Monday late evening: packed everything possible into the car, having to discard a few things (including, it seems, some of the food!) and drove down to Folkestone via road closures south of the Bridge. Eurotunnel terminal was silent and empty, with an automated check-in. I'd chosen the time for cheapness - £39 instead of £115 at peak daytime - and it obviously isn't popular.
I was early, so went for a coffee while waiting to be called to the train. Very friendly staff, seemed to be glad to have someone to talk to. A few other people turned out before it was time to drive to customs/passport control. There was a short delay while a white transit van ahead of me was taken aside for dismantling or something. That and my car were the only vehicles in the queue. The customs person asked me where I was going and if I was moving to France, but in a chatty way. He also said good evening to George Humphrey who was on the front passenger seat, as did the next person who was apparently there only to ask if we had any gas in the car.
Passport controller said bonsoir and nothing more. I waved my passport and he shook his head so I drove through without showing any documents. Not even a gas bill. When one compares this to the pain of travelling by plane now...
There was a 5-minute delay for the train, but even by then there weren't many other vehicles so they only opened the doors at the rear. This meant, as first on, I had to drive the full length of the train. It took ages at 5mph or so; felt like I'd driven as far as France. The train was very bouncy, which may have been because it wasn't fully loaded, or maybe the tracks aren't as smooth as when I used to use the shuttle (not since the price went up a lot).
I'd planned to drive down by the shortest route (Lillie is a longterm hire and has now gone up to the allowed mileage, so it's 5p a mile). In the end, I couldn't find the roads and stuck to the autoroute. Péage was tedious, having to get out of the car because of being on the wrong side, but at least I didn't get lost. Or not much. ahem.
Not having slept much Sunday night, and then not at all Monday night, I got tired quickly. Stopped several times for a brief nap, but still arrived at Mirambeau well in time to meet Polly the estate agent and go to get the insurance documents (one of the fiddly but sensible French paperwork things is that the house insurance has to be in place before you take possession).
We went to check the house, which appears much bigger now it's empty. The previous owners turned up too, and helped take some bags and stuff into the house. M Potron was amused by Broomstick. Polly took GH in to look after the house. The Potrons were shocked that I had so little stuff, and said they would leave the mattress that was in the bedroom so I don't have to sleep on the floor.
We had a look round the garage-workshop, which will make a lovely gite. It took some time explaining the water system (have to turn off the outside taps in winter in case of frost) and where the fosse is, and they told me to be careful of the well because it's 15 metres deep. Covered, though.
Back to Mirambeau, following Polly and still bewildered by the little lanes. Couldn't find the Super U fuel station/supermarket, and drove to Jonzac instead, then came back and found the signs to Super U quite clear from that direction.
Jonzac is gorgeous. It's also the nearest railway station; anyone flying to Bordeaux or taking the TGV to Bordeaux or Angouleme would then catch a train to Jonzac and call me for a lift. (If I'm not there, get a taxi. There may be buses in this direction, but nothing comes right to Le Rivalard.)
Spent the night parked next to a wood; slept fairly well, but with some very strange dreams!
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