SUNDAY, 20th August 2006 – Chateauneuf-sur-Charente to Cozes

Quelle Domage?

The morning dawned bright and clear. A few wispy clouds wandered around in the sky, as if with nothing more important to do. A slow breakfast meant we were on our way at around 9am. Late, for us.

We didn’t get far. Out of the farm, 100 metres down the road, and I heard and felt something which can only be described as a flat tyre. Unwilling to stop on a sharp bend, I continued to drive until I could stop safely (or should we say, marginally less dangerously?) some 50 metres further on. “Something not right,” I said. I hopped out of the van, to find the offside rear tyre flat. Very flat. Bugger.

So we, or rather Annie, flew into action, retrieving the emergency kit bought from Aldi, and I could then trot back up the road, reflective jacket half on, and unpacking the warning triangle. This, I would guess, would have fitted in nicely in Batman’s seemingly unending arsenal of gizmos hanging from his utility belt. It had legs and arms in abundance, but somehow it all fell into place, and it stood proudly on its four legs, warning everyone approaching that we were strangers in a foreign land, and in trouble.

Out with the vehicle toolkit, which looked distinctly unused whilst Annie repeatedly waved people past, to stop them from asking if we needed help. “Should we call the Green Flag people?” Annie asked. “No, not a problem”, I replied. Anyone can change a tyre, for God’s sake. Managed to get the spare tyre down off its little cradle under the back of the van, and only drew blood once. Things were looking good. I even found a place for the jack to go in the chassis, and I cut the cable tie holding the wheel trim on. Easy.

Wheel nut spanner, reassuringly large and hefty. Good fit to wheel nut. Press. Push. Heave. Stand. Jump. Bugger. The damned nut refused to move. We were stuffed. Had it not been for good old Green Flag. Note to self and others – before you call any emergency service, make sure you know a) what the problem is b) where you are and c) what the contact number is you’re calling from. I failed on two of these counts. I knew the problem, right enough, and was able to describe it clearly. Andrew asked for our location. Apart from typing Chateau Neuf as two words in his computer, rather than Chateauneuf, we were home and dry. Exact location was a problem at this time. Annie had the “France Passion” book out, and I recited the road number. On which side of town we were, I had no idea. Andrew said it wasn’t a problem, which it probably wasn’t to him. The number of Annie’s mobile phone is on my mobile phone, which couldn’t be located since it doesn’t work in France, and had been stored at the back of a locker. The number was, of course, on Annie’s phone, which I was using at the time. I phoned the number back to him after a few seconds.

And so we waited. We took it in turns to direct traffic, whilst the one not on traffic duty did a Sudoku puzzle. And then we swapped. See? What fun you can have. We politely declined offers of help from any number of people who stopped, including the Brummie couple who were driving a French registered Citroen. Thank you, whoever you are. It was all, more or less, in hand.

I got a chair out from the van, and we took it in turns to wave the passing motorists by, with a universal thumbs up signal to indicate that everything was in hand. Well, it was, wasn’t it? We’d phoned, and Andrew said they were on their way. He couldn’t guarantee their usual one-hour response, because, “well, it’s France.” Yes. Indeed.

As the two hour mark approached, I was nervously fidgeting with the phone. I’d give them two hours, and then offer my mate Andrew further clues as to our location, which had come to light since I’d remembered them. Funny how these things come back to you once you’re not under so much pressure.

A white Renault saloon stopped on the other side of the road. A swarthy man jumped out of the car with a large wheelnut spanner waving in his hand. He proffered his other hand. “Nous attendons Sarl Inter Depannage” I said, in my best French, indicating we were waiting for the breakdown truck. He shook my hand. Rather than a huge breakdown truck, amber lights flashing like there’s no tomorrow, and able to life our stricken van with a single tug of its hydraulic arm, we had a man with a wheelnut spanner, in an aging white Renault with the engine running. And the spanner didn’t fit.

He assessed the situation in an instant. The wheel nuts wouldn’t budge. He tried, with our spanner. Then he used the jack under the arm of the spanner to get extra purchase. That didn’t work. Finally, I opened the lounge and bathroom windows, and he hung off the side of the van, jumping up and down on the arm of the spanner. No pneumatic gun sockets for him. Eventually, it moved. Well, it had to. He was a big man.

Wheel nuts were slackened, the jack was inserted, and the van ratcheted up, slowly but surely. And we had an observer. A man, of at least eighty, with a stainless steel bowl, had come to watch the proceedings, and talk to the wheel changing man. What they said, I have no idea. It was all very fast, and in dialect. But they were both very jolly. I supposed it gave them something to do on a Sunday morning when everything else is shut.

Cutting another long story short, he changed our wheel for us, helped me get the knackered wheel onto the spare wheel carrier, and Annie gave him €10 for a drink. I dread to think how much they will charge Green Flag for their emergency callout, but we were extremely glad of it, and were soon on our way again. I twitched at every bump and hump in the road for 20km or more, until I felt I could trust the spare tyre to support its share of the 2 tonne load on the back axle. Frightening.

Annie thought we should steer clear of farms for a while, so we headed for a big town that might have a tyre we could buy (tomorrow, obviously, since most of France closes on a Sunday) – we chose Royan. Poor old Catherine was prodded many times, plotting and replotting routes as we changed our minds about where we should stay.

At one point, we passed a little stall in the middle of nowhere, selling moules and fruit. Annie said she was sure she’d seen some bread, and as France has slightly less liberal Sunday trading laws than us, and everywhere, but everywhere was closed, we turned round. We were able to buy a beautiful-looking brioche with raisins, which we duly demolished en route.

Eventually, we landed up at Cozes, and a campsite called Le Bois Roland. Beautiful campsite, and the weather seemed to be looking a bit better for us. Note to self and others – don’t expect to turn up at a French campsite between midday and 3pm on a Sunday and find someone to speak to. They’re shut.

Our quest wasn’t helped by the road signs directing us to the back gate of the campsite. No sign saying “This is the back gate. Try driving round to the front gate – here’s a map.” We prodded the numbers on the electronic entry system, we pushed on gates. Without any luck. Eventually, I managed to sneak in when someone was driving out, and followed the directions to the Acceuil. Shut. Open again at 15h. 3pm, to us. Ah well.

I returned to the back gate, and discovered another problem. You needed an electronic pass to get out. Even as a pedestrian. And no one was exiting at the moment. So I had to walk through the campsite again, and then round from the main entrance, all the way round the campsite by road, and back to where the van was.

To be honest, once we’d driven in the main entrance, someone spotted us, let us in through the barrier, and told us to find our place, and then come back when reception was open. This was the best thing, since we could roam around the campsite on foot, and check out which parts were quiet and away from the young lads camping. We found a great spot, in amongst a load of chalets and static caravans.

I had to make up the special French adapter plug for real, this time, and eventually found a socket which was live, and then inserted the reverse polarity cable, and we were live. A bit of a convoluted connection, but it worked.

A lovely swimming pool beckoned, and we swam for a while, and then basked in the sun for a while. Annie made a lovely dinner of sardines and tomatoes / aubergine / farm goats cheese. And some bread she’d found at the campsite shop earlier. And we chilled. Later on, we strolled around the campsite on a very pleasant evening.