The first week in France continues on this vein with me (and the dog) getting more exercise than we've had all winter. There are only two hilly stretches on the route but both are 1k slow inclines, which aren't too difficult for the ‘push'. The whole area around the Lot ET Garonne is rolling country and not too dissimilar to parts of Lancashire.  The odd dramatic volcanic plug, where a defensive settlement has grown, like nearby Monflanquin, punctuates the landscape. The round trip to Villereal from the caravan is about 8k or five miles and just the right distance once you've got the old muscles working again. My first round trip is a little too much though and I end up wearing a wrist support for strained thumb tendons. These are readily available in the nearest sports store and not to expensive. 

 

We tend to shop in Villenueve-sur-Lot though everything you could need on a day-to-day basis is here in Villereal. The large Le Clerc supermarket in Villenueve has an abundance of parking and always has free disabled spaces. Disabled parking is a treat here, as it's not abused by the selfish or the lazy. Strangely, the only time these spaces seem crowded is in summer when the Brit badge holders arrive in droves for their hols.  Perhaps too many Brits who don't really need them get badges? You'll see many elderly and infirm French using sticks to aide mobility, or walking slowly and carefully from their cars to their destinations that don't have blue badges. In Britain it almost appears as though chronic flatulence offers a severe disability benefit entitlement - and a blue badge. Winning votes by keeping selfish people happy - seemingly the British way - has perhaps overtaken prudence (never liked her anyway) in judging peoples abilities.

 

Talking of disability I got a fine opportunity to practice my French language skills at the Le Clerc the other day. We've been attempting to learn the language for three months, so any opportunity to practice in real life situations is welcomed. Whilst I was transferring on the Turney seat up into the Vito a French lady approached me for permission to watch proceedings. She told me how her disabled son kept falling while she was transferring him into their car and thought the seat cold solve a problem. I was even able to spell the seat's name aloud for her in alphabetical French. The local shops and bars offer good chances to practice too. Asking for a table and for basic menu requirements is an elemental part of the course, so I'm in revision mode every day. The local French newspapers help too. I've bought ‘Sud Ouest' several times and interpreted things that looked interesting using the dictionary. Sentences rarely translate literally but you can get a good idea of the meaning from the context or setting of the piece.

 

The local (most reputable of) roofer and stonemason came over this evening (25/2/08) to finalise plans for renovating the barn. It's dark and one or more later here and stayed mild so we chatted outside from 6.30 until nearly 8 p.m. The mason, Jean Claude, arrived first and we had a good, if broken conversation, as we blended together his poor English and my poor French. He will start work in couple of weeks and the roof will be replaced on the 15^th of June. Rural France takes a bit of getting used to as far as business goes. If you don't submit the deposit to confirm your choice of firm then the work don't get booked in and subsequently, for major projects, the whole job can get thrown into abeyance. We have been lucky. We didn't pay the deposits on time but our local friend sorted out the work schedule with the tradesmen. Only a few of the local builders, particularly the roofers, have good reputations, so competition for their skills is intense.

 

My strained thumb ligament is still gypping and I didn't wheel far this morning. I'm not sure whether the dog's happy or sad. He's a longhaired German Shepherd and the temperature has come down from mid twenties C to late teens, so it's at least a little more pleasant for him. I haven't been out on the Beamer too often but I take it out of the shed every day and keep the batteries topped up so it should stay healthy. It took us along an unfamiliar bridle way the other day. The buggy waded through nearly two feet of mud and water as the path dipped at its tale end, without any problem. It really has proven to be the best buy I've made since getting whacked - until I found the barn.

 

Its now 11 days since we arrived and Allison has been fervently reorganizing the caravan to ensure it's safe for me while she's off the scene. I got a shock this morning as I realised that we only have two more days together before she flies back to England. Our home there goes on sale in a week so it's important that she goes over and sorts the viewings out. Apart from that I really feel she needs a break from the chair (and me) for a few weeks so no better excuse is needed.

