Tuesday 28th September, 2010

Grey, dreary, cold – England at the end of September.

The dogs are comfortable and that is the main thing; it is going to be a very long four days for them with no understanding of what awaits them.

I have allowed an extra 1 ½ hours on top of the normal journey time and I’m travelling post rush-hour – Is it going to be a last minute shopping spree at Folkestone? Is it heck! An accident, of which I see not one shred of evidence, causes a delay of over an hour. To top it all Radio 2 informs me that there are problems at the Dartford Crossing – guess where I’m headed. If this is the start of my 4 days traversing France and Spain then I may be a tad later arriving than planned.

As it was, despite frayed nerves, I time my arrival at the Eurotunnel perfectly. The dogs get a quick stretch as we wait the 9 minutes before being called to board. All is well and I am feeling perfectly confident that we will arrive in daylight at Tours as planned. Sat nav programmed, we touch on French soil and head South (sort of!).

The sat nav is programmed to avoid toll roads – well these are times of hardship – so we meander through village after village in North Western France. The architecture of this area of France seems to consist predominantly of long low buildings with narrow shuttered windows. The villages cannot be considered pretty so much as functional but it definitely feels French. Progress is not as rapid as I would have envisaged passing through town after town, but Rouen (along with Paris) seems to be the common direction in which I’m travelling. I allow The Bitch, as I believe all sat navs are affectionately known, to guide me.

Boulogne hoves into view. I went there once on a school trip and remember eating bread fresh from the boulangerie as we strolled through the Old Town. Having said that it could have been a group from the Flying Club I went with, I can’t really remember (which would indicate the Flying Club as alcohol played a big part there), except that I have definitely been there.

The weather continues to be grey and dismal. After a not inconsiderable time we hit Rouen. It is rush hour. The Bitch has told me to stay left on Rue…. Obedient as always I take the left of four lanes. Then she tells me to Bear right on Avenue de…. Easier said than done Bitch! This is France, in a busy town, in rush hour; I’m not bearing right from the left-hand lane. The drizzle becomes slightly heavier on the windscreen. I bear right-ish and throw the car down a small street before I end up being corralled like a Pamplona bull back onto the Rue Nacional heading back the way I came.  I pull over as The Bitch starts recalculating. A further 15 minutes is added to our arrival time as we manoeuvre through the narrow streets. I had time to catch sight of the top of the cathedral as I sat at traffic lights.

I love churches. Almost as much as I love books. Luckily, my church collection can be confined to very small memory cards in the form of pictures.

The Seine is very wide and we travelled beside it on the Rue de Paris as we headed out of Rouen. Now Tours is not next to Paris, it is somewhat south of it. So I was perplexed and increasingly frustrated by our apparent random progression. Our route when plotted seemed to resemble the cardiogram of a man with a very sick heart. With hindsight I think my penny-pinching may have given The Bitch an almost impossible task. The majority of major roads in this part of France have Peage sections – she avoided them all – but with the most rambling route known to man.

Darkness fell and the fuel needle dropped with it, just as we entered ‘no fuel land’. I was by now, tired and irritable, not to mention nervous. Neither of my phones (English and Spanish) had coverage in France so if I did breakdown I wouldn’t be able to call anyone. The only flaw in my plan! As luck would have it I came upon a 24 hour self-service pump about 30km from Tours and 2 minutes from drawing to a shuddering halt. I nearly fainted on getting out of the car and realised I hadn’t eaten. With sugar levels at an all-time low and darkness complete we arrived at the Etap Hotel. Ensuring I’d booked in first, I then let the dogs out.

The boys had been brilliant. No complaining, no fidgeting, just laid down and slept or watched. They ran. Ran round and round the car park and garden of the hotel; stretching their legs and revelling in their freedom. Their tails were up and wagging. They spent a good 15 minutes playing and stretching before the obligatory wee and poo. They had only been out once since Folkestone for dinner and a quick five minute toilet break. Absolutely brilliant pooches; my lovely boys.

I stocked up with Coke, Twix and Madeleines to elevate my sugar levels. Incredibly tired I settled down for a solid night’s sleep but alas it was not forthcoming. The cold I had been fighting for over a week was bringing on a fresh set of symptoms with a tight chest, sore throat and swollen glands. And the room was hot. Very hot. I spent the night tossing and turning in a burning sweat.