Trans Europe Express: Time to go with the Flo

NOTE: This was intended as a daily blog but lack of wifi has curtailed me. Here's my condensed notes and thoughts so far - it's now day ten of our adventure. I'm sitting in evening afterglow at Camping Mer de Glace, a beautiful and relaxing space in the shadow of the Mont Blanc Massif and at the foot of the Mer de Glace (literally sea of ice.) It's been a really enchanting two days and evenings here. Right now I'm too tired to type, instead enjoying a nightcap, friendly cosmopolitan company and the stars. Here's the story of our adventure so far.

The Long Preamble

When “his and hers” redundancies strike in the space of three months (one long awaited, the other a bolt from the blue) it makes you stop and reassess your life’s journey.

The first thought of Richard (that’s the blessed other half): “Time to paaaaarty – let’s have a big long holiday!” That’s his style – every cloud, look on the bright side, all that optimistic shit. Me, I was worried about this sudden lack of security but, swept along by Richard’s tidal wave of enthusiasm, a plan was hatched to go on a month long holiday touring Europe in Flo, the aircooled relic of the 70s that I love and detest in equal measure.

We set our sights on covering as much of the continent as feasible but quickly realised a month isn’t actually very long when your average pootling speed is about 55 mph.

We pored over maps, compiled lists, asked around and scoured the web for “top 10 best places”. Finally it was a chance remark from seven year old Oscar that determined our itinerary. “I’d love to go for a ride in a gondola,” he intoned one day.

So it was that a trip to the gondola capital and back became our vision. While Wimbledon played out on our TV screens we were mulling over maps and hunting down campsites in our quest to make it to Venice or bust.

Amid all the holiday planning we had a few pressing issues to attend to – namely, launching two new businesses to keep the wolf from the door. Richard teamed up with a former colleague and friend to launch a new health consultancy; at the same time we put our heads together to relaunch dormant Rock House Communications as a new PR agency, specialising in health and education. While all this was going on, my dad became ill, diagnosed with prostate cancer and a few other ailments besides. It was a heady mix of anxiety and stress, excitement and trepidation. Things went well on the work front; the medics were optimistic that dad’s prostate could be healed; and family life went on its merry way.

However, this left less time than we’d have liked for nailing down the itinerary. By the time we departed we had our first six nights’ accommodation sorted, and five nights booked in Germany somewhere near the end – but a gaping hole in between. The flexibility this offered was, we figured, going to be one of the joys of the holiday. We envisaged happening across brilliant seaside or mountaintop villages and pulling over as the mood took us. It was going to be bliss.

D-day approached with indecent haste. Richard was still working on the day of departure; I’d completed a pitch for work the night before. Flo had been cleaned, serviced, insured for Europe and our RAC cover upgraded; the packing was haphazard but there was room for all of us to sit down without being crushed. Ergo, time for the adventure to unfold.

AUGUST 1ST-3RD, 2013

The first 3 days don't quite go to plan

I was roused from my slumber by a terrifying, deep-throated growl. My eyes opened in time to see the first marble-sized raindrops slam into the tent canvas, followed by a deluge. Then another rumble of thunder, followed by the first spear of lightning piercing the early morning gloom. Under my duvet, I gave a little smile of resignation. We had arrived at our first four night stopover the night before so this was meant to be the first chance to truly unwind since leaving England. But, in keeping with the theme of the preceding three days, there was a certain inevitability that it would be challenging.

Our leaving of England had not gone entirely to plan. My dad had fallen ill on our day of departure with a severe back pain, and ended up in hospital amid fears he’d got a blood clot on his lung. I waited on the end of a phone, tearful and anxious, prepared to abandon the holiday to stay with my mum if dad’s condition was serious. Finally, at 5pm, I got the call to confirm he’d had the all clear and was going to be discharged the next day. While not especially well, he was in relatively good nick considering his existing ailments and he urged us to get on our way.

To the kids’ delight, and Richard’s relief, we headed off, stopping just a few minutes later to fill them up with McDonald’s and fill Flo with fuel.

It was then that the old girl decided to make her presence felt. She decided not to start. Three turns of the key, and nothing. Eventually, after a few minutes of trying, she sprang to life.

Normally we would have heeded the warning and delayed our departure to get what was obviously a fault with the key barrel rectified. But we were so anxious to make up lost time that we convinced ourselves it was a minor blip and ploughed on regardless.

By the time we crossed into Kent three hours later we knew the problem was more serious. Each subsequent restart after a services break had involved increasingly longer and more frustrating spells trying to insert and turn the key in just such a way as to get her going.

I decided to put out an SOS. I searched on Facebook for VW campervan clubs in the Dover area, and came upon the facebook page of www.kent-vw.co.uk  The page looked active with lots of members so I fired off a request for advice.

Within a minute I’d had the first of 10 responses advising the best people and garages to assist. Top of the list was local enthusiast Steve Bryant, who quickly offered to help. 

To our delight Steve offered to meet us the next morning at 8am, so we went to bed in the unexpectedly delightful Premier Inn Dover hopeful that we would still make our 9.25am ferry. 

The morning’s news was not good. The starter barrel was shot and a new one was needed. The soonest one could be delivered to Dover was later that day, 2pm.