 

The phone got connected today though I won't have internet for another week. Shame really, but I'll keep blogging and post this when the time comes. The phone's great as it puts me in easier (and cheaper) contact with everyone.

 

26/02

It started to shower rain today. The cheek! After all the sunshine here of the past few weeks it's a bit of a shock. Alison returns to England tomorrow. Part of me is anxious about being left to my own devices though a stronger matter concerns regaining my independence. After two family bereavements, a fractured leg and an inability to recover from those events quickly I've become one of life's victims. ‘It's a hard kick up the bum, ye need,' my father used to say when he thought I was letting things get the better of me. Strange Scots logic perhaps, and wouldn't be supported by aficionados of any psychological therapies, but for me, it's never more true or needed than now. Strangely enough I recognized the ‘disability dependency syndrome' (I'll write a book on that one day) I had developed back in October last year and we planned for this ‘independence relearning' session (great monickers these eh?)back then. Booked the Chunnel, planned the flights etc etc. It'll still be painful when the flight leaves.

 

27/02

Allison's flew the coup at 2.10. Last flight from Bergerac and all that. I could have done my Bogart impersonation - hands in Mac pockets (no, nothing to do with the dog), cigarette hanging casually from mouth, wistful look on face as eyes follow the turbo prop up into the air and away...

 

But no, it's not like that. First thing this morning I took Mac for a short wander up the road and repeated last years many farm-muck caked, (hands, casters and tires) trips through the cloying clay left on the road by the farm tractors. At this time of year they plough and furrow and plant, so expect to be mummified in clay if it rains; their tires leave massive clods of the sticky brown ‘growth-gold' as they leave the fields after long, productive days.

 

After Allison sorted some last ditch issues in the caravan and said farewell to Mac, we drove the Vito down to Villereal. The sun came out to defy the heavy clouds and the church bells loudly tolled mid-day as we parked outside the towns administrative centre. As I chatted to the Café Moderne owner, she wandered round the ancient cobbled square snapping some pictures to enjoy on the computer at home.

Two ‘grande cremes' later and we were off toward Bergerac, fifteen or so miles up the road.

 

You soon cross from the Lot et Garonne into the Dordogne and the fields quickly become full of well tended vines leaving the maize and corn fields to another breed. This is wine land. In its midst, on the south side of Bergerac, sits the small airport. It has the look of an under-developed bus terminal but meets the needs of the many thousands of Brits who inhabit the area. There aren't many flights to England in winter but it is quite busy during the summer. To get to Manchester, Allison will have to change flights at Southampton during the winter season. Effectively it takes four hours in total but it's a damn site quicker and a great deal cheaper than 15 hours of driving. No road works, no jams, no trucks, no idiots. Yes, it's a lot better on both your pocket and your sanity.

 

Suddenly we're at the terminal. What do I do? We haven't been apart for more than a couple of nights for three years.

We kiss, she gets out; I drive away waving. Jesus!

 

I consider turning back - we don't need to be apart - but no; this is the right thing. Space, independence, freedom; in a strong relationship they make no real difference - if they're planned.

 

I'm back at the caravan in half and hour and the dogs awaiting his freedom. Onto the Beamer buggy and we're off for his exercise. Oh, well at least the routine will keep things balanced. I'll still miss my best friend.

 

 

 

 

 

 

28/2

 

After a fitful night I got up at 8 and got on with the day. "The beds too big without you..." (Police - Message in a Bottle) played on the ipod made me smile.

 

Shower, shave and onto the buggy, (no coffee, no tea) and the dog and I are off to Villereal for bread. A very tasty new boulangerie has opened just as you get into the village. As the dog and I draw up one of the friendly assistants pops out to find out what I'm after. She asks me about Mac and I eventually understand that she thinks he's an overgrown Husky; this only because she repeatedly uses the ‘chein, Canada', phrase whilst pointing enthusiastically at my Buerger Allemande (blond). I suppose it could have been worse - she could have thought he was a Westie with a growth hormone problem.

