A couple of weeks ago, we packed the Land Rover to the gunnels and headed down to Portsmouth for the first 'no going back' furniture drop off at the farmhouse in the Vendée. Five days were scheduled in order to take advantage of Brittany Ferries' not-so-special short trip offer thingy, so plenty of time to go down, have a few nights there and trundle back with a lighter and far more liquid load to Ouistreham. So far so good.
Now the actualité. Progress was good, albeit slow, until Basingstoke. Suddenly, approaching the M3, the power steering went a bit spongy! It was 7am, the ferry was at 8:45, no garage would be able to fix it in time even if they were open, which they weren't. The only option was to limp to the nearest garage and wait for it to open.
By 9am, the problem had been diagnosed as something relatively inconsequential to do with pulleys but we would have to wait 2 DAYS for it to be fixed! Frustration and helpnessness preceded a hasty call to Brittany Ferries, who were, I concede, excellent in rearranging our crossing, and that was that.
So what does one do at 9am on a cold Monday morning in Basingstoke?
The pub, a member of a well known national chain, was particularly soulless and sterile, but after several gin and tonics, our troubles had melted away and we exuded the philosophical outlook of the blighted, stranded and, ok, tipsy traveller. We would spend the day exploring Basingstoke, its architecure, some of which dated back to the last century, its shopping outlets and its road network. Then we would take a bus out to a Hampshire village where friends would have returned from work and would gladly offer us overnight(s) shelter.
And so it was. Two days later, the Land Rover worked again, and we took the night crossing, followed the next day by a journey round Caen, Avranches, Rennes and Nantes, finally arriving at the farmhouse in St Pierre for a two night stay, huddling round the wood burner!
What a contrast to our stay there last summer. The swimming pool, utterly anachronistic, cowered under its winter coat as the wind howled above, racing into the house through every one of the numerous nooks and crannies (holes and fissures probably gives a more accurate indication, in truth). The walls and floors were cold and damp, the wooden doors of the adjacent barn creaked and rattled, and the whole demeanour of the place had completely changed from its happy summer appearance, seemingly contracted and crouching against the wind. A warning to us of the harshness of a French winter, the harshness that we would have to live through for up to a third of each year in the Pyrénées. We found the English neighbours, hunched over their soup, claiming this to have been the worst winter in the area for years. Oh joy.
Seemingly, no sooner had we arrived than it was time to head back home. As we left, the sun broke through and the temperature climbed into the teens, either mocking us or reminding us that better météo awaits us later in the year - I chose the latter interpretation, and returned home optimistically.
The two day delay, and a huge detour via east London to pick up a bike bought from ebay, meant that we were almost immediately back at work, feeling shattered.
Oh well, c'est la vie, mais ce n'est pas pour l'éternité.