Wishing to get my hairbrush and some books, I asked about a taxi to the garage: 30 euros, and I have only 15 euros in cash. It seems there are no shops nearby and no cash machines. I think I can manage by combing my hair with the many-toothed hairclip, and reading the paperbacks in the bar.
So instead of travelling around in unattainable luxury, on the advice of M. Wallon I went to search for the wheel. It would save over 100 euros if I could find it. The tyre was almost new, too. I headed back up the RN1, looking over garden walls and knocking on the doors of houses alongside the road; talked to many people and even more dogs. Nobody had seen it. Nobody had heard anything around 3am on Sunday morning. Not even the dogs. Uncanny. People were very friendly, though, so it was a pleasant if unproductive few hours.
When I returned, the Ozzies were waiting outside the hotel with their bags. They are bored already and have decided not to wait for their car to be repaired. They tell me of a good restaurant by the golf course 500 metres down the road, but I'm too tired from wheeling up and down the hill between Nampont-St-Martin and Nempont-St-Firmin. They also tell me they had located wifi on the other side of the hotel dining-room, so I waved them goodbye and dashed off to fetch laptop and found that the dining-room is locked even though it's lunchtime: today I must be the only person who wanted to eat. I can easily do without a meal, but not finding the wifi was a real disappointment. Back to crappy daytime tv... but no! There is signal behind the dining-room under the trees!
So now we are up-to-date, and as it's started to rain on my keyboard I shall give up on this intermittent signal and go in search of some light literature.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Sleepy Sunday
Having found the correct phone number for Autonational Rescue in France, I spoke to someone who was very helpful. Then I had to find out where my car had been taken. The breakdown-truck person turned out to be M. Wallon, whose garage is 7 kms back north on the RN1. It being Sunday, there's nothing much he can do yet.
I slept part of the day, chatted to people in the hotel and watched tv for the rest. Also at the hotel are three Australians whose car had broken down on the way to Calais. They're heading for Edinburgh where one of them is starting work next week; his partner has a job interview too.
The hotel is cheap-ish and comfortable and the staff are friendly, though the food is not up to usual French standards. The cheese in the salad was sliced plastic! What kind of clientele do they get?! There's no internet, and after many more phone calls it seems that I shall be here until Thursday. I should have picked up some of the books as well as the laptop.
I slept part of the day, chatted to people in the hotel and watched tv for the rest. Also at the hotel are three Australians whose car had broken down on the way to Calais. They're heading for Edinburgh where one of them is starting work next week; his partner has a job interview too.
The hotel is cheap-ish and comfortable and the staff are friendly, though the food is not up to usual French standards. The cheese in the salad was sliced plastic! What kind of clientele do they get?! There's no internet, and after many more phone calls it seems that I shall be here until Thursday. I should have picked up some of the books as well as the laptop.
Shall I ever get home?
Just before reaching the Eurotunnel terminal there came a strange rattling noise from the back of the car. My first thought was "exhaust!" and the second was an even more worrying "wheel!". I got out and checked - they were all present and appeared to be correct. The car had an MOT and full service on 1 July, so I must be imagining problems. Surely it was more likely that the jampot and slow cooker had moved around in my less-than-perfect packing and were rattling against each other. As I drove away the noise had stopped, so I decided to re-pack when I stopped on the other side.
On the RN1 between Boulogne and Abbeville the sound re-commenced. It rapidly worsened as I braked carefully. The steering felt odd. No, the steering felt very bad indeed. The car swerved all over the road, there was a horrible scrunch, a show of sparks worthy of an Ooooh!, and a screeching noise like an angle-grinder in a temper. I watched in horror as the rear left wheel overtook the car and bounded down the hill, bouncing into a wall and disappearing, and fought the steering and brakes to come to a halt as close as possible to the side of the road (and on the road, rather than in the woods).
The first thing to do was call the police. I hadn't quite parked tidily. They asked all sorts of difficult questions, such as what kind of car: of course they didn't recognise "Vauxhall", and I couldn't remember what it is in not-UK. They also wished to know where the car was. I hauled Chariot out and wandered down the road with mobile phone against ear, looking for a roadsign. In the stress I couldn't even remember the word for roadsign to explain what I was doing. They clearly thought I was drunk or daft.
