From our arrival on the 16th, we have a lovely time with Steve and Sophie and their two children, Charlie and Max. It's a pre-christmas Christmas, complete with tree, presents, lovely food and wine. All in their house in the lovely old village of Steeple Ashton. We thoroughly appreciate being spoiled.
Mother nature decides, meantime, to have a bit of a strop and we realise that over-night we have become insignificant straws in the wind and at her mercy.
It's now the 20th of December and we're sitting in an over-crowded train at Bristol Temple-Mead station waiting for some positive sign of movement in the Trowbridge direction - an unscheduled but - come to think of it - unsurprising deviation from our plans.
So we lost the gamble we made on the weather and despite having checked in our luggage and watching our Easyjet plane being de-iced and prepared for us on the runway, the return flight to Toulouse departing at 10.30am - ours is the first of many flights to be cancelled that day.
So here we are, slightly fed up but stoical and resigned, clutching our re-claimed baggage, two bottles of duty-free whisky and a piece of paper from Easyjet, explaining how to get our money back or take a later flight - if we are lucky - the earliest one being the 27th December. A week hence! It is snowing. The train doors remain open and there is no heating.
There are many other people on the train too, who would have been elsewhere but for the bad weather. Conversation starts between complete strangers. Whisky, crisps and a twix chocolate bar are offered for sharing amongst people with a common suffering. There is a very British, almost war-time, atmosphere.
"Ding dong" goes the tannoy and on comes - a kindly west-country voice which says -
" our apologies, Ladies and gentlemen, this is your guard speaking. The reason we have not been able to leave the station on time is because although we have a guard - that's me - unfortunately, our scheduled driver is stuck in a snow-drift somewhere in Wales - so we are having to find another one from somewhere else. Let's hope he knows the way! I will keep you informed and would ask for your continued patience....etc"
Within half an hour, another driver is found and those who have left the train to find warmth elsewhere are shepperded back on-board to rejoin the party. For some reason our French Mobile refuses to work - even to send a text message - and the lady, sitting opposite, kindly offers her mobile for us to ring Sophie and Steve to warn them of our second coming. Poor dears.
The next 24 hrs becomes a furious nightmare of discord and uncomfortable decision making together with considerable expertise on the internet. Other relatives are soon to arrive. Should we tap other friends for what might be an extended stay over Christmas and possibly the new year too? Our own house and dog-sitters have to be considered. The forecast for the following week is grim. Should we bite the bullet and catch a ferry from Portsmouth? - whilst the railways are relatively on schedule, then hire a car for the long drive South. Our budget is well and truly shot already. We stay another night and sleep on it.
Next day, we make the decision to catch the night Ferry from Portsmouth to Caen where we hire a Fiat Punto at enormous expense.
The train to Portsmouth from Trowbridge - also without heating - is freezing. It's a two hour journey with only our own sandwiches as sustenance. The glorious English countyside, for the most part, is soon forgotten as we delve into the suburbs of Portsmouth. What a dreadful dump it is, viewed from the train. The toilets at the station, Portsmouth Harbour, are truly the most disgusting I have ever seen. One doesn't need to know the detail - but really shocking - someone should be sacked!
We are wisely but hopelessly early and spend an uneventful and rather tiresome day at a bright and modern shopping centre just by the Quay, buying underpants at Marks and Spencers. Eventually we walk at least two miles from there to the Brittany Ferry Terminal, like impoverished refugees, dragging our belongings behind us but without a donkey cart. We board the Saint Michel at 9'45pm and sail an hour later, watching the whole loading and sailing off process, albeit in the dark, from the piano bar drinking some more of our own whisky.... (this bar has a smart piano but no pianist - of course.)
It's a night crossing on a "luxury" cruise liner and we book our "reclining" seats for the night - all cabins are full. The seats are very uncomfortable - "Reclining" indeed! Even the tower of Pisa inclines more than these - be warned! - they are more like posh deck-chairs. But the crossing is otherwise smooth - for which Lucie is thankful. We treat ourselves to steak and chips in the canteen.
"You sure know how to spoil a girl" says Lucie. I am duly ashamed.
We are brutally awoken at 5.30am with the full glare of the lights being turned on. We struggle one by one to the toilets each one guarding the luggage in turn. It's a minimal French breakfast and I'm really struggling without Marmite! But hey?
All coaches to the centre of Caen are cancelled because of thick snow, thick fog and ice, we join the freezing queue for the sole taxi. We finally pick up a Punto (not a penguin) from Europcar and I drive the 700klm South in a blizzard chased by a snow storm. We arrive home at about 6pm. Job done. But....
It really isn't all plain sailing, y'know - is it?