Day 1, Tuesday 28th October
Mornington Crescent, London - Escalles, France
99 miles
BOARDING LE SHUTTLE
Last minute doctors appointments, book shopping, bed sheet shopping and packing before Gordon is ready at 12.00 to take to London's streets. Grandpa Pete and the Child Bride are provided with final travel essentials by the Family of the Bride: a replacement woolly hat for GP, marshmallows, muesli and moisturiser for the CB. In the car already is the mystery travel essential provided by GP's Third Born, wrapped and to be opened in times of need or Christmas*. After a short interlude for a primary school reunion in the street they move off (in the absence of Pulitzer prizes, gainful employment or anything else to explain the last 30 years, it is helpful at these times to be about to leave for Kathmandu). First stop Folkestone and a first for the CB is the wonder of the Channel Tunnel by car.
The complacent obstructiveness of the woman in the AA shop is the last they hope to encounter of British helpfulness for a while. The fight to buy snow chains where they involve effort to retrieve them on her part is won, fair and square when they prove too small for Gordon's beefy tyres.
Booked into Les Erables campsite in Escalles, it is only a few miles from Calais along the darkened streets of French coastal towns. Arriving in time to visit the local shop, pitch tent and have a soup supper under the stars, all is calm after the frenetic weeks of planning. The shop itself is winding down from the season, a shelf of faded espadrilles a memento of the summer and for GP and the CB, a clear signpost to the start of the voyage. Things not done are now not done and the journey has begun.
This will be the cheapest and calmest day for a good few days. As the next day's drama unfolds the budget will be tested.
*whichever arrives the soonest.
Day 2, Wednesday 29th October
Escalles, France - Dijon, France
279 miles (plus some not directly made by Gordon), journey total 378 miles
VIEW FROM THE TENT, ESCALLES
The smack of thunder that ripped through the sky and woke them instantly in the night should have presaged a testing day. But the morning dawned fresh and fair and on unpinnng the tent doors, where there had been blackness and stars there were now rolling green hills, the blue Channel and the campsite owner carefully pruning a row of roses next to his hut.
Breakfast in the open air was interrupted only by a Belgian keen to revel in his own experiences of Land Rover ownership. He came to a close making the gesture of a tankard being downed and a shrug "aah ils buvent" and with the arrival of his wife, he left.
The campsite owner asked tentatively if it was windy up-top and was reassured that a quiet night had been had. They paid, they left and still full of the esprit de voyage pushed south-east through gently pitching hills and the beaches of battles past. Here these are marked on a minor road with the simple statue of a working man on top of a slight hill. Later on joining the motorway, the forest is cropped dramatically to reveal an avenue leading to an imposing structure acknowledging the Canadian soldiers who fought the battle of Vimy Ridge.
Enjoying the space and calm of the French toll road, the journey slips away. With Dijon in site, some 80 miles short a stop for coffee causes some concern as the reliable chug and roar of Gordon's engine has developed a tick. GP diagnoses water pump problems but we are miles from a garage and Dijon is close. Hope and willing will ensure safe passage and on rejoining the motorway GP nurses Gordon at a 70 mph speed that stabilises the bearing. The lights of Dijon grow nearer but roadworks force a drop in speed. A tearing sound as the fan belt strips away but we are still moving forward. Dijon is so near but on the slower approach roads Gordon sheds the last vestiges of a fan belt. The alternator fails, the power steering goes, Gordon is heavy in GP's hands and is brought to a halt. A short silence ensues as willing and optimism give way to reality and a light drizzle.
The reflective jacket and triangle wrestled from the lady in the AA shop in Folkestone prove worth the fight as GP scales the hard shoulder to confirm his diagnosis. Traffic hurtles past but the French soberly move out of the adjoining lane on seeing a stationary car. The AA provide French recovery firm details and cheerfully damn Dijon with feint praise. "Not a place you would ordinarily think of making a stop off but a really nice place to break down all the same".
