French Fried: one man's move to France with too many animals and an identity thief

by Chris Dolley

  We were ready. All packed and a whole new future ahead of us.

  Then we remembered the Hoover.

  And the log basket.

  oOo

  We said goodbye to the high banks and narrow lanes of Devon, to the white farmhouses and the slate and thatch. We passed through the chalk of Dorset and Wiltshire, across the lower reaches of Salisbury plain to the accompaniment of scudding clouds racing to beat us to Dover.

  We were making good time – the one advantage of having a force eight gale at your back. We checked on the horses every half hour or so – walking back through the horsebox and checking their water and hay nets. And we talked to the two major feline powers, stressing the importance of maintaining the no-spit zone.

  Most amazing of all was the behaviour of Gypsy. She was quiet, perfectly behaved, curled up on the floor or the bed, with lots of yawning and scratching but no barking, whining, biting or throwing herself through the hatchway at the driver’s throat. Which was unexpected. And worrying – was she being too good? Was this a ploy to make her next descent into the diabolical even more terrifying?

  As we approached Dover, Sue’s mobile phone gave us the news that the ferry companies were predicting a window in the storm sometime during the night and could we be on stand-by. They didn’t know when the window would come, not exactly, or how long it would last but it was probably going to be the only chance of getting the horses across before the week-end.

  Which presented us with another problem – where would we stay the night? Sue had suggested a hotel and was ready to book us in. But Shelagh was worried they wouldn’t take a dog and three cats. And would they have a night porter who could wake us up as soon as this window arrived? We couldn’t afford to miss it.

  Then Sue remembered the darts room at the lairage. It was a rest room provided for the grooms. A sofa, a few chairs, a dart-board – not exactly plush or indeed private – but it was warm and on-site. And if there weren’t too many grooms staying over we might even be able to sleep.

  The lairage was an impressive sight. A few miles outside Dover and room for about fifty horses. It was the equine equivalent of an airport hotel – close to the ferries and the stop over point for all the horses bound for the continent; the show jumpers, race horses, eventers ... and our two.

  As we led the horses up the wide central aisle of one of the stable blocks we couldn’t help but notice the change in Rhiannon. She’d seen the stallions. Which improved her mood considerably. The stubborn, I’m-not-moving-for-anything face, had been replaced by her look-at-me face. Complete with high tail carriage and flashy Arab trot, she pranced down the aisle, parading herself unashamedly before the gathered on-lookers.

  It was now mid-afternoon and a lull in our journey. We’d seen to the horses, we’d checked on the cats. We’d walked Gypsy around the lairage a few times. Things were calm. Pulse rates were back below the critical level.

  And the darts room wasn’t too bad. It was small, just big enough for a sofa and a few chairs but it could have been a hell of a lot worse. There was even a bathroom next door with a shower.

  By the evening there was still no sign of the promised window. If anything the wind was stronger. Sue suggested a meal at the nearby pub and we looked at Gypsy and then at each other and tried to forget the last time we’d taken one of our dogs to a pub for a quiet drink.

  Zaphod had been our first dog – a whippet lurcher – and, generally, well-behaved. Except when provoked – usually by cats or loud noises or someone doing something unexpected, or wearing strange clothes, or looking at him funny, or walking within ten yards of a bone or anything else he claimed title to. In other words he was a normal, well-adjusted dog.

  We took him into a pub in Hungerford – The Bear, I think it was – for a quiet drink and a ploughman’s lunch. Something relaxing to complete a pleasant morning’s drive.

  I went to the bar, a fiver in my hand, pleasant thoughts wafting brain-side. And then all hell broke out behind me – overturned tables, spilt drinks, screams. And in the middle of it all – Zaphod – dragging Shelagh through a table. I turned, folded the fiver back into my pocket and slowly walked towards the exit. I have never seen these people before in my life – especially the little brown and white one with the terrier in its mouth.

