours before. This one was on the edge of desolation. Over the day, the landscape had morphed from lush green mountain ranges to flat cultivated crop fields to a terrain of short, prickly, brown vegetation. Much drier than anything we had seen in Europe before. Almost a desert. Nary a scrub taller than knee height out in the sandy, bushy expanse.

AJ and I got out the deck chairs and read our books as we watched the sun set over the low foothills to the west. In the distance was a small wind farm – with several of those modern white windmills that AJ referred back to the climax of a shitty Charlie Sheen movie called Terminal Velocity.

The open landscape, the warmth of the air, and the distance of our rest area from the busy highway meant it was a very relaxing evening.

I tried not to focus on the negative. I phoned Frances from the petrol station’s pay phone, and listened wistfully to her as she recounted her Saturday afternoon: sipping chardonnay in the afternoon sun while reclining with friends and family in the backyard of a friend’s country cottage. She sounded so peaceful, so relaxed, so chilled, I decided not to even mention the highway horror we had undergone the last few days.

“Yeah babe, everything’s fine. Gonna be in Spain in a couple of hours.”

My cup, like her chardonnay glass, was struggling to remain half full. But I managed it.

AJ’s mood was helping mine immeasurably. Since we had hit real trouble coming off the Massif Central plateau two days before, his disposition had changed a lot. It was strange – the worse the future of our trip looked – the cheerier he became. He really rallied around Shirley and her problems and was uncharacteristically supportive and full of suggestions and ideas. His lack of interest in Europe and our travel plan didn’t seem to effect his desire to get Shirley sorted – in fact it quite possibly enhanced it. Also, I think he was extremely keen get to Barcelona, because, (1) It was formed of concrete and not countryside; (2) It would have internet cafes, English newspapers, and unlimited alcohol; and (3) Jane was going to be there. He had seemed a little happier wandering around Millau the day before, commentating on folks he found amusing. I guess that was a big factor for AJ – you can take the boy out of the city, but you can’t take the city out of the boy. Whereas I was thriving on wide-open spaces, fresh air and solitude, he was struggling to withdraw from his fix of people watching, petrol fumes and high-density living. His current depression was possibly related then to his desperate need for people contact, to be squished on the street up against dozens of others. And possibly, his dour mood was lifting because he could sense that Barcelona could offer that.

So AJ was relatively chipper.

But I wouldn’t exactly call him cheery. He wasn’t happy, but he was a lot less sullen. Nevertheless, as Day 26 came to a close, he actually blew me away by smiling – and laughing!!!

He was not – of course - smiling and laughing during any conversation with me, those were still fairly limited and dour. He was reading a book I had loaned him. Now, for me to see these two things: (1) AJ reading a book, and (2) AJ enjoying reading a book so much he was chuckling…well, it made me so happy to see this change in him.

Unlike myself, AJ has never been a big reader, at least since I’ve known him. And tabloid newspapers and pornography don’t count.

But during our breakdown lulls over the past few days, I had encouraged him to read one of the half dozen books I’d thrown into one of Shirley’s niches. Incredibly, he had agreed – I think less out of any interest in reading, but mainly because he was just so desperately bored during those times we were broken down in the middle of nowhere.

He chose a light-hearted and easy-to-read book I’d bought a year ago – but was still trying to find time to read myself – Tony Hawks’ Playing the Moldovans at Tennis. It had a few elements I thought AJ might enjoy – if he gave it a go – lots of sport, lots of silly humour, and a dash of nudity. Not to mention many references to Moldova, a country he had already heard a lot about from his “friend” Tania, who was perhaps number one on his current London harem/obsession list.

He loved the book. He powered through it within a day or so, chuckling at passages, and occasionally, at my gentle prodding, sharing them with me. He loved the self-deprecating style of humour that Hawks uses so well and in such a similar way to AJ himself. He loved the sports sequences. He loved the stories of drunken escapades. He loved anything that reminded him of Tania and what she had told him about Moldova.

“Gee, she’s a liar!!! All Tania says is how great Moldova is. But this guy calls it a depressing little shithole.”

It was awesome to get a sentence as long as that out of him.


