Going ‘home’ from home. Part 2
The next day we went for a picnic in Biarritz. At the border we beeped the customs man, snoozing in his box, he waved us through into France. In Biarritz, we bought bread, paté and cheese. Sipping French wine, we ate sandwiches on the seafront, oblivious of the drizzle. For sale, on the cliff, overlooking the Gulf of Vizcaya, was a derelict four-storey chateau. I wondered what it would cost to reform it, then decided I should book myself in for therapy.
Back in San Sebastian, after a little siesta, we drove east to Errenteria on the river Oiartzun for a pizza.
The following morning we left San Sebastian. On reflection, I realise my first visit to that city, in the 60s, sowed the seed that put me on the long journey to the ‘The Wild Olive’.
Crossing the border, we drove through farmland and forests in south-west France towards Bordeaux. As we drove north, the sky darkened. Spots of rain turned to huge drops that hit the car like bullets. With the wipers squeaking back and forth, we sped on through the dismal weather, Mallorca a long way behind us.
We entered a town, whose name I forget. Suddenly, from a side road on a steep hill, fifty metres ahead, an articulated lorry with extra trailer, slid out of control across our path. I daren’t break hard on the narrow street in case I skidded into a building on either side or hit people walking bent against the driving rain. The driver straightened the lorry up, but the trailer sat across the road like a wall. If we slid under it, it would decapitate the car like a knife with a boiled egg.
Sandy screamed. I began gently pumping the break to slow without losing control. As we closed for impact, the lorry began to pull away. Like a scythe, the trailer swung over the car’s bonnet a few feet from the windscreen. We slid to a stop, and the juggernaut disappeared in the mist. A woman came out of a shop, opened an umbrella and walked across in front of us. A driver behind beeped his horn, and the kids popped up from the back to see what had happened. Fortunately for him, the driver behind didn’t beep again and went on his way. I resisted the urge to chase the lorry and confront the driver, who was probably unaware he’d almost turned us into a French accident statistic. After a few moments of composure, we drove on.
The weather brightened, so we pulled over for a picnic. At nine that evening, near Tours, we stopped at a Novotel offering free accommodation and breakfast for children. There was an event on, and the reception was full of people in elegant evening dress. Casually dressed in jumper and jeans, Sandy and Tayrne refused to go in saying they were too scruffy. I tried my best to gently coax them.
“For god’s sake, don’t be stupid. It’s a tourist hotel, you don’t have to dress Christian Dior to get in”.
They still refused. I said I’d book in with the cases, and smuggle them in when the crowd had thinned. No, I was a man I didn’t understand, and that was very true. With two couture compromised females, this was a battle I couldn’t win. We drove off into the night.
In Tours, we parked in a square and searched for more meagre lodgings. On the other side of the square, was a hotel with a parking space in front.
“Quick,” I said, “Book in. I’ll bring the car round”.
Re-parking the car, I climbed the steps of the grandiose old building. The reception was empty, so I called out “Hello”, a voice came back in accented English.
“Hello sir” replied a young negro man descending the stairs followed by my family
“What do you think?” I asked, but Sandy didn’t answer.
“It’s very nice” enthused Rohan.
“Great,” I said and went out to get the cases.
We climbed the rickety spiral stairs that sloped ominously from its fixing in the wall to the outer bannister. The young receptionist opened a door on the third floor and presented the room. I stood aghast, looking into the gloom. What pattern there had been on the carpet was replaced by a criss-cross lattice of threads. There were two double beds with holed blankets and a sink and toilet in the corner without a partition. I put the cases down and looked at Sandy, who stared blankly back. I turned to the young man.
“Could you give us a moment please. I’ll be down once we settle in”.
He gave me a broad smile and left. I walked to the window at the toilet end. I looked down the vertical drop to a courtyard, wondering how I could evacuate my family after the staircase collapsed in a fire.
“Rohan, I could strangle you. Why didn’t you tell me…” but he couldn’t see a problem.
Tayrne started to cry. “I’m not staying here, we’ll be murdered in our beds”.
“Don’t be so dramatic. We’re all tired, and you’re overreacting.” I replied, “It’s too late to find anywhere else now. It’s not that expensive, I’ll pay to secure the room for the night, then we can go and look for somewhere else”.
We paid by Eurocheque, then found a café for a family meeting.
“Think of it as a challenge.” I said, “After a night there we’ll all appreciate what we have. In my travels I’ve stayed in worse places than that”. They waited.
“OK, I can’t remember one right now”.
Sandy phoned Novotel from the bar. On her return, she declared.
“That settles it. They’re full”.
The young negro man was apologetic when we returned to the hotel.
“I’m sorry, I undercharged you. I forgot to put on the VAT”.
Sandy seized the opportunity “OK, give us the cheque and we can go”.
“Oh! This is terrible” he responded “It’s my first night on the job. What will I tell the owner?”
He looked forlorn as if he were going to cry. We were defeated. I wrote out a new cheque.
At that moment the owner arrived. It was raining again, he was stooped over holding the lapels of his coat to his chin, looking like an evil villain hiding his identity. He scanned the cheque, put it in his pocket and left.
I tried explaining my concerns about a fire to the receptionist, but he misunderstood me and showed me a larger room on the fifth floor for the same price. He couldn’t understand when I turned it down.
I had a rope in the car in case of a breakdown. Actually, it was a ten-metre mooring line a yachtie had given us when they left the island. The receptionist stared wide-eyed when I returned from the car. I thought of explaining, but after the previous misunderstanding, I thought better of it. As I ascended the stairs, rope over my shoulder, he probably wondered how he would explain the mass hanging on his first night on the job.
In the bedroom I tied the rope to the radiator and dropped it out the window, it almost touched the ground below. As I retrieved it, an old couple sipping Pernod on a balcony stared at me from across the courtyard. I politely raised a hand then closed the window. Tayrne refused to get undressed and went to bed in her clothes, Rohan was already fast asleep sucking his fingers.
Sandy produced a bottle of Rioja from a suitcase, and we’d relaxed by the time we went to bed.
The next morning, with the room bathed in sunlight, it was nowhere near as bad as we’d imagined.
At breakfast, the receptionist, still on duty, was overjoyed to see us safe and well. The owner no longer sinister, spoke amiably to us in perfect English. I removed the rope from the radiator, and we left the hotel the best of friends.
We drove through beautiful countryside with fields piled high with khaki coloured sugar beat. Ironically, other fields had row upon row of white marble crosses marking the enormity of what had happened there. Instead of pressing on to Calais we decided to try Boulogne.
We arrived in Boulogne at six just in time to catch the ferry.
At Dover, because we had Spanish plates, a polite customs officer asked, in slow, deliberate English, the reason for our trip. Resisting the temptation to answer “Que?” I said we were resident in Spain returning for a wedding. He waved us through without inspection.
Leaving Dover, we had to stop for fish and chips.
“You’re not locals,” said the lady serving.
“No. We live in Spain. We’ve driven all the way from Mallorca”.
“Goodness dearies,” she said “That’s a long way to come for fish and chips.