Something different - apologies to arachnophobes
Deva and Tona, and a traumatic Spanish episode - May 2013
SOS Galgos, for whom I had transported a few dogs through my English speaking French contact, Adelaide, had asked me to price a collection of 3 dogs from Barcelona to our usual rendezvous in the Dordogne. Eventually the journey was arranged and I was pleased that I could use my new Teardrop caravan, although it wouldn’t really be needed apart from saving me all the conversion work in the car. I planned to take the direct route via Toulouse and Foix and over the Pyrenees at the pass of Puymorens, an overnight stop in the area of Vic, arrival at destination at 8 in the morning and all the way back in one go the same day.
Everything was going fine, the caravan as usual followed perfectly and was hardly noticeable. Past Foix on a fast dual carriageway section I was buzzing along at my accustomed 110 km/hr until I rejoined the old road 7 kilometres before the village of Luzenac in the Arriège. Not a very remarkable village, but it was to feature largely in my story. I dropped to the required 50 through the various restrictions and a few minutes before entering the village I heard a small knocking sound from the rear. It sounded like a bit of a mismatch between the tow ball and hitch but it couldn’t be that as these things are standard sizes and should be perfect fits. Half way through Luzenac, while I was still pondering this strange sound, there was a louder bump and, glancing in the mirror, I saw the Teardrop weaving somewhat from side to side before descending a little and then rapidly receding from me. I stopped immediately, and got out to see the trouble. The caravan was nosed down on the road surface about 6 feet behind the car, a broken electric lead trailing before it. On the back of the car, there was the A-frame, still attached to the tow ball and sticking out from it in a very strange manner, the remains of the rest of the cable resting on the road. The safety cable of course was still intact, it is designed to keep the A-frame, and thus in theory the caravan too, from veering off into the distance should the A-frame part company with the car. It wasn’t needed; the A-frame was still there of course, it was the caravan which had parted company from the A-frame.
At first mystified as to what had happened I set about man-handling the caravan to the side of the road, and secured it by locking one wheel into the deep gutter alongside the pavement. I then had time to study more closely the problem. It appeared as if the A-frame had been welded to the front chassis cross member instead of the more normal configuration of passing under it on its way to connection to side members nearer to the axle. I could hardly believe what stupid mindset had decided that that was a good idea, especially as the welding was very haphazard and amounted to no more than a few random blobs. Appalled as I was by this, worse revelation was to come when I finally recovered it to a trailer place at Périgueux. Not only that but both the chassis and the A-frame members had been cut halfway through to allow one to pass through the other, thereby further drastically weakening an already bad design.
But for the moment I was wondering what to do. There was a garage across the road but it was a bank holiday in France and no-one was there. I disconnected the A-frame from the car and put it into the caravan, locking it with one of the keys and placing the other in an envelope. On the outside of the envelope I wrote a short note asking the garage proprietor to recover my van safely to his place and see if he thought he could repair it. At that point I still thought it was a simple welding job and intended to have the repairer further brace the connection with some gussets, possible bolted as well as welded. I put the envelope under his door, took some relevant photos and continued on my way, my mind racing about what I was going to do about collecting the repaired vehicle or recovering it later and worrying about its security, just abandoned on the side of the road as it was.
The tunnel under the pass was closed for repairs, I knew this in advance but in any case was intending to save the money and enjoy the scenery over the top. This I did winding up and down above the snow line. Soon I was crossing the border at Bourg Madame/Puigcerda and I was in Spain, the road was flat and I began to feel a bit more relaxed. I was jolted out of this reverie by a sign indicating a fork in the road. Straight ahead to Barcelona via a tunnel that I hadn’t heard of, and to the left, the road number that I was expecting to follow via another mountain pass. Of course I chose to follow the planned route to the left. But this pass was a very different kettle of fish to Puymorens. The Toses pass was narrow, winding and seemingly endless and I determined that with dogs on board that I wouldn’t want to throw this way and that, the return would be via the mysterious Cadi tunnel.
After the tortuous descent this route took me through the town of Ripoll and I looked for the return to the road from the tunnel that I thought I had just by-passed. It was only on my return that I realised why I couldn’t see the road to the tunnel here.
