Both our regular readers will remember that we drove to France in our beloved 2CV van in April 2006, following "Body and Soul" (our new barge home) perching, as she was, on a very large lorry. The dear thing - the van I mean - works perfectly all the way down to its destination only to collapse with exhaustion upon arrival in Burgundy - at Lucie's family home. We launch our boat and our new life on the French waterways. We leave her there in a dry barn until a decision is made about her future. Loved but redundant to our needs.
"Body and Soul" on her way to France from a UK marina
We make that decision in April this year, four years later and with the help of a friend with a Range Rover and trailer make the eight hour trip (either way) northwards to fetch her. We find her where we left her with nothing but a few bat droppings and a load of dust on her, one flat battery and one flat front tyre. Otherwise she seems to be in a healthy state.
Struggling with a problem before the departure for France - involving a home made crane, a rubber hose and you just don't need to know - it wasn't hydraulic anyway.
It is quite extraordinary the effect one has, driving one of these "Deux Chevaux" in France where, especially in the southern parts, they are treated with affection bordering on reverence. Now that we are based at Meilhan, long term, it is lovely not to be dependent others and public transport, or our bikes, in order to get around and in such a famous but crazy vehicle.
This is taken on the day we left St. Margaret's Bay, Nr. Dover, for France, in April 2006 - outside brother Rob's - The Deck House - after our grand farewell tour of close Rellies....
On our way with a lot of beers from Earl Soham Brewery, Suffolk. Brother Rob's impressions.
When one passes people on the street they wave and smile and one toots the horn. When one stops to park, people flock around and indulge in reminiscences. When one raises the bonnet to fine-tune the engine, up comes someone who knows so much more about how the damn thing works. They love the fact that we are British and are driving one of their precious and uniquely French cars. "They don't make cars like that any more!" is often said rather wistfully - in French of course. There's absolutely nothing digital about her for sure,
One man even snatches my special tuning screwdriver (George, friends on Vertrowen, would have been proud of me - I often wonder how he is getting on without me!) from out of my hand and just delves in to the engine, completely uninvited. We swap addresses, emails and blog information and receive lots of splendid advice. More smiles, kisses and handshakes. This van is an absolute face-cracker, me thinks.
Wrong! - I have yet to meet the man at the "Control Technique" testing centre. He proves to be a contradiction. He is going to be the exception to prove the rule..... Let me explain
Lucie, who is still helping out with the French on such occasions, books us in for a test at 10am one morning last week. One hour before that we have an appointment quite near to the testing centre, with the car insurance people because we are at present uninsured. It's an early start and we drive there nervously and irresponsibly, avoiding police black spots. Great smiles greet us as we enter the car park at the insurance office.
Just a few recent snapshots of our life in and around the Port of Meilhan, click to enlarge.
There is quite a lot of form filling, passport identification, registration documents from England - but all smiles, even a cup of coffee is served during the interview. Lucie does a grand job and all unnecessary French formalities appear to be waived. The insurance is just to cover us whilst we get the full "Carte Grise" from the ministry of .... oh I don't know what. We can't get that until the old car passes its "Controle Technique" test. (French M.O.T) We have to return with these documents to make the insurance permanent. Anyway....
So off we splutter with our new insurance sticker in the windscreen, towards the test centre from the car park with smiley people and that very very nice man from the insurance office, waving us off with messages of good luck . Teddy and Spud, our two little terriers are on board, enhancing the occasion. We travel about 200 metres and Lucie spots a right-turn sign to a farm shop that is selling strawberries and freshly picked asparagus. There's plenty of time. So why not?
There's another friendly greeting and lots of admiring French people who seem somehow to exude out of ever closed shutters. Some of them look Arabic, perhaps Moroccan French. We toot and smile and park where there is a space and I stop the engine. We buy lots of everything. More reminiscences and chat. We must go. We have a test in ten minutes. I turn the key in the ignition - the starter wurrrs. Not a spark. Not a cough from the engine. Not the slightest wheeze. I try again and again. Unhelpful advice is flowing through the window. Pump the throttle. Don't pump the throttle. Shall we push you? She's flooded, eh?
