Chapter 1   1997

I watched the green Renault van in my rear view mirror. It described a gentle roll six foot in the air before bouncing onto the road behind me and spinning off the wing of the car behind. Two seconds earlier it had been coming diagonally across the road towards me, brakes locked, out of control and just beginning to spin - one second later it had struck the front wing and wheel of my car and set off on its aerial journey to the scrap yard.

Not that my car seemed in much better shape - the initial boom of contact had given way to what could only be compared to a tin tray clattering down a wooden stairway coupled with a shaking that would do credit to a Martini. A quick glance to my left showed no visible damage to the passenger compartment of the car, and of greater importance, no injury to my wife sitting beside me. I brought the car gently to a stop at the side of the road and switched off the engine. "Are you OK" received a shaken but positive reply and I got out of the car and walked back towards the green Renault lying ominously quietly on its side in the centre of the road.

One of the perils of being a doctor on holiday in France - even a retired doctor, but with training in trauma and resuscitation, is an obligation to help others in need - regardless of what he had done to my car, my holiday and my coronary arteries. I gave a fleeting thought to dragging the emergency kit - oxygen, IV fluids, resuscitation equipment out of the boot but suppressed it initially in favour of a quick assessment of the wreck.

The van was well wrecked, lying on its side and the potential for injury to the occupants high, but as I approached a head on a scrawny neck peered out of the side window on the top of the car, for all the world like the head and neck of a disturbed Galapagos tortoise rudely awoken. No blood of note, not in obvious pain, but clearly shocked.

An enterprising Frenchman had already wrenched open the remains of the bonnet and was busily and happily ripping leads off the battery and everything else in sight and petrol was beginning to drip gently onto the warm road surface. With an acrobatic heave the driver launched himself out of the wreck and we peered into the cavern of the vehicle. Lying sideways on the lower door was a second person.

"Ca va" was greeted by a response and a tinkling of glass as the woman tried to stand. Several moments of struggle and a middle aged woman was standing in the centre of the wreck. Well, at least there was no blood, no injury to any major limb, but perhaps the faintest tinge of blueness round her lips. A quick check of her pulse showed a rate of 80, regular and now that she was leaning against the roof the blueness was already fading. In the distance I could hear the faint sound of the sirens on the approaching emergency services vehicles.

The Sapeurs-Pompiers removed the roof of the Renault in a flash - the woman walked free and into the ambulance and the Brigadier of the Gerndermerie Nationale took charge. It is amazing how swiftly need takes over in foreign languages and within moments I was discussing with him how the other driver had attempted to "double" a "vehicle stationery, parfaitement situé pour faire un tour à gauche et avec les clingnonts gauche allumé" and how he had "appliqué ses freins trop tard et avait glissé dans ma voie et m’a se huerte". The other witnesses and physical evidence appeared to convince him of the truth. The driver and passenger of the Renault were already on their way to the hospital for a check-up and the Brigadier decreed that all interested parties should report to the Gendermerie in Mirepoix at 2-o-clock that afternoon.

Chapter 2

I looked at my car. It was certainly going nowhere on its own. The left front wing and door were damaged and the left front wheel was at ninety degrees to the other three. The local breakdown truck arrived and with the car safely behind, my wife in the truck’s passenger seat and me balanced on the engine we returned slowly to Mirepoix.

Now is the hour to see how good AA 5 Star and my insurers are!!! It took a long time to get through to the AA France service, explained eventually by both the high demand and the fact that the thunderstorms of the previous day meant that the computers were "down". All the information was duly noted in the old fashioned way with paper and pencil and we waited further developments.

At 1220 the garage proprietor suggested apologetically that he was going home for his lunch - perhaps we would like to go to the nearby restaurant and he would return just before two-o-clock and drive us to the Gendermerie - "when in France etc" so we walked through the rain to a leisurely lunch.

At two-o-clock precisely we presented ourselves at the Gendermerie - as I walked through the door I realised that I had left my driving license locked in the strong box in the boot of the car!!! A very quick question revealed that it would be required and occasioned for my wife a high speed, siren accompanied, trip through centre of the town in the company of the youngest, and most handsome Gendarme!