---------------


Straight on Till Morning


After a gourmet meal of noodles and baked beans (who would have thought?), and after the sun had waved goodbye to us from beyond the desert hills, AJ, Shirley and I continued our journey south.

For a while, before the last remnants of daylight were plucked from the sky, the fleeting ambient light combined with distant glittering jewels of townships on the horizon to give us a vague impression of the area – sloping hills on our right, large coastal lagoons on out left, and the inky blackness of the Mediterranean Sea beyond that. Perpignan to us was simply a sprawl of orange and white lights, set down in valley. It was a bit like ET’s first view of “civilisation” when his ship abandons him on Earth.

As we suspected, the cooler night air facilitated Shirley’s progress and she didn’t skip or trip for at least two more hours. The motorway became steeper in parts further south, and I suspected the scenery was becoming more outstanding because of the way our views of the stars were blocked off in places by the pitch-black shapes of mountains. Well, either mountains or gigantic mutant gorillas. I didn’t regret leaving my infrared night goggles behind, because in a way, this night driving was just as dramatic and exiting.

We aimed Shirley’s nose for the gap of brilliant stars and headed into the night. We crossed an international border of empty customs booths with nary a hiccup, but shortly after that we forked out 13.50 euro for the pleasure of switching from French tarmac to Spanish.

Soon the stars disappeared under a curtain of cloud, and we had nothing to steer by except the motorway reflectors and Shirley’s dim headlights. One of Shirley’s many “issues” when we had first purchased her were headlights so weak that you couldn’t have read a book by them. After the usual seventeen pleas for help, Mr Julio had replaced the bulbs – and now, of course, they weren’t that much better. But, they were enough. At the low speed we travelled, they were enough. And we were grateful for that. It was pitch black outside the van to our right, but straight ahead our lights gave off a soft glow. In other directions were the familiar whooshes of passing traffic and the close encounters of slanting headlights. It was a busy motorway.

Around half past midnight, we decided AJ and Shirley both needed a rest. We pulled off the road the next chance we had and stopped. What was normally a four-hour drive had taken us fourteen. But we had done well, and we slept soundly.

The next morning we woke up in a whole other country.

The sun has set on us the day before in France, and it rose on us now in Spain.

Au Revoir France.

And Buenos Dias Espana.

We opened Shirley’s doors, and stepped out into a whole new dawn…


---------------


Epilogue


Well…that’s as far as I’ve gotten thus far, guys. 26 days of a 67-day trip. Not even halfway yet.

So…

What happens?

Do we make it to Barcelona?

Do we make it around Spain?

Does AJ implode with sulkiness?

Do I explode with frustration?

Does Shirley self-combust with automotive angst from lugging two immature idiots around?

Do we kill each other?

Kiss each other?

Why is the trip 67 days instead of five months?

Does Jane’s arrival lighten the mood?

Or does her inclusion create a complex love triangle?

Does Sam’s inclusion turn said-triangle into a rectangle?

Or possibly a square?

Who is Barabus?

And where does Shrek fit in?

Is he having fun?


Ah yes, all the big questions. The answers, in completely random order, are thus:

- come very close
- thankfully, no
- oh yes, with lots of farting
- most definitely
- talk to my lawyer about that one
- in the palm of my hand
- quite happily, at least till…
- no comment
- yes, after an attempted highway robbery
- the best type
- even more thankfully, no
- closer to that, I think
- we all were
- sorta
- a hell of a lot
- pretty much
- he wishes!


To discover which answers correspond to which questions, all I can say is…

…stay tuned…

All I can say, in the two minutes I have, is…

…A-million-startling-sunflowers, a-thousand-churches-crumbling, a-hundred burps-&-belchings, a-dozen-sunsets-stunning, ten-monkeys-thieving, nine-postcard-beaches, eight-feral-felines, seven-crooked-customs-guys, six-goring-bulls, five-laboured-tow-trucks, four-friends-a-laughing, three-teenage-muggers, two-stereo-spewers…and-a-severed-driveshaft-on-the-road-to-relief…

…It’s all coming guys…

Stay tuned…


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