Soon though I was on a fast road south, almost of motorway standards and I became concerned that any drivers’ restaurants may have been by-passed by this improvement and I began to scour the side roads for any sign that a short diversion might be desirable for the night. Nothing, and although I realised that in Spain everyone eats so much later, by 8pm I began to worry a little. I passed Vic and gave up. Seeing a large shopping complex at the next exit I pulled off and bought some essential supplies in a grocery store there. I sat in the evening sunshine munching some rather strange Kraft Cheese Slices lookalikes (at one point I thought that I had bought some baby wipes!) washed down with some orange juice and followed by a minute Mars bar. This large wide open car park did not look inviting for bedding down for the night so I pressed on. Sods law, the very next junction revealed a truckstop so I pulled in, though not before running up and down the road several times before working out the peculiar Spanish practice of running slip roads several hundred metres alongside the main highway behind concrete walls. I then had another worry. I had eaten, but not much, do I try for a supplementary snack or would that be frowned on at traditional mealtime, as it would in France? Or could I manage a meal? I decided on the latter and, with a little help from a waiter with a slight command of English but no French, (this, finger pointing questioning expression, ‘fishes’, or that, finger again, ‘cow’) I settled for a cow to be preceded by a green salad (I could just about gather ‘ensalada’) along with red wine. I said a small red wine because I saw that most of the drivers appeared to be drinking beer and thought that it may be the cheaper option and outside the menu price. I needn’t have worried, the wine came anyway in a full bottle, was very nice and, which I didn’t, of course, finish. The green salad was just that and the cow turned out to be a full plate of beefy chunks in a delicious sauce, but nothing more, no vegetables. Nevertheless, with the very tasty bread, the whole meal was very satisfying and was well worth the standard €10.85 price. I declined the cheese and dessert courses due to my earlier snack and paid at the till on the way out. The man was very apologetic in explaining that he couldn’t charge me less because of my voluntarily truncated meal. It was a standard menu price, I fully understood and waived his sadness aside, it was much cheaper than France and I realised why few Spanish and Portuguese drivers eat in French routier restos.
I found a quiet corner (well it was quiet till 3 in the morning when the dustbin men arrived) and settled to sleep without either my comfy mattress from the caravan or my previous thick foam one in the car. Instead I spread all the dog blankets on the floor under my doubled over quilt and found them surprisingly comfortable. It appears, perhaps, that I worry too much about my passengers’ well being.
I didn’t sleep well. It wasn’t the dog blankets, they were fine, but my mind wouldn’t stop mulling over the events of the day, and what to do about the caravan. Try to get it repaired at that garage and wait while they did it, ask them to keep it till I could retrieve it, how to retrieve it, would it even still be there on the side of the road on my return? I must have found some sleep, sometimes I think I dream that I am awake while actually asleep, because I wasn’t at all tired throughout the following day. However, worried about finding a difficult address in a busy Barcelona suburb during rush hour (it was in the pedestrian section of a stub end side street), I set off without waiting for breakfast at 5.30 for the 60 odd kilometres to the vets where the local section of the association is based. Anna is the wife of the vet and had assured me over the phone earlier that I was allowed to drive into the pedestrian zone and park outside because I was loading.
I arrived a little before 7, an hour early, the traffic had not been too bad and I had followed my directions well, the only nervousness induced by the length of the journey along what turned out to be a sort of péripherique before finding the junction number I was looking for. I past a pleasant 15 minutes over a couple of splendidly essential little coffees in conversation with a bar owner who, through our mixture of French, Spanish and English, complained about the economic situation and waived aside my enthusiasm for the euro and how it made my travels through neighbouring countries so easy. At 7.30 I rang Anna to say that I was outside whenever she was ready, and not to hurry, I wasn’t pressed and knew that I was early. She came down from her flat after 10 minutes or so and soon the travelling dogs, beautiful Galgos, began to arrive with their foster mothers. I had been booked to carry 3, that had apparently grown to 4, but Anna had asked if I could take a 5th. I was doubtful and showed her the space available. I had planned to use one cage at the front with the door open so that the dogs could mingle as they wished and decide on their respective places. She wanted me to do away with that cage entirely and leave the whole space for the 4 she had planned to send. She realised that the 5th was out of the question but now began to have doubts not only about the 4, but also the original 3. I assured her the cage afforded enough space and said that to remove it would leave me open to the danger of dogs invading my space at the front, obviously totally unacceptable while driving. If I had known in advance of the increase I could have brought bars to prevent this but it was too late for that now. Finally they decided to send only 2, a great pity, with so many needing to be rescued from that country. So it was that 2 females, Deva and the young but still quite large Tona travelled alone with me. Tona had been described as a puppy and this had led me to believe that she would be very small, part of the problem in the event.
