Trowels and Tribulations

It all went silent in the back of our car. Our son's friend's face had gone the colour of a sheet - a fly sheet. We were on our way to Dover to catch the Ferry to Calais en route to a camping holiday in the Dordoyne in 2002 or was it 2003?

Unusually I was putting my foot down as we were a little late in leaving. The kid's dad, with his interest in trench warfare, had decided that his son had needed some detailed instructions in how to use a trowel to divert any rainfall from his tent to neighbouring French pitches. 'I've checked his bag.' shouted his mum in her inside out spotted pyjamas 'He's got everything he needs'.

The trowel (pictured) was positioned in the boy's bag so he could reach for it in the dead of a French night in case there was a need of running repairs. The lad had already been reading 'The Great Escape' and had watched the film twice for visual reinforcement. He remembered his mum saying that any Tom Dick or Harry could manage the underground in Paris.

We had just tooted in support of the protesters objecting to the transportation of live sheep to France in conditions that Southern Rail passengers would die for when the missus asked the youngsters to get their passports ready. The silence of the lambs practising their bleating French best became deafening at that moment.

'Merde' is the translation of the only youthful utterance, repeated by the missus a dozen times as the teenager held on to his comfie rag that his dad had thoughtfully wrapped around the trowel.

The good news is that on receiving the phone call from the missus his mum didn't have time to change her pyjamas thereby scaring the sheep to make their own great escape from the docks and cutting the price of a lamb bhuna main meal by half in the Dover Indian restaurants.

Furthermore his dad was happy to have been able to bring a spirit level so that son fils could ensure a slope of three degrees incline. With le pere (sic) being somewhat more of a Francophile than he was earlier that morning he explained that he didn't want the water draining away at a speed that would disturb the French campers from their slumbers.

Unknown to us the mum slipped in a spare gas canister for the gas bbq and some torch batteries into his bag as she knew that the boys would be up all night fishing by the campsite lake.

With passports on view we waved bye-bye to Dad and the sleeping mum, sailed through British customs. With P&O ferries being like London buses we made up the time lost after wishing our boy's breakfast bon voyage as he threw it up as near as you can without actually reaching the toilet block.

With not even a sniff of Brexit in the offing we were unceremoniously siphoned off to a side garage by a Dwane or a Douane, according to his label who pointed to the boot. Without a word of a lie, this being a truelle story, Dwane carefully took out the trowel, the batteries, the gas canister, the jump leads that the dad had returned to me the day before together with a dead sheep and laid them out on a tarpaulin on the ground, adjusting the bbq using the spirit level until it was perfectly horizontal.

I turned to the missus and said "Which one of us will it sound better coming from when we say 'Je ne parle pas beaucoup de francais?'." In near perfect English he said 'You are very much in luck monsieur. If it wasn't for the fact that it is Bastille day with our Marine Le Pens full I would not be sending ewe on your way so quickly.'

Looking rather sheepish we drove off and stopped at the nearest Fresh Aire. 'It's okay' said our boy 'I've got some McDonald's vouchers.' I drove off listening to TMS with Jonathan Agneau on Long Wave and the boys tucking into to Giant Baby Bels. 'What are you eating?' I asked the missus.' Lambs Tongues biscuits' was the answer as she dunked one in the coffee.

I didn't reply and just concentrated on driving on the right. 'Cat got your tongue?' She asked.

Listening to the Cricket

I like listening to the Cricket but listening to the Crickets (one of which is pictured) in this part of the South of France must be like having acute tinnitus. I could never j'accuse TMS of ear bashing but this Cigala Balmy Army in such numbers fans the most extreme of crunching radio crackling not heard since the days when a radio was known as a wireless and the din excused as Continental interference.

People who are not of my generation will be banzjacked as they will be used to picking up the cricket wirelessly and after umpteen overs of spin from both ends in the traditional blame game will be realising that the main players will have long since packed up their kitbags at Lord's and left us to it. Their lingering legacy of porky pies won't end but will exacerbate our troubles and more worryingly Maybung back THE Troubles.

The camp rep , a woman - not an observation on my part, joined us sur terrace for an informal yet informative chat. Her experienced eye Homaired in on a seagull perched on the Van der Post's next door’s caravan with its Steely eye spanning for a change of breakfast from the usual croissants or pain au chocolate. ‘Not like the St Ives ones I hope.' I ventured, ready to disappear into the interior. ‘Worse' was the reply from a respected representative of the holiday industry.

She suggested that the oiseaux de Mer or the bloody oiseaux de Merde as she classified them are likely to dive and fly under the shade of the koolabob canopy raiding any tasty morsels on offer such as a piece of the large Babybel (pictured) that you couldn't buy even in pre-Brexit Britain.

Mind you a Herculean effort on its part would be required because of the juxtaposition of our plot being close to a precipitous grassy bank leading to the next level of static, we hope, caravanic campers. It would be on a par with the manoeuvres portrayed by 617 squadron in pulling out after their dam busting bomb runs during WWII.

If it failed to negotiate the steep rise a catastrophic chain of events like you see unfolding in Aircraft Investigation on Discovery Channel could well follow involving us in propping up the banks, so that those at a higher level won't dump or offload or quantitatively ease their bullshit on to us remainers from a great height. ‘Not to worry’ offered my helpful lady wife ‘We can always organise a referendum to leave Eurocamp’.

‘If it succeeds’ said the courier amusingly ‘it will fly off with the gull equivalent of crowing to announce its success in taking your tasty aforementioned ‘moelleux & genereux’ piece of fromage ‘Riche en Cacium'. ( translated by the French makers as ‘rich in Cacium’). I must say that this in itself is a bit riche coming from a packet that is otherwise entirely made up of French and German. Except for the cheesy name itself of course .

‘If it does succeed it had better not shriek Tory Tory Tory or it will get a response that will live in infamy.’ I said seriously.