 

On the way back we pass a farm where I believe Conan Doyle thought up the ‘Hound of the Baskerville" story. To make a point, out it comes - massive, muscle bound, loud bark, large teeth, short pointy ears, black and tan and slavering. I shudder but Mac looks at it that comical way a puzzled dog does and tilts his head quizzically, though surprisingly his fighting hackles don't rise. It gets closer but Mac move in first and sticks his nose on its ‘willie', then its bum and after allowing a reciprocal ‘doggy' welcome wanders back toward me dismissively before cocking a leg on the verge. I think perhaps I just witnessed Macs version of the anger management ‘diffusion technique'.

 

He gets three scrambled eggs, cooked with two slices of sandwich ham for breakfast, as apart from now being my hero, he's run most of the five mile round trip at 8 mph with the buggy.

 

Later I leave him in the caravan and head back to the village for a paper and coffee at the Moderne. I listen to the peeling mid-day bells in the sun and wash my coffee down with, ‘un verre de bier, frois'. Now, where's my wife?

 

I get back about 1 and tidy the van then recharge the buggy and top-up the water container.  A read of the ‘Sud Ouest' paper and a quick catch up with some of my French course work follow. Later I chat to Mark, whose doing some building work for the nearby neighbor. Nice guy, lives locally.

 

Before going out, I take the dog out and wheel up the lane. We sit in the verge at the top of a nearby rise and watch the sun sink in the still evening air.

Two or three phone calls and its off to meet Muriel and Belinda for dinner: eat too much (soup, duck breast and veg) but easy on the booze - two year old ‘rose' - then back in the Turney seat and home in the van.

 

Long chat on the phone to Allison then bed - not too predictable, eh?

 

 

29/2

 

Quiet day really. Rain threatened then delivered but only briefly. The trees have some branches still hovering over the caravan so the rain leaves them in large drops then clunk down over my head. Bit of a nuisance when you're in bed in the early hours mulling things over (like you do). Three am last night I'm sorting the difference between demaine, semaine and dimanche: the French for tomorrow, a week, and the day ‘Sunday', in that order. They're locked in now so perhaps losing sleep has some benefits, even if the ‘raindrops keep falling over my head' to prolong the learning process.

 

Well, ain't Fevrier gone quickly anyway? And it's the sunniest on record apparently. Cooler here today at 15c but it was gorgeous this morning as the weak sun pierced the mist over the trees. Went out in a tee shirt but don't be alarmed - I had my jeans on too. Took it easy this morning to rest the painful thumb joint: brief wheel with the dog and left the buggy under wraps. We've got a metal shed on site in which I usually store the beast but its easier to get onto by just unwrapping it from its waterproof rather than trying to maneuver it's tight fitting hulk out of the shed.

 

Got into the car at lunchtime and drove through to Villenueve for supplies. Mac came too - perched on the passenger seat. Unfortunately his legs were filthy after snuffling around in the garden so the seat will take a bit of cleaning. By the way, isn't it great the way dogs lean into corners - Barry Sheene was never in it.

 

The Le Clerc bricolage (kind of B&Q - like places, with attitude) was shut for lunch so I didn't get the solar lights I was after and will have to go back on Tuesday. France seems to shut Mondays and August. Everybody shuts in August; even the doctors, so if you're ill rest it somewhere, or pass it on to somebody else in August. It's great watching the kids' faces as I get onto the Turney then haul the chair into the van before driving away.   

 

1/3

 

Well guys, first springy, summery March calendar day. It's my birthday month and I always seem to get high as this month draws to a close. I guess it's my own mini SAD reaction - gloom for winter, worn with rough hair shirt, followed by silk and smiles as the sun warms the flower-scent filled spring air. I should be ‘sad' today - the rain has been lurking over-head in a stormy sky all day. Drizzle (light rain) fell for four or more hours this morning making the day ‘ghie driech' as they say in Bonnie Scotland.

