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

by Chris Dolley

  As we approached the hotel for the seventh or eighth time, I looked through the spray and heaving sea towards our old home. To the place where thirty-two hours ago, we’d embarked on a thousand mile journey south. We were now 250 miles due east. At this rate we’d be in Poland by the week-end.

  We pushed on towards the promenade, hoping to find a beach where we could let Gypsy off but either there wasn’t a beach or the tide was in. And the promenade was covered in spray and breaking waves.

  We returned to the hotel, wondering if we should try a laxative. Or would that present fate with too tempting a target? Just how quick can you run downstairs carrying an incontinent puppy?

  Back in the room the phone rang. I’d reached such a low ebb by that time that I half-expected to hear that a freak tornado had whisked the new horsebox away to Cuba, but no, it was on its way and expected to arrive at the lairage between 1:00 am and 2:00 am. The driver would phone us at the hotel as soon as he arrived.

  If we lasted that long.

  But an unexpected chain of events was gathering in the ether. Minnie started mewling for no apparent reason, which set Guinny off, which in turn signalled to Gypsy that it was probably time to chew something human. I objected and in the ensuing excitement Gypsy’s intestinal abstinence came to a sudden and, some might add, spectacular end in the bathroom shower tray.

  I have never seen anyone so pleased to clean up after a dog before.

  oOo

  By nine o’clock that evening, life was becoming almost pleasant. We were warm, comfortable, bathed and dry. The animals were curled up and if not actually asleep, quiet.

  I didn’t even mind my second day of cheese sandwiches. Shelagh had packed half a loaf of them. Along with everything else we couldn’t eat or pack into boxes during our last few days at the farm. Which gave us an assortment of chocolate bars, apples and cheesy biscuits. All thrown into a bag at the last minute. And somewhat beyond their best.

  But I didn’t mind. The prospect of eating in the hotel had lost much of its allure after the events of the day.

  Then we had another phone call. Could we wait for the horsebox at the lairage? This was starting to take one of those worrying turns – what had happened to the original plan? I liked that one. We stayed in the warm, watching TV until someone came to fetch us.

  But now, doubt was being cast. The horsebox was on the ferry – which was good news – but the driver’s mobile phone didn’t work outside the UK. Which was bad news. There was no way of contacting the driver. There were also doubts about what he’d been told to do. He might ring the hotel but then again he might not. And he might know where the hotel was and then again...

  But, at least he knew where the lairage was – everyone agreed on that part of the story.

  The confusion stemmed from the fact that Wendy, the woman who was organising our move, didn’t actually own any transport – she hired the work out. And because the sub-contractor, Sue’s boss, didn’t have a spare horsebox to send out, he’d sub-contracted the work to someone else again. I think.

  The result of which was that no one was quite sure who had said what to whom, when or how.

  I still liked the original plan.

  We lay there, heads awash with permutations – none of them good. Could we find our way back to the lairage? Would we want to? It must be two miles away. Did we really want to hang about all night on the top of a storm-battered cliff on the off chance we met a passing lorry? What if it didn’t come? What if it went straight to the hotel?

  But if we didn’t?

  We were in a small hotel in a town full of small hotels. Would the lorry driver know how to find it? Had anyone told him where we were? And what about the hotel switchboard – would it be closed when they rang? Was there even a night porter to answer the door?

  I went downstairs.

  There was a night porter – from what I could understand – who came on duty at ten. Perhaps. The receptionist might have said anything, I was now filling in entire sentences with what I wanted to hear. As for there being a night switchboard, my question was met with a lot of pointing at a telephone hanging on the wall. Which may, or may not, have been good news.

  I went back to our room.

  Had she been trying to tell me that the phone on the wall was a night phone? Or was she just pointing to the nearest telephone?

  We tossed and turned through ten and eleven o’clock. By midnight I was hanging around the top of the stairs straining my ears for any sound of ringing. By one o’clock we were wrecked. Not another minute could we wait – even if it meant marching up and down the cliffs for the next three hours, we had to do something.

  So we took Gypsy for a walk.

  Retracing our steps as best we could, we headed out of Wimereux and up the hill towards the stables, our heads and bodies bent against the wind and the gradient. Never again. A silent vow was made that night that wherever the horses ended up at the end of this coming day they were never moving again. We’d buy the house next door.

  oOo

  At 1:45 we saw the headlights of a truck turning off the road up ahead. A turning that might be the one leading to the stables. Panicked into thinking the horsebox might drive on to the hotel if we didn’t get to them in time, we ran. Usain Bolt could not have kept up with us that night. And if he had, Gypsy would have bitten him.

  It was an anti-climax of a meeting. To this day I am absolutely astonished that we managed to arrive at the lairage within minutes of each other. But there was no fanfare or exchange of pennants. They’d been expecting to find us there, and we were too out of breath to disabuse them. And perhaps it was best not to ask what they’d have done if they hadn’t found us at the lairage. I preferred not to know.

  And, anyway, there was a more pressing problem. That of negotiating the two huge wooden gates that blocked the entrance to the stables. Were they locked?