I had drawn a sketch map of the accident at the scene and paced out the distances, all of which were accepted without question by not only the Gendermerie but also the other parties and used as a basic plan to complete the "Constat de l’amiable", the International Road traffic accident report. I was content with the form which both I and the other driver signed and within an hour we were back at the garage, once again transported by the gendarme, but this time at a more sedate pace.

Nothing from the AA. The afternoon dragged on. Several phone calls later I was aware that someone sharing my surname had a Saab in the South of France with a burnt out clutch. He lives in Hampshire and given time I am sure I would have discovered his home address, his family details and his preference in wine. If he reads this I am the man from Derby with the damaged Peugeot 605 who prefers Rose wine from Mont Ventoux - he probably knows even more about me!!!

The knowledge that we were from Derby sparked interest from the wife of the garage proprietor, "When I was at school I had a pen friend in Derby" she said wistfully, "but it was a long time ago" The world is very small!!

At six-o-clock I phoned the AA again, time was passing and we were still 100 miles from our caravan, with night approaching. I think the computers must have been back on line because the response was much sharper. "We will fix a taxi - but can you pay for it and reclaim it later?".

The taxi ride was awful - the driver excellent but the thunderstorms had returned and we traveled back along the Toulouse-Narbonne autoroute - I closed my eyes and tried to sleep!! Mostly 130kph, occasionally 160kph my wife told me later, though he did slow down a bit when he couldn’t see anything.

We arrived back at our campsite - a naturist site - and asked the driver to take us right up to the caravan, "Même les naturistes portent des vêtements en temps de pluie" I told him. I was of course wrong!! - but we were home.

A digression

We came late to Naturism.  Children of the post war boom, we missed the wilder excesses of the sixties and by the seventies were settled into middle class, middle England respectability.

By the late seventies we were holidaying in France - tentatively topless but certainly not naturist!!

The next holiday saw us on the Aquitaine coast, clothes were not regarded as necessary but by now our children were at the age when they were uncomfortable with no clothes.  We however became “holiday naturists”.

My mind goes back - the beach which we were on was under the watchful eye of the Gendaremerie, not to insist on clothes but because of the danger of the sea.  I have this wonderful remembrance.

I had been dozing, my wife swimming with the children when I was shaken awake by my 10 year old son.

“Dad, Dad “ he said “Mum’s in trouble with the Gendarmes!!”

I sat up, sure enough my wife was standing in the centre of the beach, stark naked being given a good dressing down by one of the Gendarmes.  I considered whether I should intervene.  Fate saved me.  With further gesticulation and force the conversation came to an end and my wife walked slowly towards me.

“What was all that about?” I asked, “ I thought that naturism was tolerated on this beach”

“Not that” she said “ he doesn’t give a damn about clothes but I think I have just been given a severe reprimand for allowing the kids to swim in an area which he considers unsafe!!!”

Chapter 3

"Help, I’m trapped in the South of France with my wife and a caravan but no car!!! - and I can’t get home!!!" Ok. I realise that this is not a crisis of earthshaking proportions, in fact if I analyse this carefully, is there a problem at all? " I am in the South of France ", no problem, "with my wife", no problem, "with my caravan", no problem, "I can’t get home", who cares?, "with no car, problem!!! I need a car.

Two days later the AA had found a car with a tow bar, so we were mobile, two days later we moved the caravan from Languedoc-Rouissillion to Provence. It was no fun!! My car, a heavy diesel with stabilisers copes well with French autoroutes, the unstable Nissan Primera without stabilisers was all over the road, even at 40mph. We were glad to reach Belezy.

As we approached the campsite my mobile telephone rang!! "What now?!!!". "This is Central Control, your burglar alarm has been activated, the police are on their way to your house, how soon can you attend?" I suppressed an urge to burst into hysterical laughter and gave a studied response. " I am 1000 miles away in the South of France, could you notify the alternate keyholders please?"

"Are you unable to attend?" the tinny voice queried.

"That’s correct, please notify your alternate keyholders" I replied slightly less calmly.