 

When it finally stopped I put on my fleece to take Mac for a short wander. That's where the fun began. He, being the excitable wolf type, got a bit high when the jacket went on and I mouthed (foolishly) the word ‘walk'. The caravan has ramped decking running the length of it and off he went down the ramp and back again several times, excited I guess at the prospect of emptying his hound bowels. Now, at the bottom of the ramp, set carefully to adorn the scene is a rose called ‘Eleanor' in its own large pot. We potted it before Allison left on Thursday as the newly erected shed has subsequently eclipsed the spot in which it was originally planted. Now, it was planted in memory of my Mum, whose name it carries, so I'm quietly fond of it. But guess what happened. Mac flies down the ramp, big blond bushy tail waving like a flag in a storm and yes, it catches the pruned rose stump as it sits proudly above the flower pot. It gets uprooted and hauled from its berth then dragged at Macs ass-end across the garden as he tries to free the jagged incumbency from his hair. Simultaneously, the pot falls over at the foot of the ramp scattering potting soil over my  ramp ‘landing zone'. So, he's lying in the wet grass, looking perplexed, rose bush dejectedly hanging off his tail. I'm at the top of the ramp staring in disbelief at the debris. I'm also trying to figure how I can get across the soil pile to the shed as I need to get a sweeping brush from it to clear the mess. Somehow I've got to get there without plastering my tyres, wheels and hands with muck.

 

A worn doormat saves the day. Stopping halfway down the slope, I cast it Raleigh-like across the soil and sweep down the ramp regally to wipe the muck from the concrete at base. Two minutes brushing and hosing and the mess is gone, though the rose looks the worse for wear. I repot it in the hope that it might survive.

 

I finish just before Muriel arrives for a coffee. She's been down early to the Saturday market.  It has apparently been washed out and many of the stall-holders are already leaving. After filling me in on top-up insurance for health care she takes off for home.

 

I've have my one trip out to the village for supplies (milk, peppers for the dog - yes, he loves them - and bread etc. then settle in for the day. More French grammar to get on with and lots of calls to family and friends then settle down for Terry's Euro-incision - full of cutting remarks about duff talent - then another early night.

 

 

2/3

 

Up early again this morning then off with the hound for a run.

Left him in the caravan later and met Belinda and Muriel, our two friends, for lunch. The intention was to take them out to ‘Chez Edith', a cute little place about five miles the other side of the village that serves cold Guinness and good grub. When we got there they'd shut for a two week break pre tourist season. Travelled to another place nearer home and had one of those ‘I better get some weight off' salads which I then proceeded to accompany with the better part of a French stick loaf! 55 Euros for three main courses with aperitif and wine seemed a little steep for average quality grub but no big deal.

 

Back to the caravan in, by now, beautiful sunshine. Muriel picks up my washing for me (saves me getting in and out of the van with the chair) to takes it up to her place for a laundry session.

 

Later, as I return to the caravan, I notice another of my incompetent blunders: Saturday was beautiful so I got the rubbish together for Tuesdays collection and tied the bag up at the front of the property near the road and at the front of my guest parking - just where I'd stopped for Muriel to collect my laundry from the caravan for me. Yes, you guessed - I'd run the bag over! Up and down the drive I go carrying (in stages) the bin down the rough gravel. I fill it with the mess then wheel back up the van for the bin lid. Belinda and Muriel return for a fruit tree (we've inherited four young apple and pear trees) pruning session and wine just as I'm finishing off. After a pleasant hour sat out on the decking in the sun they set off home promising to come back soon and repot the Mac-ass rose. By early evening, having topped the wine off with two bottles of beer, I'm knackered. After a long call to Allison I retreat to bed.

 

I waken in the ‘wee sma oors' dry mouthed and missing my wife. Up for a lemonade and then text my love. Surprise, surprise; five minutes later I get a reply from wide-awake wife in Cumbria. ‘Ain't it good to have a friend...' (with thanks James Taylor for the corrupted lyric).

 

3/3

 

Peeing down after a dull start. Took the big dog down to Villereal to get a ‘loaf'. The buggy sounds like some ones stuck a bog roll in the electric motor today. Needs a service, me thinks.