  Shelagh tells a different story. One with Zaphod as the innocent party. The two of them were merely walking towards an empty table when a small dog – the aforementioned terrier – who had been sitting under an adjoining table, loomed into view. I have never been too convinced about this part of the story – the thought of a very small terrier looming does not strike me as that credible. Zaphod, in a state of justifiable shock at the proximity of another dog and in fear of an imminent attack upon his mistress, naturally had no other recourse other than to leap under the table and attempt to eat the terrier. In the process he happened to drag Shelagh after him. She kept hold of the lead, which immediately went under the table; Shelagh’s arm followed but her shoulders couldn’t. So goodbye table and goodbye drinks. And hello adjoining table and adjoining table’s former collection of drinks.

  The staggering conclusion to this affair was that the owners of the terrier admitted full responsibility. I still can’t understand why. The only explanation that stands even a modicum of scrutiny is that the terrier had a criminal record and the owners knew they couldn’t afford another brush with the law.

  Which, understandably, was why we weren’t too keen on taking Gypsy to a pub. After all, what were the chances of finding another dog with form? Better to find an empty box, well away from any horses, and see if we could leave Gypsy there for a few hours.

  Which is what we did. The grooms at the lairage said they didn’t mind us using one of their boxes at the far end. And they didn’t object to working to the accompaniment of a howling puppy.

  We left before they could change their minds.

  oOo

  It was our last evening in an English pub. We had £10 left – everything else was in Francs. We sat sipping our real ale and draught cider surrounded by beams and antique brasses.

  And watched the 9:25 weather forecast on TV. You could hardly make out the English Channel beneath all the isobars. And it was getting worse. The forecasts for Thursday and Friday were horrendous.

  Walking back to the lairage, we expected to hear a cacophony of barks and screams but it was strangely quiet. Could everyone be dead?

  No. Gypsy was asleep in her stall, curled up in the straw and looking angelic. And there was news about the window – it was expected around eight o’clock the next morning. But only for a few hours. And the vet inspection had been booked for 5:30.

  What vet inspection?

  We shouldn’t have asked.

  Apparently all our paperwork for the move was now obsolete. The embarkation port had changed, as had the date. And our vet inspection – which had to take place no more than twenty-four hours before embarkation – had now lapsed. Which meant we had to start again. Luckily the lairage was used to this and had all the forms and their own vet on stand-by.

  We performed our final check on the animals, cleaned out the litter trays, changed the water, replenished the food, mucked out Gypsy’s box and said goodnight to the horses.

  And then went to bed.

  Or, at least, into the darts room. Which was starting to feel distinctly cold. It was February, after all. Shelagh suggested we fetch a horse blanket. We had a couple of spares.

  The spares turned out to be two canvas New Zealand Rugs. The canvas was cold to the touch and stiff rather than thick. I looked at the padded, and very warm looking, quilted stable rugs both horses were wearing. Couldn’t we...

  No we could not. As anyone who lives with a horse lover knows, there are times – usually on a day with a ‘Y’ in it – when horse welfare has to come first.

  Back in the darts room – and clutching my cold, stiff, horsey smelling blanket – I eyed the sofa. It wasn’t big enough for two people to sleep on. The onl
y other place to sleep was the floor. So ... we tossed for the sofa. I won. We argued. You’re the one who wouldn’t stay in a hotel. They wouldn’t have taken Gypsy. We could have left her here. Not for a whole night! And so on.

  Solely in the interests of equality I insisted that I had to take the sofa. Anything less would have been an attack on the entire feminist movement, which I just could not countenance.

  Five minutes later Gypsy climbed on top of me and tried to get between me and the back of the sofa. Whether this was an attack by or against the feminist movement I was unsure. But she did manage to gain a foothold on the sofa.

  For a while.

  I threw her off, she jumped back, I threw her off again. But I was tiring and as I started to drift towards sleep, she wedged herself against the back of the sofa and started to use those long legs of hers to push and lever until I woke up at two o’clock and found myself on the floor. I hadn’t even got a rug. Shelagh had one and Gypsy the other. A combined victory for the united feminists.