  I grasped a handle and prayed. They weren’t locked. The huge doors swung and stuttered open. And then all hell, which had never been adequately shackled since the last time, was let loose again. Suddenly, dogs were everywhere. Assorted dogs barking, growling, jumping, running. Gypsy joined in, dragging Shelagh along on the leash. And then on came the farmhouse lights, then the courtyard’s. So much for not disturbing anyone.

  The farm dogs were gathered in, eventually, and the horsebox manoeuvred into the courtyard – it was even bigger than Sue’s, more of a juggernaut than a horsebox. And then all the equipment and extraneous luggage were tracked down and taken on-board until all that remained was to load the horses.

  Rain and the pony were a bit skittish to start with but after a few false starts bounced inside. Then came Rhiannon, snorting and prancing, the wind whipping her tail and mane, the courtyard alive with lights and shadows.

  We knew she was going to be bad.

  No one else did. The usual warning of, ’watch out, she kicks,’ was met with the seasoned indifference of people who had spent a lifetime handling horses.

  Five minutes later, seasoned professionals were running and ducking for their lives. Rhiannon had broken free of Shelagh’s grasp after a spectacular bout of bucking and kicking. Which was, of course, too much for the farm dogs who immediately ended their short truce and raced after Rhiannon to join in the fun.

  Pandemonium.

  I think I counted five dogs and eleven humans that night. All running around a small courtyard in the middle of a stormy night on the cliffs. There might have been more, they made enough noise.

  All we needed now was...

  And there it was, right on cue, a clap of thunder, celestial applause.

  Rhiannon was caught, escaped and caught again. Grooms and drivers and various family members of the lairage shouted encouragement, ran, fell down and threw themselves against walls. It was like Pamplona on a bad night.

  And all around, the wind continued to blow and the rain to fall, the sky flashed and thunder rumbled.

  It was a night to remember.

  And
then it was over. Rhiannon loaded.

  As we left the lairage, I couldn’t help but wonder at the forbearance of the people there. We had descended upon them in the middle of the night, chased them and their dogs around a courtyard for half an hour and still they waved us goodbye.

  I wondered if they were used to it.

  I hoped not.

  oOo

  All we had to do now was find our hotel. “What hotel?” said one of the drivers. There was silence for a while as the significance of his words percolated through our defensive shields. We had not wanted to know that.

  I explained about the cats and the rest of our luggage. I thought it better to leave out the bit about the Hoover. There’s only so much you can explain during moments of stress.

  Back through the deserted streets of Wimereux we drove, eventually pulling up in the side street around the corner from the hotel. Nearly there, only one more hurdle to clear.

  I slipped the key into the hotel door, turned it and ... nothing. The lock turned, but the door wouldn’t move. It had been bolted from the inside. Or barricaded by frightened diners.

  “I don’t believe this!” I shouted, and started ringing bells and knocking on the door. No one answered.

  A curtain twitched in the dining room and a face looked out. I pointed to the door and waved my hotel key. The face disappeared.

  Perhaps they were barricaded in there?

  We waited by the front door, trying to look as nonchalant as possible in case the drivers of the horsebox took fright and decided to abandon us. Nothing would have surprised me that night.

  Then a door opened, not the one we’d been expecting but a door to the basement below the dining room. A head looked out and called to us.

  We didn’t need asking twice. We ran down the steps and burst inside. The night porter looked perplexed but we explained in a mixture of French, English and sign language that we were residents and needed to get to our room. And we were desperate, nothing short of physical force was going to stop us getting there.

  Off we ran, through the bar, up the stairs, a right into the dining room, a left at the next set of stairs and then up again. We were not hanging around. And then back down with the cats. The night porter was just locking up when we burst into the downstairs bar.

  “Non, non!” we implored and burst into another frenzied bout of attempted explanation. We’re leaving, we need to get out. We were just coming back for our things.

  He took a long look at the cats in their crates. And then unlocked the door. Probably a cat-lover, I thought as we staggered outside and deposited Guinny and Gally, her long-suffering brother, on the pavement outside.

  The night porter was just attempting to lock the door for the second time when he saw us running back down the steps.

  “There’s more,” we cried.

  “Mas,” I added.

  “Isn’t that Spanish?” enquired Shelagh.

  “Encore?” suggested the night porter.

  I nodded, squeezing past him and then running for the stairs. A left, a right, a few straight aheads, we took them all. And with every step I thanked God we had the presence of mind to leave Gypsy in the horsebox.

  I grabbed hold of Minnie, and Shelagh picked up a couple of bags and back we went again. Around and down and right and left. But this time the night porter looked worried as we staggered past him. He’d been thinking, and I couldn’t fault his logic, that either we were the most daring team of catnappers Wimereux had ever seen, or we were guests leaving in the middle of night without paying.

  He waved a piece of paper at us. It might have been a bill. It might have been the nearest he’d found to a white flag.

  Words like payer and chambre were thrown about. I could understand that. “Oui, tout est payé,” I cried. Which I hoped meant everything had been paid for. And we gave him the number of the room and showed him the hotel key with the number on.