 

‘Mine hostess' comes to the Boulangerie door and brings me my usual, with a smile. It was then that the rain - fine stuff, the stuff that soaks you through - started. Right, back to the caravan at wrist-breaking (throttle gripping 8 mph to you biker chicks) speed.  As we pass the Conan Doyle hounds' place, it lucks toward us, barking menacingly. It does the ‘dominant dog thing' and asserts itself by putting its head and weight over Mac's shoulder. No ‘nose-bum' greeting this time then. It snarls and growls evilly but Mac reacts first and sinks his incisors into its unwashed black and tan rump, sending it back from whence it came, tail stump just above, (not between), its long, gangling legs.

 

‘Better hurry Watson, not a moment to lose...' and we're off again at nearly speed.

 

Later, Bob the Boy-Man chair-user, disguised as a T4, hoists himself aboard the Fat-mobile using the secret ‘incapable fat lift' and heads off to the Castillones satellite, ‘Gamm Vert' (an outdoor supermarche chain specialising in anything expensive or exotic) to purchase specialist hound food for Mac man, the wooliff.

 

After being summarily ripped off by an alien checkout beast - 10 Euros for three triple A batteries bought as an afterthought - though one free as a bonus for stupidity - I cross the gravel packed firmament at light speed to a sustenance marche for milk and anything else light enough to carry back to the Vito-van in a bag held between my teeth as my wheels spin under arm-power.

 

One light sped second later I'm outside Muriel's, and reality, (I'm always outside of that mind you), to collect my laundry. She offers to deliver laundry later for a free G and T, and to carry the large bag of tasty, hound ‘slavver-giver' from the van over the gravel and up the ramp to the beast's lair for me. With a thank you, I take my leave. Later she arrives; delivers dog food and laundry, consumes the gin, makes me smile, then fills me in on the local ‘craic' (Muriel's Irish) from the expat community.

 

After she heads for home I phone Allison in Cumbria then retreat to another galaxy.

 

 4/3

 

I've tried not to write too much about Allison since she left, protecting myself I suppose, as it is really difficult to yatter on about someone you're missing. However, things have settled a little for both of us now: we both slept well last night; I lay till 9am after only a brief spell during the night listening to the wind and rain thrash off the van roof. During our morning chat (we tend to try to speak am and p.m. to keep the bills down a bit) and she tells me she slept through the night as well.

 

So what has she been up to then?

 

Painting some of the house window sills again (she's decorated all of the house herself anyway since the building work finished 18 months ago), redecorating the utility room, managing an errant car dealer, (bought a car which didn't work and now the manufacturer (six months on) is building us a new car), polishing the slate floor (twice), sorting the house spec with the estate agent, driving down to Cheshire and back to see her mum, dealing with window blind fitters (given it's their fourth recall perhaps that should be ‘blind window fitters!), getting the plumber out to drain and reset the new central heating system, sorting out a job for herself, worrying about me...

 

Apart from all that, she's been doing a lot more than I have. I really think that life without her since the accident may have been very shallow - if not empty.

 

Talking of empty, I reckon the sky should be empty by now for the clouds have lashed the wet stuff down on us for the last twelve hours - it's getting like Scotland's west coast would you believe. And it's blessed freezing in the wind. Ok for ‘double-coat' the dog but not so good for me.

 

5/3

 

Another day, another freezer. It's umpteen below here this morning in the fierce nor-westerly wind. Blinding bright sunshine seems out of context in the Artic conditions. Took Mac for a quick wander with the Beamer wearing no less than five layers to try to shut out the chilly howler. It had started to get through to me by the time I got back to the caravan after a mere three kilometers. My hands were exposed to the brunt of the wind: the right in particular, which controls the throttle. I've left my winter gloves in England so I've no-one to blame but myself.

 

Putting Mac in the Vito at lunchtime I headed into town. Conveniently there's a mini market near to the disabled parking a mere ten metres from the town hall so, despite the cobbles getting small quantities of shopping back to the Vito ain't too traumatic. Today though, one of the ladies at the checkout dropped a bottle of wine. Bang! My heart sank as glass flew everywhere around the exit doorway. After paying for my stash I pointed to my tires blathering, ‘pneumatic' toward the friendly checkout girl. After a bit of pointing toward them and gesticulating a possible deflation (to more than my ego) was ushered out of the separate ‘IN' door.

