In the end I did nothing to Pedro. I mean what could go wrong…really?
Well, anything and everything in fact. With an old car like him, probably not worth more than a couple of hundred quid, you could spend a small fortune replacing stuff, in a preventative manner.
There was the exhaust for instance that had been mentioned as an advisory on every MOT for the past eight years, but still seemed to be hanging in there. The radiator that six years ago I had poured Radweld into as a temporary fix to stop a leak. That was doing ok still now. Then there was the rattle from the steering column that apart from being a little unnerving had not really affected the handling.
These were the known issues I had no clue as to what else was wrong with the car. But then I told myself that I was only going to Turkey, much of it through western Europe, where a car like him would be ten a penny and hopefully just as cheap to fix. Certainly nothing serious was going to give out. Tyres good. Brakes, ok. Oil looked clean, so time to have faith. But I did have a nagging anxiety at the back of my mind that I had never driven more than 70 miles in the car and that I’d made my first stop after the channel tunnel, Bourg-en-Bresse, nearly 600 miles distant. A bit of a mission perhaps?
We’d bought – or rather G bought – the car on an autumn day in Aylesbury back in 2009. A friend of ours had tipped us off that Perry’s were ‘pushing out Fiat Pandas for five grand dead’. These were what are known in the trade ‘quota cars’ priced to go before the end of the month to make the dealer’s numbers. After we’d chosen the Ferrari red over the white or the cream colours on offer the salesman had sat us down and asked whether we wanted any extras. G and I – who were broke at the time – had already signed a pact in blood on the way over. We’d buy the car for 5k and not a penny more. So naturally I asked if there were any extras he’d recommend. ‘Well sir, air conditioning is only another hundred pounds.’ ‘Profligate!’ spurted G. The salesman and I gaped at each other. But she was not to be swayed. ‘Anything else?’ I asked just to wind her up a bit. ‘Well, we’ve never sold one of these without roof bars. They’re only twenty-five pounds and the car looks positively naked without them.’. ‘Ridiculous!’ shouted G. ‘What would I want with a roof rack?’ And so, with a wistful sigh, the salesman opened his hire purchase flogging book, hoping to at least to make a minor profit through an agreement. ‘Who is to be the owner of the vehicle?’ the salesman said. ‘I am’ said G. Turning to her, ‘And how would madam like to finance the vehicle?’ ‘Shove it on that.’ she said, flipping her credit card across the desk. I appreciated his aplomb, as he keyed in the amount into the card reader and handed it to her to enter the PIN.
To be the hero in your own story you need a quest, to make a journey, whether real or imagined. In mythology this is usually about firstly crossing a threshold, often guarded by monsters, which the hero must overcome to start out. In your own mind these monsters can take on real tangibility with almost palpable reasons why you shouldn’t go at all. If you are at all introspective you can convince yourself that just to stay put is not just the rational thing to do but actually a philosophical reasoned approach. To sit like a Buddhist monk, reaching enlightenment and the complete denial of self, Anatta. Or like a Proustian character, sitting up in bed eating madelaines. On the other hand, you may be of the opinion that your life is only defined through your interactions with others. In which case, to go out and meet people, and not just acquaintances on the street but other cultures, with languages foreign and various. Where you cannot simply rely on your humour to a passer-by. Where you need to make an effort beyond smiling like a psycho. If so, then you’re up for a challenge. There is no wrong or right way. It is pointless to feel guilty, either about going, or not going.
Three in the morning, Monday. I stood in the hallway looking at myself in the mirror by the dim light of pre-dawn. It was chilly, mid-September. The rain, which had been continuous since the day Thames Water announced the hosepipe ban three weeks before, had stopped temporarily. Behind my head the thermostat clicked and from the kitchen I heard the dull whump of the boiler defying the energy crisis and my bank balance. I turned the thermostat down to zero. Looking out at the garden, the hollyhocks with their blooms the colours of Edwardian knickers were long gone. At least the grass – on a lawn parched all summer – was growing back. A single sign of hope against all the challenges the country was facing. Our beloved Queen had died just three days prior, sending the population into an even more unsettled state. I hooked one strap of the bag onto my shoulder and quietly pulled the door to. G whistled from the front bedroom window and I blew her a smiling, farewell kiss.