A passing car stopped and the two occupants offered help. The policeman told me to pass the mobile over to them. It didn't help at first because they didn't know exactly where we were, either, but one of them stayed with me and my mobile while the other drove down the road to check. They were wonderful, remaining with me until the police found us (about an hour later). I was glad of their hazard lights when Bloo's battery died while I was up the road, having left on the headlights as well as hazards. To pass the time they searched for the wheel, while I phoned my breakdown insurance company.
Phone calls to various numbers in different countries were entirely without success (in the dark I couldn't find the piece of paper with the correct number and none of the numbers on the booklet connected to anyone able to help), but the gendarmes had ordered a breakdown truck. While waiting, they looked for the wheel. Eventually the breakdown truck arrived. All three gendarmes and the truck driver looked for the wheel.
The car was dragged, shrieking and digging in its heels, onto the truck. I remembered that neither of the bags I'd grabbed out of the back contained my toothbrush so a gendarme climbed up and found it in another bag. The gendarmes had a discussion over what to do with me. At almost 5am and in mild shock, I'd have said yes to a cell, but one of them knew a hotel just down the road: he phoned up and arranged it all. It really was only just down the road, and they escorted me there on foot, got me and Chariot up the steps, picked up the key which had been left on the desk, and then carried Chariot upstairs. I refused to stay in Chariot while they did this, which seemed to offend their macho-ness a little but I'm sure they were secretly relieved. They came in to check that the room was ok, and moved furniture around to make it more accessible. They were marvellous. Such a shame I didn't find out who they were or even which gendarmerie, because they should be thanked properly. I'll have to ask the breakdown chap.
More by luck than anything else, my two bags contained toothpaste and clothes and debit card in addition to the mandatory random and unnecessary items (and the laptop, but that wasn't luck - of course I'd picked up the laptop bag). I'd remembered to hang on to the breakdown service booklet and to pick up the car information. However, I hadn't collected a hairbrush. That's going to hurt.
On the RN1 between Boulogne and Abbeville the sound re-commenced. It rapidly worsened as I braked carefully. The steering felt odd. No, the steering felt very bad indeed. The car swerved all over the road, there was a horrible scrunch, a show of sparks worthy of an Ooooh!, and a screeching noise like an angle-grinder in a temper. I watched in horror as the rear left wheel overtook the car and bounded down the hill, bouncing into a wall and disappearing, and fought the steering and brakes to come to a halt as close as possible to the side of the road (and on the road, rather than in the woods).
The first thing to do was call the police. I hadn't quite parked tidily. They asked all sorts of difficult questions, such as what kind of car: of course they didn't recognise "Vauxhall", and I couldn't remember what it is in not-UK. They also wished to know where the car was. I hauled Chariot out and wandered down the road with mobile phone against ear, looking for a roadsign. In the stress I couldn't even remember the word for roadsign to explain what I was doing. They clearly thought I was drunk or daft.
A passing car stopped and the two occupants offered help. The policeman told me to pass the mobile over to them. It didn't help at first because they didn't know exactly where we were, either, but one of them stayed with me and my mobile while the other drove down the road to check. They were wonderful, remaining with me until the police found us (about an hour later). I was glad of their hazard lights when Bloo's battery died while I was up the road, having left on the headlights as well as hazards. To pass the time they searched for the wheel, while I phoned my breakdown insurance company.
Phone calls to various numbers in different countries were entirely without success (in the dark I couldn't find the piece of paper with the correct number and none of the numbers on the booklet connected to anyone able to help), but the gendarmes had ordered a breakdown truck. While waiting, they looked for the wheel. Eventually the breakdown truck arrived. All three gendarmes and the truck driver looked for the wheel.
The car was dragged, shrieking and digging in its heels, onto the truck. I remembered that neither of the bags I'd grabbed out of the back contained my toothbrush so a gendarme climbed up and found it in another bag. The gendarmes had a discussion over what to do with me. At almost 5am and in mild shock, I'd have said yes to a cell, but one of them knew a hotel just down the road: he phoned up and arranged it all. It really was only just down the road, and they escorted me there on foot, got me and Chariot up the steps, picked up the key which had been left on the desk, and then carried Chariot upstairs. I refused to stay in Chariot while they did this, which seemed to offend their macho-ness a little but I'm sure they were secretly relieved. They came in to check that the room was ok, and moved furniture around to make it more accessible. They were marvellous. Such a shame I didn't find out who they were or even which gendarmerie, because they should be thanked properly. I'll have to ask the breakdown chap.
