Himself and I debated long and hard over the timing of our return to England. I finally agreed on the 1st on the strict understanding that it would include some travel, not just the long and drawn out process of winterising the motorhome and house elfing it into spotlessness. Freshly keen from our Kingston Lacy visit yesterday we plot a course through the Dartmoor wilderness, seaside villages, the occasional National Trust treat and the Eden Project, an attraction that’s managed to elude us for the past 11 years. We plan for Truro as our penultimate stop, returning to Devon for the final pack and storage. I’ve missed our journey starts and ends in Truro – am very much looking forward to returning after four years away.
So emboldened, we set our course west through verdantly green countryside. I twitter away, happily researching stops, Himself at the wheel. We’re quite innocent of the knowlege that the gods are about to turn their focus to us yet again. It must be a slow day in the heavens. They peer down: those two in the motorhome, they’re always good for a laugh, aren’t they?
We’re not brought in on the joke until later. Himself sounds the alarm – there’s a warning light on the dash. I scramble to decipher while he wrestles a 5 tonne vehicle no longer responding to commands. It’s driving and steering but losing power and won’t change into manual. We make it to a layby and shut everything down to reset the computer. Which works. Ok, these things sometimes happen, but we’re both wary, travelling only a short distance further before settling just outside of Exeter.
We learn that it’s a transmission light – an issue with either low or overheating transmission fluid. Grave warnings what might happen to the transmission if ignored. Action depends on whether the light comes on and goes off, comes on and off repeatedly, or comes on then flashes. Ours of course did none of those. Sometimes I’d really like to deliver a good hard smack to those who write instruction manuals. Instruction advice: check the transmission fluid, top it up, being sure to use the correct fluid for your engine type. Does it come with an explanation of where the reservoir is, or what the correct fluid might be? No. Helpful, given that the engine is not only under the bonnet but also under the driver, the passenger side and through a few other hidey holes. We pull it all apart but are none the wiser. There’s nothing remotely like a dipstick. Google helpfully tells us that some transmission reservoirs don’t have dipsticks, so it’s as clear as mud.
The following day we’re back on track with a dash clear of warnings…until it’s not. It’s the weekend of course – trouble rarely hits when convenient. What fun would that be? We pull over and assess. Press on with our plans? It went off yesterday afterall, and stayed off. Find somewhere to hole up until Monday? Throw a massive tantrum and thrash it a la Basil Fawlty? Anything is possible at this point, except a worry free life perhaps.
We look at each other blankly – our reserves for dealing with trouble are verging on empty. With end of journey in sight and plans freshly hatched, it’s an unexpected blow. But you don’t wrangle teams and clients for years without learning a thing or two about managing through crisis. Assess the risk, remove extraneous factors, apply controls. Set short term goals, manage stakeholder expectations. Lead the team to success. I make the executive decision – head for safety and certainty. I’m not prepared to risk getting stuck elsewhere with mechanical trouble, unable to return to Devon to store the motorhome, or worse, risk missing our flight and/or a visa violation. There’s no guarantee another garage could fix an issue in time, never mind taking on the job of returning the motorhome to Devon and packing it up. Fortunately, we’re only 60 or so miles from the Headon Farm site. Our best option is to head there – if the problem can be assessed on Monday, well and good If not, at least we can store the motorhome and get to Heathrow. The local garage has a pick up and deliver service, even it’s occasionally sans side mirror. They can deal with the issue next week, or if it needs longer, once we’re gone. Himself agrees – it’s a sound plan. Fortunately Headon Farm can accommodate us on no notice. Phew.
Somewhat disheartened with our plans kicked to the kerb, we reset, sticking to motorways far as possible given that emergency phones are placed every mile or so. It’s a tense drive – I hold my breath most of the way, counting the miles down. The warning light doesn’t appear again. Of course it bloody doesn’t.
Along the way I locate car hire in Bude that offers a drop off and pick up service (excellent service in country areas) and shoot off an after hours message. We’ll need transport if we’re to salvage any of our remaining time. It’s with a rather large sigh of relief we arrive and settle for the night.
Next day, we walk into Holsworthy.
There’s only so long I can sit in one place and we need supplies. It’s a good long walk through country roads with all charm they bring – horses, hedgerows, flowers aplenty, buzzy bumbles willing to be patted, blackberries on the verge of ripening, some already there serving as an occasional juicy inky treat. Eggs for sale – both duck and hen. Cows looking on patiently. Very soothing for what ails one.
Holdsworthy is looking lovely in the afternoon sun.
Himself can’t go past a carvery lunch offering – just look how happy he is.
The pub has a music theme with an impressive array of vinyl on display and music videos bopping away on screens. I pick up a new recipe from the chef – creamed leeks served as an accompaniment. Delicious. On our way out I spot the original call bells – perhaps once a house?
Waitrose meets the rest of our needs. We try for an Uber home but eventually give up – either there’s no driver or he’s many miles away. A long walk home won’t hurt us. We take the opportunity to cut a corner through two fields marked as a public footpath. Possibly begrudgingly by the farmer. There’s a series of gates to manoeuvre one of which is firmly tied. Himself draws on his country childhood and shimmies over. Small problem – I’ve never climbed a fence or a gate. I opt to go under and end up cow pat muddy. 😂 Luckily most of them are dry. The next fence is stuck – over Himself goes again and with some encouragement, so do I, much to the amusement of the local cows. But I did it, and didn’t fall off. It wasn’t very gracious, but I’ll take that as a win.
As a bonus, the hire company has emailed me – they have a car and can deliver it tomorrow. That’s a relief. It means we’re mobile and can go to the garage to see what can be done. Onwards and upwards.
Miss Baci Travels 