  By 4:30 we were up and ready for whatever the day could chuck at us. I was cold, my back hurt, but I was alive. And by that time my threshold of expectation from life had sunk so low that being alive was about as good as it could get.

  I took Gypsy out on the lead while Shelagh washed. It was still pitch black and a raw wind was searching out all the gaps in my clothing. Gypsy looked up at me and I agreed. We went back inside.

  By the time the vet arrived we’d seen to the cats again and cleaned up the darts room. Sue was making coffee in the horsebox and all the yard lights were on and the lairage was awake.

  The vet raced through the paperwork, documents stamped and signed in a few minutes. Then Sue called to us that we were booked on the 8:30 ferry, the window had arrived.

  All we had to do now was load the horses.

  And the less said about that the better. Suffice to say, Rain and the pony loaded like lambs and Rhiannon did not.

  oOo

  Customs was not what I’d expected. There were no spot checks on the animals, no one tried to match the horses against their Identikit pictures or check to see if we’d smuggled a few extra ones into the back. The documents were collected, stamped, handed back and we were waved through.

  Once on the ferry, our next problem was what to do with Gypsy. Animals weren’t allowed to wander the car decks and I assumed the same went for the passenger decks. Shelagh volunteered to stay in the cab with Gypsy as she didn’t want any breakfast but she’d have to go to the bathroom first, so could I hang on with Gypsy for a few minutes? No problem. I wanted to check on the bow doors anyway.

  The car deck soon emptied. Just a few stragglers remained from a coach party behind us. I watched in the mirror as they walked to the side luggage storage area ... and started taking their trousers off.

  “Oh. My. God,” I mouthed slowly as I sank lower in the cab, trying to drag Gypsy with me. Alone on a deserted car deck with a coachload of trouserless Scotsmen!

  Why did I say Scotsmen? I thought for a while. Something subliminal? I craned a look back through the side mirror. Perhaps it was the large number of blue and white flags and ‘SCOTLAND’ written in giant letters all over the coach windows.

  There were more of them now. All with blue jerseys and flapping kilts. Others were still changing.

  That’s when the penny slotted between the rugby posts – Scotland were playing France at the Parc des Princes on Saturday. This must have been the advance guard of fanatical supporters – sent on ahead to secure the bars.

  And then we were alone again, not a kilt or a trouser in sight. Just acre after acre of cars and lorries.

  It was desolate. There’s something eerie about being alone in a giant car park – so many signs of life having once existed but nothing to prove it still did. Like the aftermath of some terrible disaster, only luggage and children’s toys left to be seen. Like the Marie Celeste.

  I shuddered. Best think of something else. Something to take my mind off the emptiness.

  I looked in the mirror again. It was looking brighter outside. Turning into one of those bright showery days with strong winds and intermittent downpours. I could even see the famous white cliffs of Dover, with a decent pair of binoculars I’d have probably been able to see Vera Lynn herself.

  Why could I see the white cliffs of Dover?

  I was in the car deck, looking through a side mirror. I shouldn’t be able to see out. Should I?

  Oh. My. God. The bow doors must be open!

  My mind was awash with ferry disasters – all neatly numbered and arranged in order of death toll. And was that really the white cliffs of Dover or an incoming iceberg?

  I pulled down the window and craned my head outside. A coach full of discarded trousers was all that stood between me and the English Channel.

  What should I do?

  And where was Shelagh? It must have been ten minutes since she set off for the bathroom.

  Unless she couldn’t get back. The entire crew and upper decks held hostage by terrorists.

  It was going to be Die Hard all over again. One lone man against a boat load of crazed gunmen, his only advantage the fact that they didn’t know he was on board. That and his trusty puppy. And, of course, his training, his years in the computer industry. Give him a week and he’d have a ferry booking system designed, coded and up and running.

  He was also having trouble with reality.

