Traumas, big or small, never seem far from our door

Last year, Ellie’s fingers, entwined round a retractable dog-lead, were badly cut as she had left the handle in a taxi that was driving off. We spent a few hours on Christmas Eve in Watford General and a couple of hours on Christmas and then Boxing Day mornings at the Royal Free, Swiss Cottage.

The following day we were caught in a snowstorm on the M40 and took seven hours to accomplish a journey normally undertaken in 70 minutes. So what had this trip in store?

A week before Christmas, having loaded our car the previous evening, we were sitting in it just before 6.0am, doing our customary check. Hot water off, doors locked; passport, ferry tickets, English cheque and credit cards and dogs’ passports on board.

Having completed the checks I turned on the ignition... and nothing. The battery, for some reason, was flat. I went down the road and brought up Ellie’s old Honda, which she had brought out to France in 2005 and managed to jump-start the Skoda and so, some 15 minutes behind schedule, we were heading for Calais.

We stopped once for a toilet-break and again for diesel and the car re-started without a hitch. We then stopped at Calais while the dogs’ passports and chips were checked and again we restarted and took our place in the line by the dock.

An hour later, we were summoned forth for boarding. I attempted to start but nothing happened. I had stopped and restarted three times before without a problem, now we were becoming a marooned chunk of metal on the dock.

Out of the proverbial nowhere appeared two French guys with a custom-made truck the size of a fork lift, who promptly jump-started me and we obeyed the frantic beckoning of the official to drive on board.

We made for the purser’s office and explained we had a problem that may or may not reoccur. He assured us not to worry, have a pleasant voyage and if the car did not start, leave the bonnet up and assistance would follow immediately.

Such charm and assurance were not reflected below-decks when a stroppy Geordie proceeded to harangue me for “chancing it”, for coming on board with a “duff car” and quite possibly laid the blame for the sinking of the Herald of Free Enterprise at my door as well. I was stunned at being told off and every time I attempted to explain we had been summoned on board by an official who knew our problem and we had sought advice on board, I received more criticism.

Eventually I gave up. Customer service and politeness had obviously gone out of the P & O porthole, but I was more concerned with our plight. We were pushed to and then freewheeled down the ramp to where a second, far more helpful employee attempted with three vehicles to jump-start, finally coming up with the answer and advising us to head for Banbury without stalling the car or turning off the engine.

Reasoning that revving the engine helps to charge the battery at a faster rate, I set off up the M20 with the cruise control set at 130k. Eventually I realised I was not in France and, instead of doing almost 82, I had to drop to 70- mph.

I slowed and dropped down to the inside lane, whereupon a car slowly overtook us. It proved to be an unmarked police car who just signalled to cut my speed, before driving on past us.

During our visits to England we have sampled the odd unpleasant sign or aggressive treatment from fellow drivers who are irked by the sight of French plates. This was the first time French plates had worked positively for us as obviously the policeman had deemed us French and in need of no more than a gentle reminder of the speed limit.

We picked up the ordered take-away in Chorleywood and headed for Banbury, arriving pretty much on schedule and, not much later, I was standing in the bar of a real olde-Englishe pub with a pint of Hook Norton in my grateful hand: my first pint of real ale in four months.

I had envisioned this when I planned the journey times and despite everything it had all come to pass.

Later, with a chicken jalfrezie and a glass of rioja, the slight traumas of the day fell away.

I awoke the next morning with Ellie informing me our son-in-law was working on the Skoda, checking the battery. I went down to join him. The battery passed the test as being fully charged. The car had started on the button, just to be contrary after a cold night outside. However, upon turning on the headlights and other electrics, the battery lost power quickly. One dead cell but despite it being a Sunday, we journeyed into Banbury, picked up a new battery and, from then onwards, Christmas went so smoothly, all according to plan.

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