Clutched by Cambrai: the joy of travel

Sitting in my campervan looking out at a rain-pitted puddle near the entrance to the first campsite we had used thus far on our journey to Austria and onwards, I had little to do but reflect on our journey so far. We had left Oxford just one week before, where, after a great struggle was ended only with help from a removal man, I managed to manhandle a double mattress onto the top of the van (don’t ask) and strap it down for the thousands of miles to come.

Dover was dowdy and seems to be going downhill fast: closed shops, dirty streets, crumbling buildings, dubious characters. But as usual there was a bright side. I found a decent brew-pub with good ale and a cheery crowd and we ate a good English meal in our regular pub – Blakes.

After a calm channel crossing we were soon on our way eastwards across France leaving the toll road at Cambrai then taking normal roads towards Luxemburg. We did not make it. Whilst approaching the village of Le Catou, my clutch failed spectacularly and definitely. I just managed to pull onto a verge before onward progress halted entirely. We spent one night on the forecourt of a rip-off garage that could do nothing for us and the next in the wreck-strewn yard of a real garage (next to the remains of a red double-decker bus) on the outskirts of Cambrai, a city that became our headquarters for some time. On the first evening we walked into the place and found it decent enough with some impressive buildings and a few good bars. On the second day, while the van was under repair, we visited a number of excellent churches and chapels, the ‘port’ where Cambrai’s canals meet and the excellent central park full of teenagers doing the things that teenagers tend to do (still). By three we had exhausted Cambrai and ourselves, we then just hung about before beginning the three kilometer walk back to the garage. I went ahead and was delighted to see my van nosing its way out of the garage – it could go again and was out under test. I paid the heavy bill and smilingly shook everyone’s hand before resuming our journey.

We got a little further this time. About two hours out of Cambrai it became clear that we had to return! The clutch was OK but the gears were not and red lights were flashing on the dashboard.  By then the garage had closed so we slept at Hirson and met a few local bar-room characters there who told us that Hirson produced a special cheese which smelled strongly. One of the men tried to abduct Margaret on the strength of that cheese.

Next morning we struggled all the way back to the garage at Cambrai and kicked our heels whilst adjustments were made to the van, then on again at last. But would Cambrai let us go? Not quite. I had more red light flashings so had to pull in to a rest area where I pushed a few things around beneath the van with advice of a helpful fellow Brit, but found nothing amiss – yet, fortunately, that problem did not re-occur.  And so we were really on our way, finally leaving France on the sixth day after our departure from Oxford. Hey, ho.

We finally reached our home in La Fresneda after some two and half weeks in all, having visited some wonderful places and driven through stunning landscapes in Germany, Austria, Switzerland and Southern France. I think my top spot was Bad Gerstein in Austria. I knew something of the place through my research for the Hedy Lamarr book. It is a resort in southern Austria that is characterised by its unique position snuggling amongst mountains at the end of a long flat valley; by the incredibly white and noisy waterfall that crashes right though it; by the plethora of tall majestic buildings which were frequented by Sisi, the wife of the Austrian Emperor in the “good” old days; and finally by the eerie realization that it was virtually deserted – a ghostly watering hole.

Our Spanish village was a complete contrast to Bad Gastein. Racing was on at the nearby track so the village was full of black sheathed figures on their shining motorcycles. Our very special plaza was noisy and lively, the  crowds centering around the two bars. We were greeted in our favourite watering hole – Bar La Plaza – by people who had, for once, noticed our absence (nearly a year since our last visit). We answered the usual questions: how are you, when did you arrive, and when are you going? Then, our Spanish having been exhausted by these three questions, we were left to enjoy the comings and goings in the plaza over beer and tapas. 

How China can save the planet

Ridiculous title I know, but it wasn’t of my invention. It was the last lecture that I attended in Oxford before the ‘great intellectual desert’ began. This is something that happens regularly at the end of the academic year when Oxford is transformed. The city is then invaded by youngsters from all over the world who come here to learn ‘Oxford English’. Funnily enough there is no such thing. As I often observe, the people of Oxford talk, “like what I do when I be ‘appily speaking in me properrr coun’ry accent with no ‘h’s and lots of ‘rrr’s”. And, of course, the people of the University itself are from all over the place. I suppose the myth derives from that phenomenal creation The Oxford English Dictionary, but I won’t bang on about that since I put all I know of it in my book.

Yes, for a few months the streets are full of young people often clad in the colours of the many language schools that sprout like mushrooms around the city, and then lie dormant for nine months until the next big influx. Added to that we have a massive peak in the number of tourists visiting the city (yearly around nine million and growing) during the months of July and August. These are the months when I am filled with both guilt and shame through my association with the Oxford tourist industry.

It’s funny, but the ‘great intellectual desert’ begins with music – classical music. I have never understood why, but the number of concerts held in the city seems to reach a peak as the student go off for their long break. And there is also an outburst of outdoor Shakespearean plays, many held in college gardens. So maybe it’s not a desert at all, but for me it is since there are virtually no public lectures.

My pitiful life in Oxford is mainly controlled by a website called Daily Information where I zoom straight into the What’s On section, then to the Lectures and Meeting bit, followed by the Gigs and Comedy bit and finally the Concerts. Sometimes I have a hard time choosing which lecture to go to since they are mostly bunched in the five until seven evening slots of the day, but meeting tend to be later and gigs later still. So, in August, I am starved of thought provoking lectures, but I still have music and the last few days have been particularly good. On Thursday night I cycled down to the Cape of Good Hope pub on Oxford’s busy roundabout The Plain. There were not many players or listeners around, however one guitarist was brilliant. He could really belt it out and started his spot with a reggae number and stuck to that as a theme through a series of songs which were not actually reggae.

