TUESDAY, 15th August 2006 – Dover to Bernay

My phone alarm duly woke us at 3, and Seafrance saw us safely across the water on the good ship “Belize” – looking like a recent member of the fleet. A French version of a full English breakfast for me, and something marginally less unappetising for Annie. I dunno, but I seem to like almost any food, especially when I don’t have to have any part in buying, cooking, or washing up after it.

TomTom welcomed us to France by trying to tell us the wrong way through Calais dockyards. She was quiet for a while afterwards – perhaps a sign of things to come. You would have thought by now that they’d have stopped Gladys (for this is the name I sometimes give to the lady trapped inside that little box), speaking until you were on the open road – then she wouldn’t get so upset.

When she did start again, she was merrily telling us to “keep left in 800 metres”, as she does. We changed our minds a few times about where we wanted to go. In hindsight, this was, perhaps, not a good thing to do.

The lack of sleep from the night before started to take its toll. We consulted maps, we consulted Gladys, and we headed for an Aire de Camping near Cayaux-sur-Mer. We fancied some fresh sea air, which we got, but not until we’d skirted a gyspy encampment, and bobbled down the bumpiest wobbliest tarmac track I’d ever seen. Gladys by now had given up talking to us, happy in the knowledge she’d done her job and taken us to the place we’d asked for.

The Aire, when we got there, was flat hard-standing, with a service point (€6 from the campsite next door), and the driver (me) managed to get his head down for a couple of hours.

We didn’t fancy staying there, so we had a cup of tea, and prodded Gladys into life. “Battery low” she flashed. Strange, since she’d been sitting happily on her perch all morning. We set a course for Rouen, and drank our tea.

Road to Rouen

The road to Rouen isn’t, well, paved with gold or summat, but Gladys wasn’t there to see us take it. Having happily plotted the course, she refused to power up. Dead. Nothing. Nada. I’d read somewhere that they needed resetting sometimes. I poked various thin, pokey things into the hole on the front (that being the only hole visible), but to no effect. We didn’t have the mains charger (why would we need it?), we didn’t have the manual (ditto), so we were stumped. I found it was difficult to get it to sit on its charger properly, which may have been a fault since we’d bought it. Who knows? Without any signs of life from the thing, and any obvious means of support, we were stuck. Back to Annie and the maps.

We navigated south, looking for warmer weather. Round Rouen, and heading towards Bordeaux. Time was getting on, and we didn’t fancy trying to find somewhere to stay if the impending storm clouds broke, so we hopped off the motorway at Bernay, and headed for Camping Municipale. Well-signposted, friendly welcome, and beautiful pitches. We booked an extravagant two nights, set up, hooked up (used the polarity changing cable to make Annie feel safer), and cracked open a beer and a bottle of wine.

I looked at the TomTom again. Gladys was silent, the display was blank, and I had no idea what was wrong. I had read somewhere (could it have been the MotorhomeFacts forum?) that when someone had updated their TomTom software, they needed to do a reset to make it work again. So obviously, there was a hidden reset button somewhere. Well, where else would it be but behind that tiny little hole in the front panel? I started the hunt for something small enough to prod inside it. Eventually, I used a key ring, which I unbent using a pair of pliers, and prodded away. I prodded it on its own. I prodded it and held down the “on” button. I held down the “on” button, and prodded the button. I tried everything. I was concerned that I couldn’t feel any button action – more a rubbery “squish”. I gave up. I may have sulked a bit. We had neither mains charger, “how it works” booklet, nor manual on CD. A deep depression settled over the van, both inside and out. Not a good start to our holidays. Not a disaster either, but a shame.

I then thought about the green light, which would sometimes come on, and sometimes not. It would seem to me to be sensible to have the light on when it was charging. Logical. I checked the output of the TT cigarette lighter adapter, and it was happily putting out the 5volts DC that the label said it should. I fiddled around with it (scientifically appraising the mounting and connection status, obviously), and learned that there is more than a little bit of knackery in getting the TT to sit properly on its mount, and make proper contact with the charger, all at the same time. I managed to find a position where I could set it down, green light on, hopefully charging.

Outside, in the real world, the rain came down, it cleared up, then the rain came down again. It looked like the weather might be set for the night, so we settled down, and had our tea.

Lo and behold, another (British) Pollensa turned up, and pitched next to us. Norman came over and cheerfully introduced himself and his wife Sandra, and we shared a beer over discussions regarding weather, beer, wine and AutoSleepers. He kindly invited us over to his van for evening drinks.

After tea, when my mind was obviously functioning better, I turned my attention to the Tom Tom again. There must be a proper reset button somewhere. I lifted up rubber feet, I looked in, out, upside down, everywhere. I gazed at the power connector, and noticed that the plastic moulding was a slightly different shape to one side. More than that, enclosed by its ‘misshapenness’ was a circular dot, looking for all the world like a reset button. Which my opened-out keyring would not go anywhere near. I trotted to the reception area for the campsite, and spoke to the Madame. What to ask for? “Quand vous prenez deux pieces de papier?” She looked at me quizzically, smiled, and gave me a piece of paper from her printer. “Non, peut-etre deux pieces de papier,” and before she could reach for another sheet, I drew with my finger on her desk a curly shape. “Comme ca,” I said, as though it was now obvious. It wasn’t. She opened out her desk drawer, and I gazed at the usual desk drawer paraphernalia, without a single paper clip in sight. “Non,” I said, helpfully. She then opened the tiny drawer above it, in which she kept her pens, pencils and … paper clips. “Ah oui,” I said, grabbing one of the curled wires as though it would save my life. “Aahhhhh,” she said, as only the French can. “Trombone.” “Trombone?” I repeated, and then made a pathetic movement with my arm, realising that it was called a trombone simply because it looked like one. Quel surprise?

To cut an already long and tedious story down from a further extension, I straightened out the ‘trombone’, poked the circular thingee, and a little burst of tom toms announced that Gladys had been given the kiss of life by the pointy end of a trombone, and she was back with us. Our holiday (and marriage?) was saved!

Gassing up

Very strange goings on in the Pollensa wardrobe. During discussions with Norman, it transpired that we both have suffered leaks in the gas manifold. He’d fixed his, I’d worked out that it was the feed to the cooker that was leaking in ours. Norman very kindly offered to come over with his toolbox in the morning and have a look for us. I would have carried on, turning on the isolating valve to cook, and turning it off again afterwards (as long as I remembered). Norman said that we were the only AutoSleepers van he’d seen in his travels throughout France. Spooky, huh?

After a lovely evening, spent discussing motorhomes, education (both Norman and Sandra had been / were in education, as were Annie and I), and the stuff of life, we retired at about 11pm.