 

The Moderne was busy as usual - no-one brave enough to sit outside in the howling gale today. My bank manager, who appeared to be guzzling a business lunch with colleagues, waved and called ‘Ca va', and I managed a broken response in French. Soup and a glass of rose did the trick and I followed it with a strong coffee. Mac, who was only twenty yards away in the van, and within sight of the bar, had his ass planted on the passenger seat, making it look (in France) as though he might be driving the van. This seemed to tickle a few of the diners as they gazed out while chomping through wholesome plates of local grub.

 

Returning to the caravan I packed the by now large washing I've accumulated but then decided against the trip to Muriel's washer: two sojourns in the biting cold wind is enough for one day; the bright winter sunshine is doing little to raise the mercury and my lower legs feel like ice. Brush the dog, make some grub later and catch up with my French course work - seems to make more sense. Besides, I'm waiting for the ‘green light' to appear on my ‘Livebox' Internet connector and can start to read three weeks of emails on my English site. More junk in that pile than in a Chinese harbor, no doubt. No light at 8 p.m. so its friends and phone calls tomorrow.

 

8/3

 

Couple of days off the blog while I caught up with French lessons. It's stayed quite cold today (Saturday) although its been warm in the sun. Still can't seem to connect to the internet through my Orange box - in fact, it could be an orange box so easy is it to use for the net! (No sarcasm there then).

Went up to Muriel's to get another washing done the ngot Wendy (another friend) to make the caravan bed for me as despite my best efforts the fitted sheet had steadfastly refused to ‘fit'. When I got back I left Mac in the caravan and drove down the village for a coffee at the Moderne. I parked at the bottom of town, which left me to overcome a short 50metre climb onto the more gentle slope up to the village centre. Gritting my teeth I gave it a good shove and crossed the main road when suddenly I felt the chair develop a power of its own. Then I realized a ‘local', seeing the slope I was fighting, had decided to offer a hand. Nice place, nice people, though at one time I would have been rude to him for interfering with the challenge I was enjoying. Funny how you change isn't it?

 

Sat for an hour chatting and watching the people scour the market stalls in the warm sun. Mac gave me a laugh when I got back for him. The neighbours have two cats. I have bird feeders and a nest box near the van. Great tits use the feeders. Cats like great tits (so do I). Dog sees cats waiting beneath feeders -RUSH - cats leap the fence and scale a nearby telegraph pole. I grab the camera and catch the two ‘up the pole'. I'll post it soon as I get the net and USB for the camera memory. Anyway, they quickly realize the dog's the other side of a fence then de-scale the pole and saunter off.

 

Took Mac for a long walk after that as the forecast for the next few days is rain. When I got back the rugby - Scotland v England was starting on BBC. Better still, footie' followed at 5 p.m., so life won't get better today.

And Scotland won! So did Portsmouth, and Barnsley! What a fine day for the under-dogs.

 

9/3

 

Another fine day for the underdog. Early doors I pile Mac in the Vito and head down to the boulangerie as it's only open till 12 on a Sunday. 7c so I wrap up for the brief trip. I get to the disabled parking outside the shop (why can't we do more of this in the UK?). It has just been marked out and is resplendent in its new blue coat. New shop new parking - wow!

 

I get out and ask Mac to ‘stay' (polite and optimistic request) leaving the seat lowered for my return to save time. As I go into the shop I realize that I have just committed an act, which in the UK would get me ‘sectioned'. I leave a dog in charge of an open vehicle and the transfer mechanism exposed to all. The service is polite and happy and I quietly praise whoever-it-is for putting the ‘humain' back into humans. I drive the 4k back to the caravan smiling broadly.