"Oh -OK" he said and rang off.

This holiday is definitely becoming a problem! We booked into the site, positioned the caravan, poured the tea and I phoned my neighbour, the alternate key holder. "The house is fine, no signs of entry and the technician has reset the alarm". Scratch one problem.

I picked up the phone again and dialed a colleague. "Hi, we are both fine but we have just had a road accident in the South of France" was followed by the usual, "Are you sure you’re both Ok " etc etc. "Can you do me a favour?" I asked, "If I send you a fairly long e-mail message would you print it out and forward it to my insurers by post? ".

"No problem" he said.

My wife does not approve, and certainly does not understand why I bring my mobile phone and computer on holiday with me!! She does now. The mobile phone bill is rising by the minute - but then of course that is exactly what it does!!. All those who need to know now know and a preliminary accident report has winged its way by e-mail to my insurer. Time to relax.

A week later I am still relaxed. Belezy is our favourite campsite, one we return to time and again. Nestled at the foot of Mount Ventoux in northern Provence, the lavender scented air is clear, the wine acceptable and the ambience gentle. The rhythm of the days is tranquil and the weather serene.

I have made a lot more phone calls. To the AA to confirm a change of hire care to one that should pull our caravan, to my insurers who have, at last, had my car inspected and have decreed that it is to be returned to the UK for repair - but who knows when!

The peace of the day is broken once again by my mobile phone, "?". "This is Central Control, your burglar alarm has been activated, the police are on their way to your house, how soon can you attend?"

I suggest calmly and gently that they may wish to notify the alternate keyholder!!!

I phone home, my neighbour answers, the house is fine!! One phone call to the owner of the company that service my alarm to ensure that everything will be fully checked out and I pick up my towel, leave my phone behind and stroll off slowly for today’s massage.

Chapter 4

My mind wanders, I should have realised right at the start that this was to be no ordinary idyllic holiday.

The holiday began badly. We left the ferry at Santander in northern Spain, the entire August filled ferry spewing its cars, its caravans, motor caravans and motorcycles onto the congested dockside and out into the main street of the town. The large clearly visible sign said ( in Spanish ) Way Out with a large arrow pointing to the left. The armed, authoritative, Spanish policeman would brook no argument; all the traffic from the ferry was to go to the right. Nobody in their right mind is going to start an argument with a Spanish policeman in the middle of a traffic jam, in the centre of the town, on the first day of their holiday.

We went to the right.

"First turn left, then left, then left, then right " I said to my wife " and we shall be back on route". The theory is unassailable, in practice it took us back through the centre of old Santander, a town I should like to re-visit one day - on foot!

I understand paranoia - that unassailable belief that the entire world has conspired together to make one’s life unbearable but why has every single person in Santander parked his car so that the gap down the centre of every narrow street is only six inches wider than my caravan!!!

One hour, several narrow back streets and miles of even narrower Spanish secondary roads later we reach the autoroute.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my wife dearly, we’ve been married nearly thirty years, but a navigator for the Long Range Desert Group, she isn’t. I have tried to explain that, with the exception of Rome, all other roads run in two directions; simply, the way you want to go and the wrong way!!!

The road we are on at present, which should be running along the coast in sight of the sea, is climbing steadily south into the mountains in the centre of Spain. Is this the moment to ask if we are on the right road?

It takes a while to turn the car and caravan combination round but soon we are heading north and descending onto the coastal plain.

The delay at the Franco-Spanish border was fairly brief and I heaved a sigh of relief as the more familiar and welcoming French road signs replaced those of Spain. An hours drive and we arrived at our campsite at Arnaochout.

That first week on the Aquitaine coast was restful. The site, larger than I expected, spread through the pine trees on the sand dunes with the beach in easy reach and the pools even closer. Time to relax.

Our only excursion that week was without incident. A visit to Lourdes followed by a brief trip up into the central Pyrennes. What is it about the French psyche that makes every Frenchman determined to ride his bicycle to the top of every mountain in France - and why do I never see any cyclists coming down the mountains???

