In which Hermann squeezes out over the drawbridge making for the hyper market and Portsmouth ferry.
It is time to go leave Pamplona and drive Hermann out over his own personal drawbridge. The Cathedral hotel, once a convent has been a splendid bargain. We recommend room 406 with its large windows and views over the town.
This area is Basque. Doris spends some time copying down some of the spellings and translations. Sid wonders what is basque for entertaining corsetry.
Our route is quite close to the French border, and the way to Paris would be up to the border at St Jean de Luz and staying on the motorways. There is a light spattering of rain and Doris admires the effect of the windscreen rain protector that she has been lovingly rubbing into Hermann’s screen for the last few weeks.
The roads are quite empty and it’s just three hours to the truly huge Santander Carrefour. Hermann is due his own rations and takes on 66 litres. Guzzle, burp. It is almost smuggling.
Sid and Doris gather food for the trip, food for supper at home and many tins of Bitters Kas. Can we persuade Waitrose to stock it?
Reaching the ferry we are in the best queue. A current Porsche 911 turbo, a Ferrari Californian and a 1969 LHD MGC GT in primrose yellow. There are a couple of VW Bentleys but their drivers are not roving about finding the car guys. Sid passes 40 minutes chatting with the MGC driver and a trader in old cars who is here with a 1990s Mercedes 500SL he is taking home for a friend.
The trader later catches up with Sid and Doris in the quiet lounge they have found. The trader starts to show Sid pictures on his phone in what seems to be a sort of random car quiz, where Sid must respond with something pertinent and the trader then tells the story behind the pictures. These include an NSU RO80, a Ponton, a Dauphine Gordini (that the trader doesn’t know much about) and a Blackburn Beverley. Sid passes, and escapes for a session on the ferry’s very natty outdoor gym.
Our sharp-eyed reader will have looked at the smoke from the ferry’s funnel and noted that it seems to be blowing forward. Apparently we are experiencing a tail wind of around 5 knots. Truly this means that the wind is closer to 30 knots. Our appreciation for the Galicia’s stabilisers increases. (This next picture is looking aft.)
Arriving in Portsmouth at our scheduled time of 7:15pm we are chivvied onto the car deck before the ferry has docked… and then sit there for an hour while they try to get the ramp to descend. Then by the Portsmouth passport control is a sign that explains that as UK entry requirements have been tightened we may experience delays. Like about 40 minutes in a queue, which sets Doris grumbling like a small volcano. The tough controllers do not even look at the covid tests we have had done or the special traveller tracker form that Doris has completed on line with much exasperation and exhalation. The 7:15pm arrival has turned into a 9pm departure from the port, and it is cold, dark and raining.
We hope that this is just a local feature of Portsmouth’s famous (in Doris’s family) microclimate, but as we clear the South Downs it is still cold, dark and raining. The rain protector comes into its own – in the dark it is actually better to drive without the windscreen wipers switched on, although Sid and Doris agree that driving without rain would be even better.
Sid takes the wheel for one of the world’s duller journeys, enlivened with cheering observations and a friendly wave from an AA man. Just 15 miles to the M25 junction…. Only 45 minutes to run… Turn onto the A120 and it’s only seven miles to home… Which is where we find Hertfordshire County Council diligently and irritatingly salting the roads. Doh. Sorry Hermann. We’ll wash it off tomorrow.
So there we are. That’s 2,450 miles from home to home. Here’s the route again.
Hermann has regularly cruised at 3,700 to 3,900 rpm doing around 65-70 mph using up fancy petrol at a rate of about 20mpg and a couple of litres of oil. He has cheered up any number of Spaniards who waved and slowed down to take pictures as they passed us on the motorways and came over to chat to us at filling stations and in car parks. Good old Hermann.
