Unbelievably pour moi, it's a whole month since I managed a posting. The last week of November and these mad, crazy three December weeks before Christmas have been fuddled in a haze of dental pain and, now, bruised ribs and a badly bashed big toe. Oh, woe is me! I am rapidly realising, the closer I get to my free bus pass, that after a certain age everything starts to wear out! First it was my eyes. Nowadays, I can't see a bloody thing without +3.0 glasses, which I seem to lose faster than Boots manage to restock them [obviously, my brain is going the same way too!]. Now, it's my teeth. There is no pain as debilitating as major tooth ache and two root canals and a shedload of painkillers and anitibiotics later, I am finally back on track for the festive frivolities.
The bruised ribs and blackened toe, however, are a more recent acquisition. There we were feeling thoroughly smug with ourselves that we had got through 'le Tunnel' with a mere two hour delay [at the time we couldn't understand why the sign said that this was due to winter conditions - little did we know!]. Once we got into France, it was like Narnia, only with HGV's and other more modern vehicles. The snow was falling in large flakes on the autoroute all the way to Rouen but the road remained open, despite the Arctic conditions. The gritters and 'saliers' had been out in abundance and it was apparent immediately that this is what the French get in return for their decidedly hefty taxes.
We managed to get as far as Orleans, by which time we had decided that the snow was becoming too icy and treacherous to push our luck too far. Safely tucked up in our functional, corporate designed Novotel bedroom after the obligatory steak/frites dinner, we turned on the TV. The full scale of the carnage on the French roads became apparent. People were stranded in their cars everywhere, but especially to the east in Alsace. The gods were certainly with us. After a couple of centimetres of overnight snowfall, we set off the following morning with no idea what to expect on the autoroute. It was deserted. The road was clear, every illuminated sign announced that 'saliage' was in progress and we were amazed at how easy it all was.
The oddest thing of all was driving along a French motorway with no trucks. We couldn't understand what was going on. Had we missed something? Was there a 'greve'? Eventually, on the opposite carriageway we saw a huge line of lorries parked along the hard shoulder. We ploughed on, puzzled. Then, near Limoges, we saw a similar line of stationary trucks lined up on our carriageway, topped and tailed with gendarmes. Perhaps they had become stranded during the night? Finally, the mystery was solved when we were directed off the autoroute into what appeared to be a deviation. Our hearts sank, thinking that our 'bon chance' had finally run its course.
Then, as we reached the roundabout, more trucks materialised and we assumed that there had been an accident. But, no, to our utter amazement it rapidly transpired that the gendarmes had closed the motorway simply to take any stray trucks off it. We were allowed back on, along with the few other passenger vehicles, to continue our journey. In order to keep traffic flowing and reduce the risk of accidents, the French traffic police had decided to transfer all the HGV's to the 'routes nationales'. Great for us, but a bugger for them. It made me think of my friend Caroline de Roquette, who makes divine fresh 'mi-cuit' foie gras, losing tens of thousands of euros worth of stock during a lorry drivers' dispute in the run-up to Christmas a few years ago. Perishable goods wait for noone.
We got safely all the way to the tiny 'hameau' of Gavats, less than a kilometre from the house, where we turn left to begin the climb up to us. As we turned left, we slid down the slope and, with the heavy weight of ten tons of Christmas stuff, swerved uncontrollably into the side of a neighbour's house. Unsurprisingly, the wall won, but in the process my slackened seatbelt didn't engage fast enough and the impact well and truly took the stuffing out of me! Thankfully, we weren't going too fast but, my God, it hurt. And, just to compound my injuries, as I was thrown back my legs lifted off the floor and my right toe took the brunt of the momentum. You couldn't make it up! It was the stuff of 'Live at the Apollo'.
Determined to unpack the mountains of stuff in the boot and roof rack, we managed to hobble up the hill with no seatbelts and a badly bashed in driver's wing, with me moaning and groaning all the way. Home at last - to no heating and no hot water! It's everyone's worst nightmare. It had been turned on for us by a friend the day before but something had seriously malfunctioned. I rang our heating engineer, only to find that the office would be closed until 28th December. Then, I rang his mobile just to depress myself even further. At least, though, we had the woodburners, which solved the heating problem, but they do not provide hot water and we don't have an immersion heater. Oh well, tomorrow would be another day.
We woke up to a bitterly cold, beautiful clear day. Bardies shrouded in snow is the ultimate feelgood experience, even with bruised ribs, a bashed toe, a smashed up car and no hot water. The quality of light here is magical and because we are at 500 metres, it has the same ambiance as a ski resort. We battened down the hatches and prepared for a long wait, as nothing ever happens here at the weekend. I don't think that we have ever drunk as many mugs of hot tea! Only when Peter's business partner rang to say that he had spent all day on the M20 trying to get to Folkestone with his family, en route to Christmas in Geneva, and had to turn round and go home, did we realise our luck. When we turned on the television and saw the news footage of desperate and anxious stranded travellers, we guessed that we must have been some of the last people through.
Over the weekend, the tales of travellers' woe only got worse as Britain battled, and lost, its fight against the elements. It was a story of two countries divided by a small sea and a big tunnel. It's true that noone, least of all Eurotunnel and Eurostar, had been able to anticipate the full, horrendous impact of Arctic weather conditions on the functioning of their services. However, I have to say, after our experience, that there appears to be no comparison between how the UK and France manage their road transport system in a crisis. Is it a matter of funding or one of organisation, we ask ourselves? It would be very unfair of me to cast aspersions when I wasn't there, but I can't help thinking that you get what you pay for.
Meantime, our heating is working again, the house is decorated and the family has arrived. Our car is to be towed home but, thankfully, we have our trusty, ancient, French resident Jeep here for last minute shopping. We will not go hungry. We are nineteen for Christmas, the stuff of my next blog. It's grey outside, but bright and warm indoors. The fires are stoked, the Christmas tree lights twinkling, Bach's Christmas Oratorio blasting from the CD player and everyone, so far, is happy. It's Christmas. Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!
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