Return of the Crew, Said Us

Having explored Fes and made friends with the local militia we turn towards Blighty taking the train (I think?) through the mountain passes back up to Tangier where we take the ferry to Algeciras. Gazing out at receding Maroc I wonder when I’ll be back, as it happens never to date although have sampled other parts of Africa. Thoughts turn to home as we pass the Rock of Gilbraltor. I had thought it was an island off Spain not part of the country. I’m sure it’s still of invaluable strategic military significance as gateway to the Med and all our colonies surrounding that sea. We decided not to go for the cheaper ferry from Ceuta as we’d probably be there for a fortnight trying to get a taxi and rather than spend a week at the side of a Spanish road exercising our thumbs we splash out a fiver each on the train to France this time heading to the Atlantic coast and crossing in the Basque country to where we holidayed a year earlier at St Jean de Luz. 

The hitching’s not too bad through Bordeaux where we get a dream lift from a couple of Germans in a vee dub van. So guaranteed ride through to northern France. I can almost smell the vinegar on my fish and chips... Friendly bunch in the van; as well as the 2 German owners there’s another German and a Dutch guy. We soon stop to pick up a Portuguese bloke and his Spanish dog so it’s getting pretty cosy in the van but the time flies with tales of our various adventures as we bowl along north at a steady 70, kilometres per hour that is, not mph. Earlier in the summer a got a lift from a couple on their way to get hand fasted (married) at Stonehenge Festival and their van failed five miles from the stones. My curse on vans (it’s not the first or last) rears it’s vindictive head again and just outside Limoges we hear an almighty clunk and the van skids to a halt. We have a look and the Portuguese who’s a mechanic identifies the problem: the engine has fallen through the chassis onto the road. Hmm, seems terminal but the Germans and mechanic push the stricken motor onto the verge and start working out how to strap the engine back into place and which tubes to reconnect to which. At this point Simon and I and the Dutch guy decide that even if the engine is put back the van won’t take the strain of all of us and we give our thanks, wave goodbye and hitch into Limoges for ice cream in the sun before psyching ourselves up for the rest of the journey. 

The curse of camper van strikes again!

After a few days of friendly but shortish lifts we get through Blois, Orleans and skirt Paris and we find ourselves at Calais. 

Hoping to get a lift from someone with a penchant for werewolves

The last stretch

At Dover we get a lift from a squaddy coming back from Germany who gets us to London where we stop off at Simon’s sister’s in Stockwell where we catch Paul Jones’ Blues Band at Victoria chatting to him afterwards and then go back to Stockwell for a few drinks with her friends. Next day the crowded M4 slip at the Chiswick roundabout and a few generous folk later we’re getting out of a car in Walcott just in time to catch the last lunchtime pint at The Bell. It’s only been a few weeks but feels like we’ve been away for ages, although The Bell regulars don’t seem to have moved a lot from their bar stools. Wandering back home through Victoria Park with a couple of swift pints inside us the afternoon sun beats down but nothing like the debilitating heat of the same sun a thousand miles to the south. Although I miss the strange exotic scorch of the Moroccan sun this is hot enough for a pale Englishman such as myself... at least for a while...