The Child Bride now employs her rusty French to request roadside assistance. With European breakdown cover you are able to phone, handover responsibility and wait like lambs for your problem to be solved with a nice big tow truck. Without this, CB has seemingly to persuade the man on the phone of the merits of recovering her. This is not likely when she is apparently abusing the French language so appallingly. No amount of mentioning Visa or American Express, can change his initial impression that this really isn't a night you want to take your truck out in. "I can't fix it tonight you know, it is night time" and he adds "Je crois que c'est la même chose en Angleterre".
A lack of a clear location of the blighted vehicle is also problematic for him. East of Dijon won't do but he looses patience at a very long and literal explanation of the exact path taken over the last few hours in case this helps him trace the vehicles path. So the conversation ends without any real expectation of recovery and some fear of the irascible individual who in mind's eye might appear in greasy boiler suit breathing pernod fumes and wielding a heavy spanner. The appropriate thing to do seems to be to sit still and invest more hope so that is what is done.
In time the orange flashing lights appear in the mirrors and what appears to be a management consultant jumps smartly down to shake hands warmly, quickly assess the situation and provide a plan for not only finding safe keeping for Gordon but for finding a bed for GP and the CB for the night. This is clearly the same man but he is undermining the CB's account of the telephone call with his charm and professional efficiency.
Anyone conscious of Gordon's might and power could not help but wince as he is hauled, undignified, onto the truck. The CB has forgotten that the man shouted at her on the phone as he secures for them a room in a motorway hotel and takes Gordon away for safekeeping.
Grandpa Pete and the Child Bride are empowered by a new situation - a city to discover - and with the problem shelved for the night, go into Dijon for a nice meal. Dining on the old market square, their peace is only disturbed by a small fire in an adjacent restaurant.
GORDON TOWED AWAY
Day 3, Thursday 30th October
Dijon, France
0 miles, journey total 378
Grandpa Pete and the Child Bride reflect this morning on humility. Some months ago they had found amusement in the tale of the great adventurer 'The Cat' Macdonald and his cross continental overland race in a Toyota Corolla. The Cat was forced home prematurely; his demise they recollect was at the hands of a failed water pump.
Determination not to become the laughing stock of London taverns and also to make one of their few deadlines - a rendevous in Florence on Friday with Lady Boddington of Islington - spur them to action early. Gordon is recovered and deposited in the hotel car park. With the help of the same man who performed the rescue the night before, phone calls are made to secure spare parts from the Dijon Land Rover dealership. There is much hand shaking and bonhomie and large amounts of money are transmitted by credit card. With spare parts arriving in 24 hours GP removes the failed pump in preparation. Then there is nothing to do but explore Dijon and begin the interminable search for internet cafes. A free city centre bus facilitates the former and whizzes them through the narrow lanes.
Most people stay in the Etap Hotel for only a night, on the way somewhere else. It is in itself nowhere really. GP and the CB recalculate their journey, and provide, without huge feelings of certainty, a tentative ETA in Florence of Saturday. It relies on parts arriving the next day, the fixing being straightforward and a clear road south.
Day 4, Friday 31st October
Dijon, France - Grenoble, France
171 miles, journey total 549 miles
DEPRESSED IN DIJON
Grandpa Pete and the Child Bride strike out early on foot into the streets to find the Land Rover dealer on Rue Antoine Becquerel. Having found Rue Antoine Becquerel and no dealership they quit and get a cab to the other Rue Antoine Becquerel in Dijon. In a sleek showroom where shiny new Land Rovers nestle against Jaguars and Volvos, an immaculate uniformed mechanic forged the language divide with his determination to ensure that the parts match Gordon's chassis number and that all was provided to complete the job. This leaves GP and the CB slightly bewildered to be faced with people who not only want to sell you their goods but also sell you the right goods. More hand shaking follows and they hope that this will be the last they will see of the impressive and hugely professional French car repair industry. In this temple to the Land Rover the feeling lingered that it was for occasions such as this that GP packed his dinner jacket.