 

On my return to the caravan Mac gets a real fuss (I'm proud enough to bust) and a handful of ‘Markies', his favourite biscuit ‘treat'. I then grit my teeth: its day four of ‘this bloody broadband connection'. Within thirty minutes I've got it working though I've no idea how.  The instructions are in French, the laptop keyboard is a French one too and quite different from our ‘querty' style board in many parts. I don't care; I email the planet to say hello.

 

I get one off to Allison who's got her first house viewing today for our place in the Lakes. She's quite anxious and a little bit upset, as the estate agent, whose father in law uses a chair, has got a little worried. The woman viewer asked if the house was ‘full of handrails and things'. Well!  All wheelchair user know full well that, apart from the wall charts in every room of ‘what do in the event of faecal incontinence, UTI's, serious spasms and demanding gestures accompanied cries of ‘WANT THAT"' our homes are no different from the average hospital ward, don't we? Piece of piss ain't it?

 

Allison phones after the couple leave, to let me know that they had raved about the place. Given that there's not one sign of disability, apart from the through floor lift, so they should. We bought it for ‘life' and invested a fortune extending it, building a garage and putting in new ‘everything', electrics, plumbing, heating - the lot, but painful changes in family circumstances, (two bereavements in less than two years) mean that we'd rather move on. I love the Lake District as you can read in my previous ‘blogs' but sometimes, if you can, you need to leave the memories as just that - memories.

 

Allison is a star and has worked to get the place in shape. All of the decorating is her own - every room! I helped of course - made tea frequently too.

 

Another shock - I've just watched Cardiff stuff Middlesbrough. The BBC must be loving it: more viewers smiling as the ‘gutsy' stuff the ‘monied'.

 

I start posting the blog again on the wheel life site

 

Ayway, there we were, the two of us - and a dog - in the van heading toward Sheffield. I was leaving Cumbria behind - probably not for the last time in a physical sense - but leaving it in spirit, certainly. This was the start of one of my life's great adventures. First though I had to get past Sheffield. An appointment at the Princess Anne Spinal injuries unit at the Northern General Hospital lay in wait. I hadn't felt well for nearly two months. Several telephone conversations with one of the consultants had taken place as he directed my consultations with the local GP. These attempts to resolve my difficulties had seemed to be working and the problems I had been challenged by had seemed to be resolving themselves. Latterly, I had been taking anti-inflammatory drugs for a recurrent swelling in my left knee - the result of tearing the cruciate ligaments nearly a year earlier during a failed "transfer". These had seemed to help but as I'd only felt a little better during the past two days I wasn't getting my hopes up. With my usual gloomy, nursing based philosophy, I had myself dying of cancer, loosing a leg or being consumed by a nasty, progressive spinal syrinx.

 

We had to set off early in the day to ensure the five hour drive got us there in time for a 1.30 appointment. Cumberland was bathed in frosty sunshine as we headed off along the A595 toward Ulverston through some of England's finest scenery, though my thoughts were darkly pre-occupied by the funeral arrangements I'd have to set in place from my deathbed in the Northern General. At least I'd done a ‘Will' to minimize the problems my family would face if my fears were founded. To add to my ill founded, near neurotic gloom, we were soon smothered in fog as we left Lakeland behind and sped down through Lancashire on the M6. The fog thickened as we followed the route along the M61 then up and over the busy Peak District roads into Yorkshire and I had to take care not to get too close to the fender in front. If I wasn't too careful one slip might preclude the need for concern over a diagnostic disaster when confronted by the doctor.

 

Anyway, one kidney x-ray, one ultra sound scan and one lecture from the doctor later (on my 15 stone frame and the problems that such a girth can create) and we were on our way. In essence, my cruciate cartilages tear had inflamed causing swelling and pain (of which I was unaware apart from the increased spasms). In tandem with this a virus had made me feel weak and an inner ear problem had thrown (literally) my balance to add to the problem. For those reasons I had felt quite ill and dizzy (when I moved my head - I should have known it was the ear) for a few weeks.