I walked round the corner where Pedro was hunkered down on the kerb. I started him up, and immediately a warning light that I’d never seen before flashed orange. It looked like a padlock so I assumed one of the doors was open. I opened all five and slammed them. If the neighbours weren’t awake yet then they were now. Warning light still on…bollocks! What could it be? Total hydraulic failure? Or perhaps all the oil had drained out over night? Or all four tyres were flat? Hmmm, not sure. I turned off the ignition and restarted. Light gone, good! We drove into the deserted high street and onto the suspension bridge over the river.
Round the M25 it started to get foggy creating a strange effect. The lighting through the mist caused a curtain of whiteness to form at the edges of the road…but above it was total blackness. A bit like being in a tunnel with illuminated walls.
I drove onto the train – Le Shuttle – I thought the French didn’t allow such expressions? Coming to a stop behind two black Range Rovers and a brand new S-Class Merc, also shiny black. The doors to the compartment closed so it was just me and them. Pedro’s scabby roof rather letting the side down. I wondered who could be the owners. Perhaps some sort of diplomatic mission with their blacked out windows? But out got a man in a baseball cap and very baggy joggers with the crotch at ankle level. He had enough chains for Mr T. I goggled at him and he came over for a chat. Probably wondering who on earth was driving this piece of crap car in ‘his’ train compartment. ‘Where are you off to?’ I asked as a polite opener. After a heartbeat of hesitation ‘Paris innit?’ ‘Lovely at this time of year.’ I breezed. ‘Yah man, got the missus in the back and a couple of mates too innit. So why not?’ Why not indeed I thought, only then letting my mind turn to how they made their money. It certainly wasn’t by selling software. But before I could ask this , potentially awkward question, the train driver interrupted to say that because another train had broken down in our tunnel there would be an hour’s delay. Terrific! So much for a 3am start!
Out of the tunnel, off the train and into the French countryside. A strong day of sunshine lay ahead. After a while we passed a sign saying 1520 Champ de le Drap d’Or. The Field of the Cloth of Gold. It was here, exactly five centuries ago, on this scrappy bit of hinterland a day’s ride from Calais. I tried to imagine it. Oh for a time machine!
Further on, and through a gap in the trees rose the twin towers of the Vimy Ridge monument where so many Canadians had lost their lives in the ‘war to end all wars’. I hadn’t seen it since the eighties when a friend and I travelled back from the south of France after he had chased down his girlfriend, an egg packer from Leeds. It had left a lasting impression on me, shrouded by mist and ethereally beautiful on the day we’d visited.
First stop Bourg-en-Bresse. Blige me, almost 600 miles on the tripometer and we hadn’t been over 80 all day, and i mean all day. The time was now five o’clock! Why Bourg-en-Bresse? It had simply looked right on the map. A good place to head onwards from to Mont Blanc. Also the home of Poulet de Bresse, a dish I have enjoyed. Unfortunately, B-en-B is a bit of a drab town apart from the very centre which was where I was staying. It was a Monday so most of the restaurants were closed. Some of them until Thursday. Staff shortages or just a normal state of affairs? TBH I didn’t bother to ask. I wandered the back streets. Pharmacists, vape shops and an establishment going by the name of Pile Shop. Batteries presumably but I didn’t get close. Only a couple of bars open and they were overrun with students. I finally found somwhere for a beer. There was a speaker set up broadcasting to the world the maunderings of a headsetted panel of tired looking hacks. I asked what this was all about just as the show closed to desultory and ironic applause. The waiter told me it was the local radio station celebrating their 40th anniversary. Wow! What a Monday night!
Returning to the hotel I had a reasonable duck in a creamy sauce with morilles. All a bit ho hum but the Cote de Brouilly was pleasant enough. Two rather beautiful girls were serving that night and a clumsy bus boy who kept knocking the paint off the door frames with oversized trays held at hat height. I retired early.