The morning sees us up and packed ready to depart Honfleur. If we haven’t a final destination in mind, we’ve settled on a direction. Logic dictates that we travel South, to ally the cool of spring with warmer climes, to return North as the weather warms into summer.
A cross check of our Most Beautiful Villages of France book revels that we’ve seen virtually all the North West quarter, but far fewer in the South West, so these will be our focus. When we get to the bottom of France we’ll either pop in to San Sebastian, or head over to Italy, or perhaps up to Alsace. We are for once, without firm plans. Loose plans in place, off we set. So far so good.
Mid morning sees the sun blazing. Turn on the air, Himself instructs. And I do….to no effect what so ever. We pretend it’s working for a while, neither keen to return to problems past but by lunch time there’s no denying there’s a problem. Google helpfully suggests that it needs recharging and given that it’s never been done in the time we’ve owned the motorhome, it’s a fair bet that it’s right. Himself reasons that we have more chance for a prompt appointment in a small town than a large one, he locates a truck service centre and we prop for the night in Ecouche-les-Vallees and explore our surrounds.
It’s a typically pretty spot, awash with flowers and a busy local Tabac. Our plan is to awake at the crack of dawn when the workshop opens and plead for assistance.
Next morning, off we set. There’s a slight miscalculation though – the workshop only deals with one brand of vehicle and it’s not ours. Not to worry, we reason, if that’s what’s needed, France is awash with Fiat workshops. I locate one on our path and we set off to Le Mans.
A couple of hours later, we arrive, and yes they can help, but unfortunately their machine has broken down. They refer us down the road to another workshop. His is broken down too. Hmm. Google translate proves invaluable. Those who know me know that my personal mantra is that failure is not an option, so I calmly locate another Fiat workshop further on. They’re very sensibly closed for lunch and having waited that out, they are very helpful but can’t help. What we need they say, is a dealership, not a workshop. Himself finds a dealer, but it’s a misstep, secondhand cars only and they’re closed. There’s a ‘real’ dealer 30 km away and off we set. They’re terribly charming (Himself keeps sending me in, armed with Google translate) and have the equipment but the earliest they could see us is the end of June. They recommend a workshop further on who apparently accept walk-ins, and they do, but what they don’t do is aircon recharging.
By this time I’m decidedly over it. We’ve been on the road all day, covered hundreds of kilometres and got absolutely nowhere. It’s a Basil Fawlty worthy farce. At the last minute though, a mechanic fronts. I thow myself on his mercy and plead – surely there must be someone who has the right equipment who could help? He ponders, Googles and offers a solution. Off we set with me muttering that this is a last hail Mary and as far as I’m concerned it can stay off.
It’s almost the end of the business day when we arrive at a tiny workshop in the middle of nowhere. I’ve penned a tome that must have relayed the extent of the frustration of the day, and after all the fancy high end workshops and dealerships, this nice man, in this tiny workshop can finally help. Yes, says he. Come back at 10am tomorrow. And we do. It’s a 15 minute job and it does the trick. We have aircon at last. Not that we need it, the weather’s turned and it’s freezing.
Later that night, Himself fires the heater up. And nothing happens. This happens sometimes as the settings are tricky. We reset everything and try again. Nothing. Nerves are still frazzled from the day before. That’s it, Himself declares, we’ll have to go back to England. IDFTS, says I. I’ll leave you to interpret that less than polite response. Himself calms down enough to remember there’s a reset button, inconveniently located in a completely inaccessible spot. He pokes at it repeatedly to no avail while I’m knee deep in motorhome chat rooms about Truma heater failure resolutions.
Are you sure that’s the reset button, I ask – it can’t be sighted from any angle. A well angled camera shot in complete darkness proves it wasn’t – it was a screw hole 😂. We locate the right spot and try again. Nothing.
Perhaps we’re not hitting it at the right angle – apart the unit comes, which sounds easy but it’s not, hidden in a cupboard under venting and pipes – we’re both scratched endlessly in our efforts. I fumble around in the dark with the connections, trying to see what’s available to perform a reset. The reset button fails again but there’s a loose 12v connection that one of the chatroom comments mentioned. I’m desperate at this stage – turn the power off, I’m disconnecting this, says I, and then hitting reset. Which I hold my breath and do. It roars into life and Himself looks at me in awe. He’s deeply impressed and quite frankly that takes some doing. He’s not one for feint praise.
The heater roars through the night and I purr away happily. I earned every bit of that warmth. It’s been a tough two days.
Miss Baci Travels 