Then, as if she was just teasing us, there is a loud bang and a cloud of smoke bursts from under her flimsy bonnet - testing her weak safety-catch to the full. This is like something straight out of Genevieve- that old British classic film. The Arabs duck mischievously and scuttle off as if they are used to explosions. Everyone laughs as the engine, having cleared it's throat, bursts into life. More waves and smiles. We head off to the test centre with five minutes to go. But alas, the engine is not at all happy and dies on us just as we reach the main road. We borrow a phone and Lucie rings the test centre to tell them that we have broken down and have to cancel. Curses! but just when we resign ourselves to a rather long walk home and ignominiously pushing the van to a nearby parking bay - I try the engine again, rather tentatively this time after the shock explosion we already experienced. We might well catch fire after all and Lucie imagines she smells petrol. But our van is having a laugh again - she's enjoying this - and off we go again, stopping at the test centre to book for the next day. It does not bode well when I notice, not for the last time, that the testing man is not smiling.
This is taken in late May 2010 outside the Capitainerie at the port de Meilhan - having been made good mechanically by another friend, Edgar, who is a whizz with such matters. I still have to repaint her and stuff various rust holes with filler. But she's ready for the French M.O.T. (Control technique)!
Next day, we arrive at the test centre on time and the engine appears to be fine. We are shown in to what could have been a smart dentist's waiting room without the goldfish tank to calm the nerves. The non-smiling officer in charge takes all Lucie's papers and struggles with the English registration document - which is, to be fair, some 35 years old. My heart is in my dry mouth already and I reach for the free water dispenser. On one side of the room is a large internal window looking out on to the testing bay so that one can see what's going on as each test proceeds. I can just see our van in the queue outside with one of the two men who are doing the testing beginning to laugh - a rather different kind of laugh. He shrugs his shoulders, as they do, and raises his palms heavenwards. He opens the drivers door and slams it shut again. It shuts as usual and the bottom part of the window, which I tried to warn him about, slams down on his fingers. He is not seriously injured. All 2CVs have this problem and he should have known.
The door is being painted
Meanwhile and whilst these preliminaries are taking place, the sleek red Ferrari drop head saloon in front of me is coming to the end of it's test. It's having its emissions tested by a computer and the man in smart white overalls is revving the engine with relish. He is probably a boy racer for all I know. He looks impressed. The computer computes and figures are looked at and slips of paper are printed as the Ferrari's engine gives a final roar as if in contempt.Then the owner oozes into his seat, dons his shades, lights a fag and sizzles off, leaving black tyre marks on the forecourt.... It's our turn now.
Actually I'm trying to paint her! friend Alan looks on and advises.
I'm in the early stages of a coronary as the grumpy man turns the ignition key to start the van. It starts perfectly to his obvious surprise, and mine. He drives her over the inspection pit. Oh god!, they are going to see the rust under the drivers seat and the brake pedal. Flash-lights flash on and off, indicators ......the dip switch. They've obviously ignored the faulty speedometer. The brakes are OK. He spins each wheel whilst the van is jacked up. They spin freely. He notes the tyres and the spare. He lowers the jacks and the van onto rubber rollers and runs the engine in gear. She's never been that fast before. He revs the engine mercilessly. Then he rises from the inspection pit, crossly wiping off the oily rust from his face with his otherwise white sleeve. Now the dreaded pollution test. The computer coughs up some garbage on a slip of paper and..... we've passed. .. what? We've passed? There must be some mistake. Ah! .... not so fast. We are advised that we have to fix the seats to the floor of the car (not unreasonable I suppose) and attend to the pollution problem. All to be checked again within two months. He even flashes just the faintest smile. A very satisfactory result, if a little unexpected - but it isn't all plain sailing, y'know - is it?