At the end of the week we folded our tents, metaphorically, and moved our caravan to Lanquedoc-Rouisillion. A quiet site, well shaded by the side of one of the etangs, shallow sea water filled lakes that lie between the Camargue and Perpingnan.

Our excursion that week took us to Carcassone, a "spectacle" of jousting and swordfights in the wards of the ramparts and the next day to our own personal destiny and joust with a small, green Renault van.

Chapter 5

I had always wanted to visit Nimes - the Roman architecture, the Arena, the ambience. From my seat I could see the tourists walking on the upper tiers of the Arena. The French have a breathtaking disregard for safety rails or barriers and I could see no evidence of any protection for the tourists other than their own natural caution.

Sadly it was not pleasure that had me sitting in the splendidly positioned but sparsely appointed Europcar office. Following our encounter with the Renault the AA had arranged a taxi to our camp site , and after two days provided us with a hire car complete with tow bar. The Nissan Primera had proved an unsuitable towcar and our journey from the Pyrennes to Provence a nightmare. Far from towing the caravan, the van appeared to be in total control of the car and despite traveling increasingly slowly the stability of the combination was nonexistant.

A phone call to the AA had been kindly received and confirmed that a larger vehicle was required. Large hire cars with towbars in the South of France in August are as rare as hens teeth but the AA assured me that one would be found.

"Help, I’m trapped in the South of France with my wife and a caravan but no car!!! - and I can’t get home!!!" Ok. I realise that this is not a crisis of earthshaking proportions, in fact if I analyse this carefully, is there a problem at all? " I am in the South of France ", no problem, "with my wife", no problem, "with my caravan", no problem, "I can’t get home", who cares?, "with no car, problem!!! I need a car.

"Hey wait a minute - We've been here before!!"

Chapter 6

I really am a very patient man - which is probably just as well, but with one week of the holiday left the AA called back. "No problem, You can pick up a Renault Laguna the day before you travel home. Where would you like to collect it?

I declined the offer of the centre of Lyon, even though that would have been on the way home and we agreed to collect the car from Nimes. A slightly complex manoeuvre which would involve us in driving the Primera 60 miles south, picking up the Laguna, driving ten miles north and dropping off the Primera before returning to the campsite, packing up the van and setting off home.

Which brings me back to Nimes. We arrived at two in the afternoon on the day before our journey home and walked into the office.

"Nous sommes ici pour prendre la Laguna avec crochet" My French is improving by the minute, elicited a gallic shrug and "Il n'y a pas de vehicule de location avec crochet"

Now we are in real trouble!

Several fairly frantic phone calls later, and adequate time to admire the tourist legs on top of the Arena, and we have an agreement. There will be a car, "avec crochet" "le matin"

Ten miles north - explain that we are not returning the Primera today, but that we will back in the morning " avec caravan" and we rush back to pack.

Next morning we leave early, tow the caravan 50 miles south and leave it by the roadside outside the garage to which we must return with the Primera and hot foot it into the centre of Nimes. My wife does drive, but does not relish the thought of driving out through the centre of Nimes. I decide this is not a good time to tell her that I don't much fancy the idea of picking up a unfamiliar car and driving it straight out of the Europcar depot either.

As we walk into the depot an attractive French girl is handing over the keys of a Laguna with "crochet", things are looking up.

Chapter 7

"I see, I can't take the car on the ferry. I must hand it back at Caen and pick up another car in Portsmouth. Will there be someone there to collect the car at midnight tomorrow?"

I seem to have caused another problem. More frantic phone calls.

"Take the car on the ferry, but you must hand it in at Portsmouth at 6 30 in the morning on Wednesday and change it for a UK car."

The phone calls have delayed us - it's going to be a close run thing to get the Primera back by twelve o'clock and from 12 to 2 in Languedoc lunch is sacrosanct. We weave our way out of Nimes and hammer down the motorway at high speed. Is there an upper speed limit?

The Primera is returned, undamaged, but dust covered and smelling very warm at 11.55!

Now to hook up the caravan and see what the stability of the combination is like - there is all of three hundred yards to find out before we shall be on the Autoroute!