  It was being left alone – it gave the brain too much space to play in. Imagine anyone failing to close the bow doors after all the publicity there’d been since the last disaster.

  I could.

  But the terrorists had begun to fade – so some progress was being made.

  There was only one thing for it. I had to get out and check the bow doors. Just to be on the safe side.

  I walked past the coach and looked out.

  They weren’t there.

  Largely because I was looking aft. Thank God, I said to myself as I looked down at the bobbing sea, a considerable distance below me. It would take a tidal wave to swamp this deck.

  I scanned the horizon for tidal waves. It could happen. An unexpected earthquake in the vicinity of Dover, the cliffs fall into the sea, a huge body of water displaced and ... tsunami. We’d have bodies everywhere, cars, lorries and floating trousers...

  I walked back to the horsebox. Too much space again.

  Better to think things through logically. I was alone in the car deck when I should have been having breakfast. Therefore it was Shelagh’s fault. This was a much more promising line of thought – righteous indignation. I had been deprived of food – I looked at my watch – for twenty minutes. Was not the European Court of Human Rights created for just such an occurrence?

  Gypsy gave me a lick. She understood all about food deprivation.

  By the time Shelagh returned, I was on my closing speech to the Convention at The Hague. They would show her no mercy.

  Especially when they found out she’d stopped to have breakfast.

  “You didn’t want breakfast!”

  “I know ... but Sue persuaded me. And it was free.”

  oOo

  I met Sue just as she was coming out of the dining room. I was torn between the merits of extra sausages or fried bread when she stopped me.

  “Oh, Chris, Shelagh forgot to pay me for her breakfast. It was £1.95.”

  I searched out the last of our English money and handed it over. There would be no breakfast for me that day. I turned and walked as far away from the smell of fried food as I could. Ending up at the bow, the bit with the doors.

  I think they were closed.

  France: More Hell, a Different Horsebox

  We’d made it! Our spirits lifted with French soil all around us and the worst of the journey well and truly behind. From now on, it was all sight-seeing and watch that thermometer climb.

  We filled up with diesel on the outskirts of Calais and then circled around for a while, trying to find the slip road onto t
he motorway. And there it was – the A26 – Paris and the South.

  It was my job to navigate, so I started checking the road-signs. I’d just managed to translate one saying, ‘Beware of Strong Cross Winds,’ when a fierce gust of wind ripped the roof off our horsebox.

  We stopped in bewilderment.

  And looked back at a huge fragment of roof caught in the central reservation crash barrier, one hundred yards back down the motorway. A fragment the size of an average lounge carpet.

  Which would have to be dragged off the motorway pretty damn quick before it caused an accident. Luckily, the motorway was practically deserted, but how long would that last?

  And what about the horses?

  Shelagh climbed back into the rear of the lorry, expecting the worst – Rhiannon, stretched horizontal by the wind, hanging onto the roof by her front hooves – but amazingly everything was calm. A few fragments of roof and skylight lay strewn around their feet, the inner skin of the roof was flapping and there was a lot more sky than there should have been, but otherwise it had been a remarkable escape.

  Once outside, we could see that a complete section of the roof had ripped away and others were split or damaged. We could also see other fragments of roof further down the motorway.

  So we ran after them, pulled two off the near lane and slid them down an embankment out of the way of the wind. Then we moved towards the main section which was kicking and bucking in the fierce cross wind but thankfully remained anchored in the central reservation barrier. We looked at it for a while, seeking inspiration. We had to pull it free but be very, very careful. The traffic was light but the danger of causing an accident was immense.

  A gap in the traffic came, we ran out and grabbed an end of roof each and pulled as hard as we could. But just as we eased it free, a gust of wind wrenched it out of our hands and up it went. Flying like a kite, up and over the central reservation, the motorway and off towards Belgium.

  Five minutes later we’re all sitting in the horsebox in a state of shock. The roof has blown off our horsebox. We’re sitting outside Calais in a convertible! The wind is blowing a gale. Rain is imminent. We are countless miles away from our destination.