 

Three thirty then and we're off. Seventy and a smile down the M1 toward the Chunnel. Better than that, the new consultant informed me that my concerns over a growing syrinx were unfounded. Why - because I never had one!  I had originally been told I had the cystic beginnings of a syrinx. Panic, fear and then seven years of quiet anxiety follow as I wait for the possibility of matters getting progressively worse. But was now I'm told that yes, indeed I had a problem - but it was not dissimilar to the syrinx formation every paraplegic in the country has as the body tries to heal a severe lesion. Relief? It took most of the rest of the trip to France to realize that I'd been given the, ‘all clear', by the doctors!

 

Our Chunnel crossing was booked for 10.50pm to give us time to get down to Dover from Sheffield. Stopping at Ashford we took in a ‘Kentucky' and fries (a rarity as we live a long way from the nearest take away food at home), which was surprise, surprise - good! We reached Dover at 9pm but had to wait for the late train. I displayed my usual brilliant driving skills by reversing into the disabled sign and splitting the Vito's plastic rear fender. I never did see the guy who moved it toward the van either! Another coffee and we were off. Its great, half an hour and you're the other side of La Manche (the sleeve). On this occasion though it was 12.45 French time and too late to make it worth booking into a hotel. In truth we'd thought the better of stopping anyway as we had ten hours driving ahead and wanted to get to our base as soon as possible. Setting up a ‘wintered' caravan takes time and care and preferably daylight.

 

Driving through the night in France is much less daunting than in England. The roads are quieter, well sign posted and relatively new. The only problem I've encountered is using the payages or tolls. Because our car is right and drive its not easy to get over to the unmanned toll booths. Anyway, we had chosen the coastal route leading down from Calais toward Caen, then past Le Mans and down the A20 to Bordeaux. We alternate our trips between this and the slightly shorter route through Paris where the ‘Peripherique' can be very busy at peak times.

 

The night drifted on and come two thirty we just had to stop. Tiredness was starting to get the better of me and my eyes were closing. The Somme services were quiet and I tried to get some shuteye. An hour later I gave up - Turney seats don't recline, so sleeping bolt upright can be problematic, even with a pillow and duvet. Off we went again. The services are well spaced all the way through France and relatively quiet, so I knew I could stop again if needed. The mist and fog swept across the ghostly landscape throughout the night testing my concentration to the maximum. By four o'clock I had to stop again. This time though, I crashed (no pun intended) completely but was wide-awake again exactly one hour later. Refreshed, I pulled on the hand-controlled accelerator and headed south.

 

So, in the past forty eight hours I'd had no more than six hours sleep but Bordeaux was only two hours away by now so I started to cheer a little. Allison kept me awake throughout the night asking me to remember things - French verbs and male and female nouns for example, though getting my few brain cells to work, as well as stay awake, was perhaps asking too much. By six thirty the sun began to rise on a calm misty February morning. Friday in France and the car temperature gauge struggled up toward 0c barely lifting the mist above the trees.

 

Soon we were heading inland toward Bergerac in the Lot ET Garonne. The bright, clear sky offered us our first glimpses of the Chateaux and vineyards that follow the Garonne river inland. By 1pm we were heading down toward Villereal, our destination.

 

The caravan was set up in a couple of hours: water, gas, Sat TV running and friends visited for a quick chat before retreating for an early night.

 

Saturday morning in Villereal is market morning. By 9am the hundred or so stall-holders who line the town centre bring the old Bastide town, with it's covered market square and cobbles, alive. We're only just wakening as the town busies itself but a shower, a coffee and a three kilometer ‘wheel' and I'm seated at my favorite spot in the café Moderne, watching the hustle and bustle and looking out for our friends. Mac, my dogs gone in with me but Allison has parked the van outside the market area and I've left him watch the world through the Vito windows. There's too much action around the market for a big dog and he can get a little restless so he's better out of the way. It's showing 18c on the chemists wall thermometer display so I'm relaxing in the gentle warmth of a winter morning and sipping a ‘grande crème' (a large white coffee). I bask in the sunshine as friends and stallholders greet each other with ‘bonjours' and kisses. What a life!