Well it’s finally here. The eleusive workshop appointment. Once more, our fate is in other’s hands. Three days have been set aside, two for the work that’s needed and one to catch our breath/perform the necessary house-elfing. I had good intentions to start last night but after a long drive I just couldn’t face it. Not to worry – a morning of chores followed by a nice afternoon in town will set things straight. High ho, high ho, as they say….until they don’t.
Let me paint you a picture my friends. Beds stripped, a mountain of laundry to hand, a rainy day, tomorrow’s unmovable appointment looming…..and the power goes out. Not just us mind, great chunks of Exeter. Something, somewhere, has fallen over and taken half a grid with it. 11 am they say. No problem, I can cope with losing a couple of hours. But 11 becomes 2 pm, 2 becomes 3 and by 4, we’re still going nowhere fast. Going elsewhere isn’t an option, everyone local has the same problem. It takes until 4.30 to get the grid back up, at which point I can finally start. I won’t describe my mood. It wasn’t pretty. Finally, after 9 pm all is done, beds are remade and everything is dry. The motorhome sparkles inside and out. So much for that relaxing first day.
The next day the motorhome is dropped off with high hopes and we check in to the Rougemont Hotel. I find out later that the site was once Exeter’s old prison. Demolished down to basement level, there’s a section under the restaurant that still has manacles hanging from the walls. Seriously. I don’t know about you, but all I can picture is the scene from Life of Brian with the jail’s long term captive....they only hung me the right way up yesterday…
Meanwhile, we try to find parts of Exeter we’ve not seen before. Two days in a town you’ve visited endlessly is a long time to fill. We don’t fare too badly, following the Roman city wall ruins
finding the Northern Hay Gardens, founded in 1612 and believed to be the oldest public space in the country. The garden features a moving tribute to those lost in battle.
We potter up and down the high street and I do a bit of credit card damage by visiting The White Company, one of my favourite English stores. Himself is lucky we have a weight limit on luggage and a good deal to bring home already…
I finally find a squirrel who understands the rules of nut engagement. He squirrels over politely when I call him and extends a delicately polite paw. Little pet – I happily surrender the last of my nut stash. Good manners are to be rewarded.
There’s the food scene of course, Thai for dinner – excellent drunken noodles, so named as they’re allegedly good for a hangover. The following day, Himself finds an delicious bao spot for lunch.
We lap the Cathedral post dinner ostensibly to look for the door with an Elizabethan ‘cat flap’, a hole for the resident mouser – no luck, it must be in a section the public can’t access. I love the idea that the Cathedral has a mouser’s hole that’s been there since Elizabeth I sat on the throne. Apparently the mousies were wrecking havoc with the Bishop’s vestments and a cat has been in residence ever since.
I find this fabulously detailed door as a consolation prize.
The Exeter branch of the Victoria & Albert Museum whiles ago a good chunk of a day. It’s small but has a very good display of local history and prehistorics finds. Roman, mediaeval and Georgian eras are well covered.
Mediaeval Exeter was quite extensive looking at the model – the tall building is the Cathedral of course. It’s no wonder the church was seen as all powerful.
It’s fascinating to learn that prehistoric hippopotamus once swam the local river. Hippos! In England!
Upstairs, the taxidermy creature collection is extensive but sad – many were killed as trophies in the monstrous period of big game hunting.
Little ones also fared poorly in the Victorian craze of collecting for curiosity cabinets. That poor little hummingbird was smaller than a thumb.
There’s also an extensive display of collectibles from other countries.
It’s not until mid afternoon on the second day that the fun starts. Conscious that we’ve no motorhome and having checked out, no hotel room either, mood veers to anxious. ‘Call them’ says I ‘we should have heard by now’. And He does. And it’s not good: the starter motor’s been replaced, a new battery has been installed, but the part they need to fit to the fuel tank…won’t. ‘A new fuel tank’ they say, and ‘it’s tricky as the tank is full’. . Note: bringing it in without a full tank wasn’t mentioned.
Himself naturally says no – a) we’ve technically sold the motorhome and b) the workshop had a day to scope the required works. Springing a new £1,200 charge on us at this point isn’t going to happen. ‘Keep trying’ says He ‘keep us updated’. This game goes on for the rest of the day as we go quietly insane. Day’s end sees us without the motorhome and glumly checking back in the hotel. We traipse out for a Vietnamese meal but neither of us is in the mood to enjoy it. Dinner conversation does not sparkle.
Tension escalates the following day as calls bounce back and forth before radio silence hits. Mid afternoon tempers are severely frayed. Visions of a labour bill exceeding the cost of a new tank and/or that and the cost of new tank on top + another night stuck are starting to materialise.
We decide to front – if they won’t pick up the phone, we reason, they’ll have to talk to us in person. We collect our bags, ready to trudge out, to face whatever awaits. Waiting for transport, I make a a last Hail Mary call.
And they pick up. And it’s done.
The tank was siphoned off, pulled out, the part fitted and it’s all back together. One small glitch, the fuel tank won’t register level, but they’re confident it will be fixed by the time it takes us to get there. I could weep with relief.
On arrival the motorhome is out in the lot – a good sign. We just have to wait for the paperwork and a hasty cross office haggle over the final bill. Thankfully, it settles acceptably close to the estimate – they write a good deal of labour off and discount the hourly rate to get it there. It’s hard to tell at this point who’s happier to see the back of whom. A number of frank exchanges were had. It’s a close call I suspect.
Meanwhile, the motorhome roars into life. Having emptied Himself’s wallet, it’s purring contentedly. ‘Perhaps we should keep it’ says He. It seems Himself is struggling to let go too.
Exeter served us a tough four days but good news is on the horizon. Armed with road maps, Google Maps and a good deal of cross calculation, I’ve convinced Himself that crossing to France to tour the northern coast from Cherbourg to Calais then to motorhome drop off is actually less distance than bouncing around southern England, covering ground we’ve endlessly covered before.
He ran the numbers, twice…and said yes! We’re off to Poole Harbour for a crack of dawn crossing tomorrow. Bonjour France! Here we come!
Miss Baci Travels 