We spent the morning on the beach and exploring the surprising highlights of Dover, watching ferries sailing in and out of the port. It was 4pm before the missing part finally reached us; by which time we were broken down in a layby in the middle of Dover. Suffice to say our attempt to shortcut proceedings and get to a nearby garage to collect the part ourselves had ended in ignominy.

Three hours of frustration, an encounter with friendly policemen, a row with the RAC, a four mile bike ride to rendezvous with the new barrel, lots of Costa coffee and a second SOS to Steve Bryant later, and we were on our way.

It was with a cheer that we finally boarded a ferry out of Dover at 7.15pm that night. Richard summed up what I was thinking: “Given the last 24 hours, I wouldn’t be surprised if the ferry sinks.”

We drove through the night from Calais, reaching our pre-booked hotel in Reims at the unlikely hour of 2am. When we woke at 9am the next morning it was in the knowledge that despite the hiccups we were now back on track, and our itinerary was intact.

Several hundred miles later, after a really pleasant and thankfully event-free journey across the middle of France, we pulled up in the reception area at our first camping destination, Camping Val De Bonnal. First impressions were of a peaceful site low on nightly entertainments, high on activity. 

We made camp, putting up our tepee and Felix’s new solo tent and popping the roof up on Flo. Richard and I were, not surprisingly, pretty much the worse for wear after the trials of the previous three days, but managed to drag ourselves to the campsite bar to enjoy the first drink of the holiday. 

“This is going to be a great holiday,” we agreed. The next morning the sudden storm was a reminder that nothing can ever be taken for granted.

AUGUST 4TH, 2013

Val de Bonnal – thunderstorms and backflips

The sun has set on our first day proper. That early morning thunderstorm soon passed over, making way for a clear blue sky and soaring temperatures, reaching a high of around 32C. It’s been an action packed day, featuring waterslides, lake swimming, Felix mastering back flips into the lake from a scarily high ladder, gentle  bike rides, and the start of my new daily exercise regime, put together for me by Kailee Hurdiss from 24/7 Fitness in Kidderminster. We’ve snoozed, raced, cooked and cuddled, played and relaxed. Another day or two like this and I’ll be truly in the holiday mood. Cheers!

AUGUST 5TH, 2013

Val de Bonnal – from hell to paradise

Birdsong and sun rays woke us all around 8am. Richy gets a brew on in Flo while the kids cycle off to fetch fresh pain au choc and croissants from the on-site shop. An outdoor breakfast of fresh fruit and pain, tea, coffee and juice, followed by a quick shower, gently introduce us to the day. We spend the morning and early afternoon drifting slowly betwixt pool and lake, ping pong and a sedate bike ride around the lakes. I take my camera out but the intensity of the sun, with temperatures nudging 35, give the landscape a bright hue; I decide to come back just before dusk, when the light should be golden and shadows long.

We are in Franche Comte, in the foothills of the Jura hills – a relatively unsung region of France which forms a buffer between eastern France’s agricultural plains and champagne vineyards and the neighbourning Swiss Alps. Gentle hills, pretty woodland, calm lakes, quiet roads and peaceful hamlets punctuate the landscape in these parts. It’s a great place to cycle, tour, chill.

We spend some time jealously eyeing up the lofty cabins that perch in trees on the edge of the site, and when a bike ride brings us to the duckhouses we determine to return one year and stay in one of these floating homes.

A gentle routine fills our evenings – a visit to the campsite bar for a family challenge of pinball, a lakeside bike ride, a game of table tennis. One night the pool reopens at 9pm for a two hour piscine nocturne, which the kids delightedly enjoy while we drink wine. It’s all very pleasant and unchallenging, just what we need.

AUGUST 6TH-AUGUST 8TH, 2013

Tree climbing, kayaking and the Top Gear Caravan Destruction

Today was a busy old day – the boys took off to do the on-site accrobranche challenge with Richard while I exercised and tidied. Oscar was reduced to tears of fear at the top of the zipwire, then erupted into exhilarated screams after being pushed off his perch by his dad. 

In the afternoon we were driven by bus from the campsite to Villersexel a few km away to pick up two-man kayaks, which we then manoeuvred downstream back to camp. The journey took us three hours, including a 20 minute stop for a river swim – definitely worth the 56 Euro it cost us for two kayaks.

We looked forward to a nice relaxing evening when a nearby camper started to smash up his caravan. This was no Top Gear anti-caravan attack, but the act of a muscular Dutch man who nobody particularly wanted to approach to suggest he stop. By the time on site security arrived he’d torn out his sofas and tables, smashed part of the wall of his caravan and smashed up crockery and toys, all under the gaze of watching holidaymakers who didn’t quite know what do to. I felt sorry for him; he’d clearly lost his mind and all rational thought after some kind of domestic incident or unhappy news. But the kids were genuinely scared and his eventual removal from the site was a relief.

During the night the heavens opened again, and the next day the rain did not relent. We played cards, Richard beat us all at Pass the Pigs, Oscar drew wonderful pictures, the boys went swimming in the rain, and we read, but it was a pretty damp sort of day all round. We took Felix to the local doctors to get his chesty cough checked out, did domestic chores and washing, and generally had one of those dull but necessary days. 

The next day we departed Val de Bonnal in the rain and headed to our next destination – Chamonix, Europe’s mountain capital and a place we had visited several times in our relative youth. It was time to introduce the boys to Mont Blanc.