PAG 26, page 23
At Orleans I rejoined our outward route; it was already getting late and the contrast was marked , in a large town, between the way south through dense traffic and now, with only a handful of cars on the move
Now my memories get a bit blurred. For much of the journey the Hornet and I growled steadily up long straight empty roads. Occasionally lights in the distance would resolve into cars passing at high speeds, always with a feeling of urgency about them as they sped away into the night and left me to my devices. For long periods I seemed to have the whole of rural France to myself. On and on, with little to do but watch the petrol gauge and recalculate THE equation to see if it was magically resolving in my favour. (it never was, quite). Every now and then I’d have another small town to pass through, a few bright lights, the occasional car; there’d usually be a gaggle of teenagers hanging about in the centre who would all point and yell as I burbled onwards. In each of the larger towns I became aware that there was a small but ever-present population of youngsters just driving around. Not going anywhere in a hurry, not driving fast, just cruising about in ‘shopping cars’; Renault Cleos and the like. I suppose it was Saturday night. I tried a couple of garages and, yes, they rejected my cards. Time to recalculate the fuel problem again.
By the time I reached Chartres the sky had been cloudy for a while, adding to the inky blackness of the night but keeping it warmer. Trouble almost came on the Chartres ring road where it started to drizzle. I pulled over and struggled into my waterproofs, but by the time I had finished that titanic effort it had already nearly stopped. No petrol stations open in Chartres; I was starting to search for them actively by now. I had plenty of juice left but had really latched onto the thought that I needed one more top-up to be sure of getting to the ferry and was really alarmed at the prospect of levels getting serious in the early hours of a Sunday morning. So it was onward through the dark again, to Dreux. Now, it’s perhaps 2 in the morning, the traffic is reduced to the teenage cruisers (yes, they’re all still touring about) and there I am, hacking round yet another roundabout in this town, trying to spot a garage as I go. Suddenly a tatty old Peugeot 205, apparently burning more oil that petrol comes round the outside. There’s a lot of hooting and genial shouting and waving from the 4 teenage lads inside. My initial reaction was to think ‘F… off! I’m trying to find a garage’ Then I realised that if they were that enthusiastic they’d probably help, so I flagged them down. I got it across that I was worried about petrol, and they led me to a ‘no British cards’ type garage. I tortuously explained that I couldn’t use it and did any of them have a card? Yes the oldest had one and would fill up and let me pay him cash. Phew!
He worked the pump and managed to get about 11E worth (damn all!) into the tank, leaving me looking rather embarrassed. We then had another complicated session where I tried to explain, in my near-rudimentary French, the reason why I was in such a lather for petrol when there was only room in my tank for a couple of gallons. Anyway I paid them for the petrol and thanked them; we had a little chat during which I learned that they were, by their own account, Arabs (I’d spotted the swarthy look but interpreted it as Marseillais, having seen lots of folk of the same complexion down south). They wished me good luck in Arabic and volunteered to show me the way out of town. As a thank-you I took the oldest, the card-holder, in the Hornet and grounded the spring-hangers again on all the roundabouts for his benefit. He had the chance to wave vigorously at various of his mates, which must have given him something to swank about for months afterwards and a good time was had by all. They waved me into the distance at the last roundabout in town. (Since starting this article the Muslims have been rioting in ‘Paris and nearby towns’, which may well include Dreux. I can’t help thinking that my friends would have joined in simply as a change from piloting a dying Peugeot in endless loops round the town all night. I hope they’re all right.)
What a jolly little adventure it had been. The lads and I had all had a bit of a laugh and I didn’t need to worry about fuel any more (and almost certainly hadn’t needed to in the first place). Now, though, heading once more into the black and cold seemed less of a jaunt and more of a grind. I was still wide awake, although it did seem to get colder as I crept north.
Now I had it in the bag; I was on the last leg; and I managed to make it complicated for myself. You’ll remember my comments about how badly placed Le Havre is for north/south access? Well, knowing that I had lots of time and LOADS of fuel I decided I’d stick once more to the principles of the expedition and avoid paying non-essential tolls. . Coming southwards we’d gone over the Tankarville bridge, which seemed a tortuous enough process and still involved a toll. Avoiding that meant going towards Rouen and then driving west down the north side of the river. I’m uncertain whether I crossed at the earliest bridge, I think I did, but it was very much make it up as you go by now, and there’s no interior light to read maps by. Then I had to circle Rouen several times before escaping; in the end I resorted to more cruising teenagers (yes, they were all still about) to lead me to the exit for Le Havre. (Definitely poor signage). Finally more empty dark country roads and only now am I starting to feel sleepy and chilled; eventually I arrive in Le Havre and with one last effort of will to find the ferry terminal I’m there. It’s 4.30in the morning and I’ve been driving almost continuously for 17 ½ hours and done 633 miles. I’ve 1578 on the trip, and I suspect 40 of them were put on by my last piece of cleverness! I’m cold and tired, but amazingly, I’m not stiff or crippled by the long sit.
Teenagers are still cruising around under the orange street lights. There are a few other travellers at the terminal, but they, of course, have sensible cars where they recline the seats and shut the windows (poor souls; they don’t know any better, bless them!) and sleep. There are no benches or anything provided so I go and sit on a roundabout for a bit and watch the kids. I walk round the nearby dock. I check that nothing of any sort is open. I get in the Hornet, wrap a towel round my neck like one of those inflatable pillows people use to help them sleep on trains and, to my surprise, do actually drop off for an hour before the discomfort wakes me. Hell it’s dull…An eternity later, at 8ish there’s a polite scrum to get through the booths into the NEXT queue, then, at 8.50, we board. Once again everyone is very interested in the Hornet; in the last queue before boarding it starts to drizzle again and the staff call me forward early so that I can wait in the dry under a big gantry, a gesture I really appreciated. And that’s about it really; got a bit of sleep on the ferry, although not as much as I felt I needed, and was dumped back onto the English road system at about 2.15 pm on Sunday. Here it took a little while to realise that there wasn’t anything going on, this was how busy British roads are normally, quite a shock at first. The weather was blue skies with fast moving clouds and the evidence was everywhere of heavy showers but I managed to dodge all of them by sheer luck until I reached Shepton Mallet, my home town. Here I was held by two red lights in succession, which was enough to catch me with an absolute downpour in the last 200 yards before reaching home, drenched but smug. Sally was amazed to see me that early (she heard the car arrive but didn't believe it could be me!)
!665 miles total and I didn’t even adjust the points. I had a brilliant time. Driving the Hornet in France was great in every way. Try it!
*This is not rude. It’s Fr for John Frog and has long historical and literary precedent