More by luck than anything else, my two bags contained toothpaste and clothes and debit card in addition to the mandatory random and unnecessary items (and the laptop, but that wasn't luck - of course I'd picked up the laptop bag). I'd remembered to hang on to the breakdown service booklet and to pick up the car information. However, I hadn't collected a hairbrush. That's going to hurt.
Friday, July 23, 2010
Eileen Poulter
This morning I bade farewell to the Suffolk coast with a wander around Aldeburgh and up to Thorpeness. Seeing the House in the Clouds reminded me of the only time I've been inside it, which was for Eileen Poulter's 70th birthday celebration.
Eileen had a beautiful clear lyrical soprano voice, and her musicianship was astounding. She sang mainly early music, with the Deller Consort, the Purcell Consort of Voices, and with other singers like Janet Baker, Robert Tear and Ian Partridge. I was fortunate to have lessons with her for several years. She was very patient with me, although clearly unable to understand how I could fail to read the dots on sight, or be unaware of exactly how the music progressed through key changes without having to do the musical equivalent of counting on my fingers. Looking back at some of the things I achieved with her help I wonder if it was really me!
By the time of her 70th birthday she was already ill (she died not very long afterwards), and though she put together a marvellous programme and sang in a couple of ensemble pieces herself, she sang alto rather than soprano. It's one of the boasts of my life to say that I sang with her.
Eileen had a beautiful clear lyrical soprano voice, and her musicianship was astounding. She sang mainly early music, with the Deller Consort, the Purcell Consort of Voices, and with other singers like Janet Baker, Robert Tear and Ian Partridge. I was fortunate to have lessons with her for several years. She was very patient with me, although clearly unable to understand how I could fail to read the dots on sight, or be unaware of exactly how the music progressed through key changes without having to do the musical equivalent of counting on my fingers. Looking back at some of the things I achieved with her help I wonder if it was really me!
By the time of her 70th birthday she was already ill (she died not very long afterwards), and though she put together a marvellous programme and sang in a couple of ensemble pieces herself, she sang alto rather than soprano. It's one of the boasts of my life to say that I sang with her.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Dorkbot, Tim Hunkin, and Southwold
Have you heard of Dorkbot? I managed to be in the right part of England to attend Dorkbot Anglia's first meeting. It was brilliant.
Inspired by the Great Hunkin's talk, I persuaded m'friend to go to Southwold Pier, which is a recently-constructed edifice following the time-honoured traditions of seaside holiday towns.
In the Under the Pier Show we had various adventures including travelling to the bottom of the sea via the Bathyscape, thumping bankers, and attempting to control fuel rods in the nuclear reactor. I cut a strand of hair and fed it to the Gene Forecaster, which calculated my expiry date as 2052; the 3D printout, when opened and eaten, left the message "YOU ARE HEADING IN THE RIGHT DIRECTION", which was most reassuring.
The right direction was towards the Water Clock (which I consider equal to the Orloje of Prague). After the half-hourly mechanically marvellous display, we went to eat in the excellent restaurant with its view of the waves. The only disappointment was that the Micro Bandstand wasn't in use.
Dorkbot Anglia Two will be on Thursday 16 September at Snape Maltings, Suffolk, IP17 1SP.
I probably shan't be in England for it. Please go in my stead.
Inspired by the Great Hunkin's talk, I persuaded m'friend to go to Southwold Pier, which is a recently-constructed edifice following the time-honoured traditions of seaside holiday towns.
In the Under the Pier Show we had various adventures including travelling to the bottom of the sea via the Bathyscape, thumping bankers, and attempting to control fuel rods in the nuclear reactor. I cut a strand of hair and fed it to the Gene Forecaster, which calculated my expiry date as 2052; the 3D printout, when opened and eaten, left the message "YOU ARE HEADING IN THE RIGHT DIRECTION", which was most reassuring.
The right direction was towards the Water Clock (which I consider equal to the Orloje of Prague). After the half-hourly mechanically marvellous display, we went to eat in the excellent restaurant with its view of the waves. The only disappointment was that the Micro Bandstand wasn't in use.
Dorkbot Anglia Two will be on Thursday 16 September at Snape Maltings, Suffolk, IP17 1SP.
I probably shan't be in England for it. Please go in my stead.
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