The tunnel under the pass was closed for repairs, I knew this in advance but in any case was intending to save the money and enjoy the scenery over the top. This I did winding up and down above the snow line. Soon I was crossing the border at Bourg Madame/Puigcerda and I was in Spain, the road was flat and I began to feel a bit more relaxed. I was jolted out of this reverie by a sign indicating a fork in the road. Straight ahead to Barcelona via a tunnel that I hadn’t heard of, and to the left, the road number that I was expecting to follow via another mountain pass. Of course I chose to follow the planned route to the left. But this pass was a very different kettle of fish to Puymorens. The Toses pass was narrow, winding and seemingly endless and I determined that with dogs on board that I wouldn’t want to throw this way and that, the return would be via the mysterious Cadi tunnel.
After the tortuous descent this route took me through the town of Ripoll and I looked for the return to the road from the tunnel that I thought I had just by-passed. It was only on my return that I realised why I couldn’t see the road to the tunnel here.
Soon though I was on a fast road south, almost of motorway standards and I became concerned that any drivers’ restaurants may have been by-passed by this improvement and I began to scour the side roads for any sign that a short diversion might be desirable for the night. Nothing, and although I realised that in Spain everyone eats so much later, by 8pm I began to worry a little. I passed Vic and gave up. Seeing a large shopping complex at the next exit I pulled off and bought some essential supplies in a grocery store there. I sat in the evening sunshine munching some rather strange Kraft Cheese Slices lookalikes (at one point I thought that I had bought some baby wipes!) washed down with some orange juice and followed by a minute Mars bar. This large wide open car park did not look inviting for bedding down for the night so I pressed on. Sods law, the very next junction revealed a truckstop so I pulled in, though not before running up and down the road several times before working out the peculiar Spanish practice of running slip roads several hundred metres alongside the main highway behind concrete walls. I then had another worry. I had eaten, but not much, do I try for a supplementary snack or would that be frowned on at traditional mealtime, as it would in France? Or could I manage a meal? I decided on the latter and, with a little help from a waiter with a slight command of English but no French, (this, finger pointing questioning expression, ‘fishes’, or that, finger again, ‘cow’) I settled for a cow to be preceded by a green salad (I could just about gather ‘ensalada’) along with red wine. I said a small red wine because I saw that most of the drivers appeared to be drinking beer and thought that it may be the cheaper option and outside the menu price. I needn’t have worried, the wine came anyway in a full bottle, was very nice and, which I didn’t, of course, finish. The green salad was just that and the cow turned out to be a full plate of beefy chunks in a delicious sauce, but nothing more, no vegetables. Nevertheless, with the very tasty bread, the whole meal was very satisfying and was well worth the standard €10.85 price. I declined the cheese and dessert courses due to my earlier snack and paid at the till on the way out. The man was very apologetic in explaining that he couldn’t charge me less because of my voluntarily truncated meal. It was a standard menu price, I fully understood and waived his sadness aside, it was much cheaper than France and I realised why few Spanish and Portuguese drivers eat in French routier restos.
I found a quiet corner (well it was quiet till 3 in the morning when the dustbin men arrived) and settled to sleep without either my comfy mattress from the caravan or my previous thick foam one in the car. Instead I spread all the dog blankets on the floor under my doubled over quilt and found them surprisingly comfortable. It appears, perhaps, that I worry too much about my passengers’ well being.
I didn’t sleep well. It wasn’t the dog blankets, they were fine, but my mind wouldn’t stop mulling over the events of the day, and what to do about the caravan. Try to get it repaired at that garage and wait while they did it, ask them to keep it till I could retrieve it, how to retrieve it, would it even still be there on the side of the road on my return? I must have found some sleep, sometimes I think I dream that I am awake while actually asleep, because I wasn’t at all tired throughout the following day. However, worried about finding a difficult address in a busy Barcelona suburb during rush hour (it was in the pedestrian section of a stub end side street), I set off without waiting for breakfast at 5.30 for the 60 odd kilometres to the vets where the local section of the association is based. Anna is the wife of the vet and had assured me over the phone earlier that I was allowed to drive into the pedestrian zone and park outside because I was loading.