On Saturday night I took Margaret to the Tree Hotel where Pete Fryer was celebrating his 70th birthday by playing a gig. This place was packed and Pete sings great oldies with verve and passion. He is backed by his brother Phil on lead guitar, Phil’s partner Sue on bass and on this occasion the son of Pete’s partner Liz’s son on drums. These people are legendary in Oxford having entertained the populace in various ways since the sixties. I particularly liked Another Brick in Wall and decided that night that I would like to rewrite the lyrics to emphasise the dark supremacy in today’s classroom, but wonder if my near namesake, Roger Waters would approve? All in all, it’s just another kick of the ball.

On Sundays we usually go the Harcourt Arms in Jericho for open-mike which is always good fun. But instead we walked a little further to the Bookbinders where the beer is better and the musicians often of higher quality (imho). It was almost deserted and the barmaid tried to overcharge me for drinks, so this was not a good start. Then two fellows took the stage, one with harmonica, the other with guitar and vocals, and magical music poured forth and the beer was great and there was nowhere I would have rather been. I suppose they played six or seven songs, all excellent and everything from Blue Moon to Willie Nelson, and the entirety played their own special way. The harp was the best I have ever heard and singing and guitar playing excellent.

Now I’m sure you're thinking what has all that got to do with China saving the planet? Well, the speaker at the lecture told us that China has the most solar power in the world and the most wind turbines. Unfortunately it also burns the most coal. So all they have to do is stop burning coal and start playing music instead.

Licking cows, flat batteries and good Samaritans

Imagine a powerful computer that is so small it fits into the palm of your hand, can listen to geostationary satellites way up in the sky and communicate with any other device like itself in the world; something that can be calculator, can recognise speech and turn it to text, is a word processor, a diary and a source of all sorts of applications including one for bird spotting. No need to imagine it though, because it is today’s smartphone – wonderful.

I recently walked from Wantage, near Oxford, to Lyme Regis on England’s south coast following the ridgeways which make up the country’s oldest travel routes.  I did it the wild way: no forward booking, no cloying timetable – simply a return date on which I was booked for a tour some nine days after my departure. Freedom: but at a cost. The cost was the weight on my back of the tent, sleeping bag, mattress thingy, clothes and footwear, water, food, books and maps. The desire to minimize that weight became almost paranoiac.

I would have needed four or more maps, why not use phone? I tried it out using something called OS maps and it was great, the phone knows where it is from GPS and the app projects that onto a map. It’s a bit small in coverage at times but otherwise probably better than a map. But I needed books, particularly my bird book. Here a friend recommended a bird spotting app and that was great too. I didn’t even need to take my Kindle because I could read my current novel on the phone. Great, everything great and light. But what about charging the phone? I bought a battery pack with a solar charger, a bit heavy yet only about the size of the phone itself – I was off grid!

All went fairly well. The load I carried was still quite hefty and so my feet began to ache and my posture to sag as each day wore on, but I could cope and cover the 15 plus miles a day needed to reach my goal. I met many interesting people along the way or in the pubs where I ate each evening. I did not see many birds of interest, but had a good sighting of a country fox and an unaware hare. 

Each day I rose very early and walked some way before stopping for a simple breakfast. On one occasion I sat on a bank to change from sandals to boots and to eat. The location was pleasant: a hill rose up behind me dotted with cattle and to my fore I had a wonderful view over a valley. I noticed the cattle coming towards me as I finished my meal, about twenty of them. I was ready to move on but they were upon me before I could pack up to go. Usually cows do not come too close and a shout or a wave deters them. Not this lot. Led by an aberrant one, let’s call her Kate, they crowded around me. Kate was determined to explore my bits and pieces which were strewn on the ground. She licked my tent bag (green) dripping saliva over it. I hit her on the nose – no effect. I grabbed the tent bag. She turned her tongue to my sleeping bag (not even green), slurp, slurp. The others kept pushing forward, but left it to Kate to do the exploring. I grabbed the sleeping bag so she started slurping away at my mattress whilst ignoring my heavy blows to her snout. Awkwardly hanging onto my bits and bags I managed to struggle out of the crush at last and luckily Kate did not follow.

Entering Dorset I found the countryside particularly stunning. It’s Thomas Hardy country and best described by him, but here goes: rolling hills, valleys full of irregular fields bordered by thick hedges and fulsome trees. Every shade of green imaginable and so little in the way of human habitation that the scenes slumber in the warm sun evincing feelings of softness, peace and harmony.

My favourite village was Cerne Abbas: beautifully kept with three pubs one of which does not sell Palmers beer, thanks be. My nemesis was the next stop – Beaminster. I found a nice spot beyond the town in a wood near a stream (for my ablutions) and apparently only visited by dog walkers who seemed a friendly bunch. The only cloud on my horizon – the phone had stopped charging though I had juice in my battery pack. I could no longer access the maps  and without maps I could not follow the Wessex Ridgeway to Lyme because it was not well marked. I walked back into Beaminster and tried to get someone to charge me up in the pubs – no success. I did not sleep much that night since I thought that I must abandon the walk at that point: so near and yet so far. 

In the morning after my “showering”, a dog walker passed by and I asked him if I might buy a map in Beamister. He said no because there were no shops of that sort and besides it was Sunday (I had lost track of the days).  However, he and his wife said that they had maps I might borrow so we arranged to meet at their car and they did indeed lend me a perfect map. Using that I pushed on, finally arriving in lovely Lyme Regis at seven-thirty the next morning for a quick swim in the cold English Channel followed by a journey by public transport back to Oxford.

Moral of the story: do not rely on mobile phones too much (actually it was simply the connecter that had failed) and be grateful to good Samaritans (I am returning their map). Steps completed approximately quarter of a million. Blisters – none. Beer consumed – lots.