We’re starting our final trek this morning, to Commons Wood. It’s here we’ll prop for a few days to pack and prepare the motorhome for handover before making our way to London. It’s not a job I’m looking forward to. The emotional wrench of letting go is one thing. The challenge of getting everything into suitcases and under luggage weight allowances is another.
And so lost in such thoughts, I perform a final cross check while Himself programs our next destination. Right, here we go. Only we don’t. It’s our old nemesis, the accelerator. It won’t engage and nothing we’ve tried before will budge us into motion. Three days from the finish line, the motorhome lets us down a final time. It’s Sunday of course. It seems every time there’s an issue, it’s a Sunday. Why break with tradition now.
Himself and I look at each other blankly. It’s inconceivable that we’re this close to the finish line but might fail. We’re due to hand the motorhome over on Wednesday – there is no Plan B.
Thankfully we have breakdown cover: the call is made and we wait. An hour or two later a nice man turns up and listens to our tale of woe. He has an advantage we don’t – plug in diagnostic software. It deems the problem a faulty exhaust gas recirculation valve. Its job is recirculating a component of exhaust gas back into the intake manifold to be reburned, thereby reducing emissions. Why that would cause acceleration failure remains a complete mystery to me.
Our policy cover will tow us wherever we need to go…but that’s our new dilemma. Where that might be with Wednesday’s deadline screaming towards us is anyone’s guess. The chance of getting the work done before then is literally nil – not a small job as it’s likely the engine has to be pulled out. There’s really only one option: take a gamble on our buyer being both willing to undertake the work and more importantly, still prepared to proceed. That’s not a conversation for Sunday afternoon, it’s a job for tomorrow.
And so with a version of a unsettled plan in place, we set out to wander Windsor a last time in a poor attempt at distraction. It’s fair to say our hearts and minds aren’t engaged. We fly home on Saturday. If we can’t sell the motorhome, to put it simply, we’re screwed.
At least the golden hour’s light is lovely.
We manage find something new: Windsor’s ‘Ancient Well’ that dates back to medieval times. It served as a fresh water source for the local community, market traders, visiting pilgrims and even the royal household.
This recycled metal bull too, who looks ready to charge through the train station – he’s rather impressive. Perhaps I could ask him to trot over and give the motorhome a good swift kick.
Meanwhile, the shops have started on Christmas. Good grief. Already! At this rate be prepared for Easter decorations to appear shortly after new year.
The long walk offers a peaceful refuge, until we see that our favourite pub is closed.
In a small stroke of luck, our afternoon wandering coincides perfectly with commencement of Sunday evensong in St George Chapel. It’s open to the public and an opportunity too good to miss – the voices are heavenly, the acoustics incredible. At least one nice thing happened today. All that’s to be done now is wait.
The following morning it’s show time. Not the simplest of conversations – the deal almost falls through early on. It takes careful negotiation to pull it back on track and close, a little bruised and battered, but done.
It’s decided we’ll deliver the motorhome to a mechanic and wouldn’t you know it, during the flurry of calls this process takes, the bloody thing starts. Starts properly. And with that, the days set aside for packing and preparation evaporate. While we’re mobile, we make a mad dash for the garage, a tense, long drive. There’s no option other than to pack there – we can’t risk not starting again.
I won’t bore you with the details suffice to say that a job that three days were set aside for has to be achieved in a few hours. Much of it is done through tears. Frustration. Anger. Sadness. Take your pick – they all apply. The weight of bags is immense but it’s a problem that has to be dealt with later. Our immediate focus is juggling accommodation for an earlier than planned arrival to London. We’re not easily mobile either, carrying close to 80 kilograms of luggage.
Job done we taxi to London, both exhausted. Another long drive. I feel for our poor driver who’ll have to trek all the way back.
I set my personal mantra decades ago: Failure Is Not An Option. It served us well today but even so, I feel cheated. I didn’t get to say goodbye. It’s not even close to the end I wanted for something I loved.