It's a lot better and the day passes without incident. By two o'clock we are past Avignon and Orange, Lyon is on the horizon and we shall meet our deadline tonight in Beaune.

Beaune is important. We always stay one night in Beaune going South and going North. We eat in the same restaurant and return time and time again. Against my better judgement I will reveal the name. The Relais de Madelaine in the Place Madelaine and the chef, Claude Neaux. Dinner as usual was perfect

We returned to our hotel to discover our caravan leaning drunkenly to one side. One tyre totally deflated. I am doing nothing tonight - things will look better in the morning.

It looked just as bad in the morning. Spare wheel, jack, tools all ok - but all to no avail. I grunted, I sweated but the van just would not move. My wife arrived. "Stop"" she said, "are you sure that you should be doing that after two heart attacks and a bypass?" ( A personal account of myocardial infarction and coronary bypass )

Sweaty, short of breath and with chest pain - I knew damn well I shouldn't

"Phone the local equivalent of ATS" she said

Back into the hotel. "Is there a tyre depot near here" I asked plaintively

"Just round the corner"

It's amazing how simple a professional can make a job look. But the deflated tyre needs replacing. A good excuse to spend an extra two hours shopping in Beaune.

He trip from Beaune to Caen was uneventful, the ferry on time and the crossing calm. We left the ferry terminal at Portsmouth and set out to find the Europcar depot - it took us nearly an hour. When we arrived the depot manager was waiting for us. "I waited for you on the quayside" he said, "Where were you?"

Half past 6 in the morning is a bad time at Portsmouth, a P&O ferry and the Brittany Ferries boat arrive at the same time - and at the end of August it is chaos - on more than one occasion I have noticed that the cars from the Brittany Ferries service are guided out through the freight terminal, which had been our good fortune that morning.

Another hire car with a tow bar - and I can't help noticing that on each occasion the tow bar on each car has looked very new. No marks, no grease, new scratch marks on the securing bolts - it looks to me as if each car has had the tow bar fitted the night before!!

But who cares - the AA have come up trumps and the final leg of the journey from Portsmouth to Derby lies ahead. We complete it without incident. Home at last or nearly so.

Chapter 8

As we pass Gaydon - a flashback. Four months earlier, at Easter, on our way South to Provence fate had struck again. It was late March, we were on our way to Portsmouth and night was falling. I turned on the car side lights. I glanced in my mirror, the caravan was in total blackness. We pulled in to the next lay-by and checked the connection - no problem with the connection, but no van lights, no side lights, no rear lights, no number plate lights, but the stop lights and hazard warning lights were working. No right hand rear light on the car either. It got colder and began to rain.

I love my car, but what perverse French design guru decreed that the fuse box should be on the underside of the glove compartment on the passenger side? The only method of access is to lie over the door sill upside down with your trousers in the ditch- and the rain -  with the water trickling slowly UP your back. Tempers began to fray.

I pulled out the fuse, in the dark it was clearly blown, I replaced it, nothing happened.

Half an hour passed with no significant progress. We drove to the nearest service area and tried again. Time passed.

Now I'm not proud of the decision, but the choices were stark, miss the ferry or not.

We drove from Gaydon to Portsmouth. On the open road I used the hazard flashers, through the towns, under the streetlights, we ran without lights. I felt sure I should be stopped by the police and rehearsed my story. For the open road and motorway, "The lights have just failed, I'm using the hazard warning lights to get to a place of safety". For towns " Have they? I hadn't noticed. I'll pull off and sort it out"

We reached Portsmouth without incident. Tired, frustrated and bad tempered, but without incident.

I fixed he lights in Beaune 24 hrs later. A simple short circuit in one of the caravan lights - and the fuse - I had been changing the wrong one. Upside down, in the dark, cold and wet, I had been reading the plan of the fuses upside down. Five from the top, not five from the bottom!

Chapter 9

It is now November. My car is still in France. The hire car bill is mounting to astronomical level. "La voiture est presque prête".

I've already booked the ferries for next year, the first trip is only five months away - it had better be "prête"