🎶Some day soon, we all may be together, if the fates allow🎶

I miss you  bloggee chums.   So I give you :   Dada dada.  “Further Adventures of the Wrinkley Wanderers”

We had booked our flight home for Christmas and like two kids going to visit Father Christmas in Lapland, we trembled with excitement as we got in the car,  packed and painted for the hollibobs.   Checking his phone for emails, Gary said a very rude  word.   “Flight’s cancelled.   Something about drones”

We went back indoors and started looking for another flight .

The email was three hours’ old, so flights were either full or ridiculously expensive    I pictured the disappointed faces of our children and grandchildren, curly haired innocents looking spookily similar to those cherubic children in “It’s a Wonderful World”.

“Oh, husband,” said I. “ We cannot let the faaaamily down.   We have to get there somehow.”   A crystal tear fell attractively on my cheek.

Searching out rope, spades,  vacuum flasks, space blankets, mountain boots,  the Bear Grylls of five star hotels gathered us all up and strapped us in.     As an aside, he’s also known as Bare Thrills, but you would probably prefer not to know that.    Or was it Bare Frills?

Bare  donned his Davey  Crockett hat and we were off.

“We’ll have to do motorways,  Wife,” says Bare.

“Oh no,  husband”, says  wife.

”Desperate times, old fruit,” he says.    Wife smiles.   Though her eyes tell  a different story.

And so my hero just drove. We left Gabian at 08.30 and fighting juggernauts, indicator-less drivers, rain and eye level sun , we came within two hours of Calais, where we risked booking a 9.40 pm tunnel crossing .   The crossing was late so we just made it.

Euphoria hit us on arriving in Folkestone. We had to cancel dinner and overnight stay with friends Maz and Johnny and asked our daughter if we could stay with her in Maidstone .   We kept her informed of progress and when we arrived in Ashford to find the M 20 closed. Euphoria disappeared quicker than Communion Wine at Midnight Mass.  We texted daughter to tell her we’d be there in about 30 minutes.    A regretful text replied that, as they’d had a long day, they would leave the door on the latch. We understood.    Sort of.

At 22.20 GMT we turned into our daughter’s  drive, 15 hours since leaving home.   Her house was suddenly flooded with Christmas lights, carols filled the air and the next door neighbours merrily called out, “Turn that bloody lot off”. Daughter and husband, dressed as Father Christmasses ,  were there with open arms, mulled  wine, sausage rolls and mince pies.   This time it was we who became  James Stewart’s wide eyed, curly children.

“Just  like the Waltons,” I sighed to Daughter.

”More like the Griswolds,” she replied.

Our plans for the week at home had to be adjusted but we managed to get round for quick cuddles with most friends and relatives, a great Games Evening with Nicki, John, Steph and Colin and a gorgeous meal at Carol and Roger’s, then back to our daughter’s for Christmas festivities.    So much fun, food and wine, my body began to groan for mercy.    But we’re British, we did not flag, we kept on with the imbibements.

Boxing Day found us striding through country lanes.   Well, not exactly striding, maybe sidling.    Whilst others, with dogs, did a 90 minute stride across fields,  like real country folk, we did a more sedate, less stridey walk through country lanes.   However, bloggees, we did refuse several offers of lifts from merry Christmas strangers.

Waiting to greet us was an array of delicious food, good company and fine wine at the home of Sharon and Theo.   Bliss.

And soon enough it was time for very tearful goodbyes.   Sara, shivering in her jamas , waved us goodbye at 6 a.m as Bare and I set off, once again, for Folkestone and Le Shuttle.

Good time to travel.   Straight on the train and before long, we were “oui-ing and non-ing” again.

We had decided to try to avoid the stress of the motorway and go cross country.     Stunning scenery spread before us like gifts   Thick frost on field and tree, tiny hamlets twinkling with fairy lights, empty roads and cold turkey sandwiches.   Joy to the King.   And to us.

As evening  cast  its long grey fingers across the landscape, and Gary’s eyes began to ache, we pulled into an Aire to look at maps and decide whether to look for shelter or press on.

What was the pull to press on?    I don’t know.   The desire to be “home”, however temporary that home may be?   I think so.    I left the decision to the driver and, in accord, we headed for the motorway.

I will say, here, that Gary’s stamina is phenomenal.   He may, on occasion,  present his funny, rather soft side, but when the chips are down he can be depended upon to eat them off the floor.  He never once made me feel guilty that I didn’t share the driving.   He didn’t swear, didn’t moan and just got on with the job in hand.  We sang carols, made up silly words to favourite songs, and the time crept on.   We encountered heavy rain, fog, traffic jams, accidents, lorries overtaking and deluging us with rain.   Sometimes we drove in silence    And the time crept on.

Finally we reached the péage off the motorway at Florensac/St Thibery which had been closed by Gilets Jaunes on the way up.  There was one faint green light showing and behind it a huge bonfire warming half a dozen Gilets.   Our hearts sinking, we drove slowly towards the barrier.   It raised its ghostly arm and we drove through with no payment.    The Gilets waved wearily as we drove past.    Our stoicism suddenly crumbled.   We had been on the road for nearly nineteen hours and we took the last thirty minutes in slightly weepy, slightly beaten, rather slow progression.

At twenty to one we fell in the door, took out the dustbin and then slept.

The following day we started planning and shopping for our New Year’s Eve dinner party for eleven friends.  The menu had been planned, other friends were bringing starters and desserts and we had ordered 2kg of  meat to make venison, chestnut and mushroom in Madeira.

Oh very happy days!   We ate like kings, drank like, erm… drinky people, played the old games like Charades and Consequences and before we knew it was five to 12.   No Jools Holland for us, we’re an hour ahead, so a French person on the radio led us into 2019.   We’ll have an hour longer than you then in 2019.   Every  one of us oldies made it to midnight, for many of us the first time in many years.

On the first day of the New Year we walked around our new village, feeling the ancient stones and our insignificance,   compared with the lives seen by these old stones over the last 600 years.

(Street signs in French and Catalan   This area  was often part of Spain)

 

We ended the walk with an omelette in our local bar, where they know our names!

The lovely  Magalis in Tavernat.

…. and other customers.

 

Happy New Year dear friends.

Bring on  l’année nouvelle.

Come, take my hand, let’s see what we shall see ….