  “Bon,” he smiled and looked immensely relieved.

  We deposited our load with the rest of our windswept possessions on the pavement then ran back inside where we stopped him locking up for the third time and, with a cry of, “encore,” ran straight past him and through the bar.

  We were slowing down by this point. Stairs and corridors were becoming a blur. But we couldn’t afford to leave anything behind and so we made one last tour of the room, a final check of the bathroom and the cupboards and the drawers, and then we were away – the hotel room locked, and the last of our possessions secured in our grasp.

  The night porter was waiting for us by the door, probably wondering if he was ever going to be able to close it again. As he caught sight of the Hoover, I could see words struggling to form in his throat. But he thought better of it. And, all things considered, I think that was the right decision.

  We gave him the key and left.

  oOo

  France swept by in a blur. I had been looking forward to watching our progress through the countryside. To see the steep-pitched slate roofs flatten and turn terra-cotta pink. The black and white colombage buildings of the north turn to brick and then to stone – sometimes white, sometimes grey or yellow, sometimes hollowed out of cliffs like on the banks of the Loire. And then back to colombage again – this time unpainted with the wood sun-bleached grey.

  But I couldn’t keep my eyes open.

  Paris passed by as a traffic jam. I think I heard someone say, “that’s Paris,” but it wasn’t worth waking up for.

  We made excellent progress. There were two drivers working in shifts – one driving while the other slept in a bed above the cab. And there were masses of food; bacon and bread and milk and coffee. And they liked Gypsy, who had switched back into paragon-mode, quietly sitting or curling up on the floor of the groom’s compartment.

  Night became day and north became south. We reached the outskirts of Bordeaux in the early afternoon. And the wind and rain melted into memory.

  We had a choice approaching Agen – continue on the motorway or take the direct road through Auch. I suggested the Auch route because I knew it, but was outvoted in favour of the motorway. Which is another way of saying that what happened next was not my fault.

  We only had fifteen miles to go. Spirits were high, the motorway was clear and it looked as though we were going to reach our new home in the light.

  But then the motorway ended, became a dual carriageway and then an elongated car park. Roadworks! The new A64 Toulouse to Bayonne extension. Expected to finish at the end of ‘96. It was now February ‘95.

  We watched the sun set and the skies darken. Occasionally edging a little further down the road but never very far. It took a very long time to reach our turn off.

  And then we were flying again, along the D roads towards Aurignac, our nearest town.

  Which is when the second mistake was made. Which although not directly my fault, I could have prevented, if I hadn’t panicked.

  I’d had the last few miles of our route meticulously planned. Our house was difficult to find, lying off a single track road, close to the middle of nowhere. So I’d photocopied a large-scale map of the area and traced a route.

  But now I was having second thoughts. The horsebox was far larger than I’d expected and the route I’d planned followed a narrow road with some very tight turns. So I voiced my concern to the driver who had a quick look at his own map, and decided on a different route.

  Which took us off my map. Our house was, of course, strategically placed on the edge of two large-scale maps. We’d bought both but packed the other on the idea that we wouldn’t be coming from that direction. I could smell a disaster looming.

  I navigated from memory. A four-month old memory that had never actually traced this particular route but sought to hunt down land-marks and trust heavily to luck.

  Fate did not miss its chance.

  I knew we had to look for a road parallel to the D81a but not the D81a itself, as it twisted and squeezed through the village so much that a small car had difficulty g
etting through. So we needed to take the next right. Which we did. Thirty yards later we’re wedged on a bend. So we reversed out and tried the next right and found ourselves in a maze of unlit single track roads with high banks and hedges. Occasional lights appeared and disappeared as odd houses drifted by in the blackness. But no road-signs, no house names, no numbers and no signs of life.

  All eyes turned upon me. Even Gypsy’s. One of drivers tried to lighten the mood, telling us that this was nothing compared to that other trip they’d taken two years back. That one started with roads like this but then the trees closed in and grass started to appear in the middle of the road and...

  “What like this?”

  All eyes focussed on the growing band of grass running along the middle of the road and the trees closing in from both sides. The road was in imminent danger of disappearing into a thicket.

  And then we saw a light up ahead on the right. A car headlight from a driveway. We stopped and I ran over to ask directions. There were two people trying to push a van that looked stuck in a muddy farm courtyard.

  I tried my best French to ask the way to a small hamlet and back onto my map. They looked confused. I thought of another way. I knew it had a church. How about “Où est l’église?”

  They talked amongst themselves for a while before saying something about down on the right.

  It was then I realised they were talking to each other in English.

  “You’re English?”

  I was amazed.

  In the middle of nowhere and totally lost we’d found probably the only other English speakers for miles around.

  But there was little time for small talk. There was some poor person in Gaillac who’d been waiting two days for their pony.

  I memorised the directions and rushed back to the horsebox. All we had to do was follow the road we were on for a quarter of a mile, turn right at the main road and after a few hundred yards we’d see the church.

  Brilliant!

  We set off with renewed optimism. Until we found the candidates for main road. We had them narrowed down to two – one of them turned out to be a farm track, the other was narrower.