Pussers Report Part 1 Forums

Pusser

Part 1 of probably 3 or 4 – Two Loos La Trek goes South F.

T’was 22:00 on the 30th September that we slipped our moorings and headed for the Tunnel where for sixty one quid we could get to France if we left at the ridiculous hour of 05:38. The plan was to book in and get some decent sleep as we would have 6 hours in hand thus leaving us fresh as a daisy for tomorrows epic journey.

This all went to plan until we got there and they said they would put us on an earlier train at 03.30 thus leaving us no time to sleep properly but getting us into France that bit earlier seemed attractive.

We had our gas sticker stuck on the front and as usual we were pulled over for a gas check by customs who last time searched us for bombs and stuff.

“That’s a 13 kilo one that is,” said the customs man as he tapped my gas tank.

“Oh. Really,” I said, amazed that this highly trained man who probably sees a thousand gas cylinders a day can recognise a 13 Kilo one without reading the label on the top. “Gas cylinders are either big ones or small ones to me,” I informed him helpfully, “and I call the one I have a big one whereas the smaller ones that are half the size of this one I tend to call small ones. It’s just my funny way of handling things”.

He peered into the depths of my gas storage and then triumphantly pointed to the Braille like writing on the gas bottle. “There you are,” he said, “It’s a 13 kiloer ….I told you it was a 13 kiloer didn’t I.” This had obviously made his day and I looked at him trying to look amazed at this man’s powers of perception. I had this deep yearning to pay out to a blacksmith to change the 13 to a 12 so I could catch the little sod out next time I was going to France. The customs man was so in awe of his almost mystical powers that he did not even check the tap to see whether it was on or off thus negating I would have thought the whole bleedin’ point of the exercise.

So be warned. Customs are trained to be able to recognise a 13 kilo (Kiloer in their speak) gas cylinder without reading the label.

We bumbled onto the train and listened to the safety announcements basically informing us that if our compartment should burst into flames, we should wait until we hear a signal and then be advised to move to the next compartment. Personally, I will not be moving to any compartment. I shall be out one of the side doors in seconds and running down the centre tunnel as fast as my little legs will carry me. Then they make the same announcement in French and presumably do not give a toss about Germans, Italians and Spanish who may also be using the train.

Our first stop was to fill up with diesel at 0.97 euro per litre. All the pumps were either being used or roped off so I decided to fill up in the lorry section. I did notice the pipe and nozzle were bigger than usual, (much bigger actually)
but nevertheless the nozzle fitted perfectly and so I pulled the trigger.
Well - the fuel shot in like a tsunami on steroids and I turned around to
grin smugly at others less fortunate than I who where taking ages to fill
their tanks up.

Seconds later the nozzle clicked and I was full. I whipped out the nozzle
with the dexterity of a professional artic driver and just as I pushed
the nozzle back into its holder I heard a noise that is best described as a
Hippopotamus farting. It was shortly after that noise, if not immediately, that I found myself covered from head to foot in diesel oil looking like a primed Buddhist Monk set for glory.

“Do you do this deliberately,” my wife queried as she walked with head held high to the pay desk, I suspect, trying to make it look that she was the dutiful wife taking her husband out on day release from an asylum.

Time and miles passed; the air rich with the smell of diesel and it was midday when we arrived at Lac D’Orient and the heat was very hot and a bathe in the lake seemed a good idea to cool off and cause an oil slick.

I parked in a municipal park for homeless motor homes and coin-op hook-up and fresh water available. There were not many spaces left so I had to park in the middle row and not at an edge. No British were to be seen so I was on my best behaviour, setting an example that misguided lovers of England would be proud of.

I walked through our motor home opening door, windows and vents and decided a visit to my porta pottie would be a good idea, not just for me, but everyone in the vicinity.

I sat down and made myself comfy having first lined my porta pottie with paper and was in the process when I decided to open the bathroom window a bit as it was so hot. Not too much of course, as I would have died if I had come face to face with a European cousin. It was at this point that I noticed the world outside was moving.

My brain is like a computer; a Sinclair comes to most of my family’s minds. It delivered three options to me in seconds.

1…Rush out with a dirty bottom and apply handbrake.
2…Rush out after I had cleaned my bottom and then explain to the Hymer owner opposite why Two Loos La Trek was imbedded in his lounge.
3…Go for the credit card swipe and run technique I once used successfully in the jungles of Singapore when a snake wriggled in under the door of the lavatory I was using.

I chose option three and burst out of loo, falling over as my shorts were around my ankle and when I got up, only around one ankle. I lunged in the direction of the drivers cab aware that other motor homers were watching bemused as my motor home slowly but surely rolled towards the sparkling, fully loaded A class Hymer. I sat down on the chair hoping that the cleaning job had been successful and yanked the hand brake up with only about 1 yards to spare.

I looked about me and the bemused motor homers whose excitement I thought had been brought to an end were now staring in disbelief that an Englishman was sitting at the steering wheel naked from the waist down with both cab doors fully opened from when we first arrived.

I had this really funny thought of the cliché being “glued to the seat,” but rather than suffer any further indignity I reached out to pull the drivers door closed and fell out the cab. That is twice I have done this although the first time I was wearing jeans and my bottom was as clean as a whistle.

I am leaving the story there because I was so shocked I am not really sure how I got back in and the reason I have no pictures of the wild camping place is simply because I had not the courage to leave the van.

With that little hiccup out of the way we then headed on down towards the South of France, the weather absolutely baking.

I am doing this report in stages because I have a lot of info to put down and it will take some time for me to do, plus of course a fair selection of pictures which I have to work on first.