Back in the hotel car park, GP retrieves his overalls and sets to work under the bonnet. The water pump is easily fixed but GP is in deadlock in trying to start the car. Battling with Gordon's battery generated immobilising device he begins to deduce that the battery has been flattened overnight in the garage and the alarm has been malfunctioning when the key is turned. As the pair are now over the midday deadline the CB retreats to reception to book the hotel for another night and mentally rearranges the rest of the journey. GP sets about fathoming the alarm system and ringing the manufacturers. His heart sinks when the Italian company directs him to a Wigan dealer for advice and spurs him to try swapping the battery for the auxiliary battery. Then the hotel car park fills with the roar of regenerated Land Rover engine, arms raise in triumph, the journey is back on, the hotel room is cancelled and the pair takes to the road.
Revelling in the roar of the engine, the open road and a reconfigured plan, the only cloud on the horizon is the significant hit to the budget that recovery, spare parts and nights in the French equivalent of Premier Inn have brought. Florence is in view. Luckily so is the hard shoulder, as GP sees the temperature gauge hit red and gets the CB to pull over.
In a now familiar scene, GP and the CB enjoy a minute's peace as the engine is cut in the hard shoulder and the reality sets in. This time it is a waiting game, as Gordon has not actually boiled but just become very hot, they wait for him to cool down. Assistance appears more readily this time as the motorway patrol arrive and engage GP in the common international language of beard stroking and engine sensing. They drive off to fetch some water and later help to fill the system when the temperature has stabilised.
In their absence another Land Rover pulls over. The driver is as keen to hear about the journey as to help by towing the car. This isn't what Gordon really needs but the guy is insistent, eyeing the marvellous looking winch that Gordon sports. He is persuaded that a tow is not on the cards and departs with a cheery flourish. Soon Gordon is cool, with a full system and pulling away again, escorted for a few miles by motorway patrol the journey continues.
More watchful now, less euphoric, every beat of the engine is analysed and interpreted and a tense path to Lyon is followed. So tense that they miss the turning for Lyon and, on finding the first hotel they can in Grenoble, quit while ahead, or at least no further backwards.
The hotel restaurant is closed, directed to a local alternative in what appears to be the middle of an industrial estate, the Park Royal of southern France, we find Le Taille Bavette. It clearly majors in meat, the CB is disturbed to find the prominence of cheval on the menu, GP is grateful at last to find some veg but both are placated by an excellent bite of Marcelins cheese.
Day 5, Saturday 1st November
Grenoble, France - Florence, Italy
375 miles, journey total 924 miles
GRENOBLE VALLEY FLOOR
Grandpa Pete and the Child Bride woke to blue skies, a curtain of mountains all around and wispy cloud along the Grenoble valley floor. Scene of the beginning of many a happy skiing holiday, they set off through the commuter belt of Grenoble. Soon they are carving around the mountain's skirts, next to a wide icy glacial river, and the harsh rock faces of the French Alps. Passing a hydroelectric plant the river is held in check. Warnings of strong magnetic fields appear on the road signs - how far the Hadron accelerator? The rock closes in, hard and fast to the roadside as they rise. The Tunnel de Frejus and the Italian border beckons. The aim is Lady Boddington's, Florence, by dinner.
On emerging from the tunnel in Italy at 1062m the weather has been changed, they drive into thick mountain cloud and rain. The tempo of the traffic has also changed. Cars frantically buzz between lanes in an urgent attempt to gain metres on each other. Italian impatience rules the fast lane. And the slow lane. And sometimes both at the same time. All that is missing as they pass Turin is a soundtrack of The Flight of the Bumblebee.
The Child Bride takes the wheel just north of Genova and discovers that someone has built a rollercoaster through the city and channelled the motorway through it. Dreams of contemplating fabulous sea views are shelved in favour of concentrating on navigating the chicanes. Finally the road turns east and to Florence. Joy at arrival is again short-lived as the impracticality of navigating a medieval city in a Land Rover emerges. After about half an hour, a few wing mirrors, and a short but focused discussion it is agreed that the CB and GP will swap roles. GP takes the wheel, the CB the map as GP struggles with both navigation and driving by proxy simultaneously. After about another half hour of circling one-way systems a hair's breadth away from their target, they leave Gordon in the first available car park and walk.