I arrived a little before 7, an hour early, the traffic had not been too bad and I had followed my directions well, the only nervousness induced by the length of the journey along what turned out to be a sort of péripherique before finding the junction number I was looking for. I past a pleasant 15 minutes over a couple of splendidly essential little coffees in conversation with a bar owner who, through our mixture of French, Spanish and English, complained about the economic situation and waived aside my enthusiasm for the euro and how it made my travels through neighbouring countries so easy. At 7.30 I rang Anna to say that I was outside whenever she was ready, and not to hurry, I wasn’t pressed and knew that I was early. She came down from her flat after 10 minutes or so and soon the travelling dogs, beautiful Galgos, began to arrive with their foster mothers. I had been booked to carry 3, that had apparently grown to 4, but Anna had asked if I could take a 5th. I was doubtful and showed her the space available. I had planned to use one cage at the front with the door open so that the dogs could mingle as they wished and decide on their respective places. She wanted me to do away with that cage entirely and leave the whole space for the 4 she had planned to send. She realised that the 5th was out of the question but now began to have doubts not only about the 4, but also the original 3. I assured her the cage afforded enough space and said that to remove it would leave me open to the danger of dogs invading my space at the front, obviously totally unacceptable while driving. If I had known in advance of the increase I could have brought bars to prevent this but it was too late for that now. Finally they decided to send only 2, a great pity, with so many needing to be rescued from that country. So it was that 2 females, Deva and the young but still quite large Tona travelled alone with me. Tona had been described as a puppy and this had led me to believe that she would be very small, part of the problem in the event.
I left, after using their bathroom for my missed morning wash and brush up and many photos by the gathered enthusiasts, at about 8.30 and headed back into the traffic. I was sure that I could retrace my steps to the road north but in fact it was not signed anywhere, neither Vic nor the route number of what had been a major highway. I followed my nose and seemed to be doing ok but the only signs I saw were for places I didn’t want to go. This coupled with a confusing practice of listing places that could be reached by leaving a main road and taking the road back had me at one point heading in the wrong direction, south rather than north! Finally I pulled off and fired up the laptop with the GPS locator plugged in. This is a useful last gasp resource when all else fails (no sun, no buildings with satellite dishes) and I was soon on the right track back to my intended route. I then began to look for the road to the Cadi tunnel. Not a sign of it and it was only when I was back in France that I realised that that was on a completely different route out of Barcelona. The annoying thing is that, during my vain search for Vic signs in Barcelona, I had several times past the ones which would have taken me to this alternative route. I determined that next time, if there is a next time, I would take this route north but remain with the cheaper Toses pass southbound, if alone. As I suspected the bends on the winding pass were difficult for the dogs but I kept it to a minimum by taking the route much more slowly. We stopped halfway over in a small parking area where I allowed them to wander around a little and stretch their legs.
The 2nd pass, Puymorens, was of course much easier and I approached the site of my earlier disaster with trepidation, would the caravan still be there? As I rounded the last bend, it was, a big relief, but a little damped down by the discovery that the garage was still closed. I waited for 2 hours but no-one appeared, it was Friday, after a 2 day holiday. Obviously they were taking the ‘pont’. Once more abandoning the Teardrop to the mercy of the local and passing populace I departed with the intention of ringing the garage tomorrow
The run back home was uneventful. We stopped at the leisure area at Villefranche du Périgord for another rest stop. The fence posts there make a nice hitching rail for a photo shoot before a gentle stroll by the lake and we arrived back at our rendezvous near to Brantôme in the Dordogne on time at about 8pm. I walked the 2 dogs around the empty lorry park of La Gergovie restaurant while I waited for Adelaide and the President of SOS Galgos, Nathalie, to arrive. Before long they did and it was thought that the original 3 and probably 4 dogs could have made the trip ok but the die had been cast and Nathalie would have to repeat my trip, albeit by a different route, next week.
Dogs transferred, I was back home 15 minutes later before 9pm.
Total distance 1,313 kms
It was Tuesday before I could make contact with Garage Reitz in Luzenac, some pont, and I set off immediately, stopping off at Périgueux on the way to hitch up a car trailer, before racing down, this time using autoroutes to make sure I got there before they closed. I did, and the caravan was soon pushed onto the trailer and secured. Not easy as there were few obvious lashing points that avoided sharp edges, anathema to the straps. Not far to go though, 500 metres into a nearby routier for the night, eat, sleep, and back to the trailer firm next morning.
Dogs transferred, I was back home 15 minutes later before 9pm.
Total distance 1,313 kms
It was Tuesday before I could make contact with Garage Reitz in Luzenac, some pont, and I set off immediately, stopping off at Périgueux on the way to hitch up a car trailer, before racing down, this time using autoroutes to make sure I got there before they closed. I did, and the caravan was soon pushed onto the trailer and secured. Not easy as there were few obvious lashing points that avoided sharp edges, anathema to the straps. Not far to go though, 500 metres into a nearby routier for the night, eat, sleep, and back to the trailer firm next morning.
Total distance for the recovery 800 kms