Lady Boddington of Islington has taken an apartment in Florence for an autumn of cultural immersion and is receiving visitors in this period in celebration of a memorable birthday. Florence, as promised, is heaving with evening promenaders and from a busy via Del Corso they ascend the stairs and enter the cage to her apartment to take seats on her balcony overlooking the Duomo. Into the warm Italian evening they all catch up and, much wine later, retire.
Day 6, Sunday 2nd November
Florence, Italy
0 miles, journey total 924 miles
PITTI PALACE, FLORENCE
And so begins Lady Boddington's big reveal of Florence. Now, as if a native, she speeds Grandpa Pete and the Child Bride through the streets, drawing back the tourist curtain and sharing the deeper wonders of Florentine art and architecture. At the Piazza del Signoria, the square is brimming with people, though so very late in the season. GP and the Lady contemplate the sculptures of the Loggia del Lanzi, wonder at Cellini's Perseus, holding Medusa's head and the Rape of the Sabine Women (Giambologna).
So they cross the Ponte Vecchio, with the Lady pointing out the upper passageway above the shops, closed to the public now, as then. This was built as the Medici's personal and private walkway, effectively their route between their office and home. On the south side, with the insouciance bred of the ultimate power of Florence's first family, it cuts right across the façade of a church next to the bridge.
The Lady has also done much research into the local eateries and drinkeries and brings them to a quiet square, next to the Santo Spiritu where a Sunday lunch of cold meats, creamy burro mozzarella, pizzas and pastas are washed down with fine wine in the sun. Then, recharged, they move on to the Palazzo Pitti, designed by Brunelleschi, for hours of decoding the stories on the walls and a glimpse over the Boboli gardens.
Some concern still rests over the noises Gordon has been making so Land Rover dealers in Florence are sourced. After more wine on the terrace, punctuated by the ringing of the Duomo bells and a quick Pizza for GP and the CB, an early start is planned.
Day 7, Monday 3rd November
Florence, Italy - Land Rover dealer, Via Lunga Firenze
5 miles, journey total 929 miles
TOWARDS THE ARNO
The only English speaking mechanic is earnest and careworn. Taking Gordon's plight very seriously he summons the boss to listen to the engine and finally they bring in the mechanic. A portly gent, he stands on the front of the car and heaves himself over to view the engine, nods and with a few words stands back. Gordon is to stay in overnight and be ready the next day when he will be fitted with a new belt and tensioner. An aura of intense professionalism and seriousness hangs over the garage as they work on their charges with fixed concentration. Gordon is in safe hands.
Grandpa Pete and the Child Bride slip back into Renaissance life and rejoin Lady Boddington for coffee and shopping in the Mercato San Lorenzo. As predicted by Lady B the Florentine weekend sun has given way to showers. (So in tune with the rhythm of the city she must surely by now be the Contessa Boddington?) An umbrella is purchased and they make way to the Basilica di San Lorenzo. Amongst the soaring grey sandstone columns stands a cast bronze sarcophagus by Donatello, GP mourns the loss of the artistry and skill to produce a cast of such detail and intricacy. They retreat into the Sagrestia Vecchia with a map of the night sky painted on the ceiling. Meanwhile the Contessa tells of the feud between Donatello and Brunellesci, forever unresolved, that led to Donatello's flight from Florence.
Over more coffee, GP and the Contessa meet an escapee from a tour group, a septegenarian who has tired of her peers' pedestrian pace and slipped the organisational net to slake her thirst for more art. The Hospital of the Innocents, is a small scale dimly lit treasure trove on the square of Santissima Annunciata. Much time is spent as the three unpick the story of just one picture, a large canvas 4m x 5m, telling the story of the nativity, packed with incident and detail and with a vista stretching far into the distance telling a more modern story of Renaissance trading.
Later the Museo dell'Opera del Duomo feels overworked and packed - with people and with artefacts to an indigestible degree. The architects models of their proposed reworking of the front of the Duomo stand out. Serving as the architect's tender, GP imagines the architects queuing to present them and catching glimpse with sinking heart at the work of the next bloke in the queue.
Tonight Contessa Boddington is to cook the huge fresh porcini mushrooms sourced from the market and the last night in her apartment is over fine food and wine again.