Pinnacle of success.

The road from Strasbourg to Paris is pretty straight forward, Metz, Reims, Paris, only once again the remarkable thing for an Englishman is that it is just a delight to be driving rather than a chore. Although there was an increasing amount of traffic as we neared the capital, there were no hold ups, a few fast tracked road works, good surface, and still, superb weather. Even the Peripherique, the Paris ring road, was constantly moving well, although it was the beginning of the evening rush hour when we arrived on the Friday in late afternoon. When we had stopped overnight in Austria two nights before, I had looked on the internet and found a campsite on the western edge of Paris, just off the Peripherique, and although I had not been able to phone then to book ahead, I thought we would take a chance and go. So Thomas the Satnav was now guiding us effortlessly around the ring, off multiple junctions, to the back roads of the western Parisian suberbs. “Prepare to leave highway in point four of a mile”, “leave highway in 300yards”, in a hundred yards keep right”. This would have been a major effort with a road map, and we would have needed a street map to have actually known where we were going. Father was amazed at Thomas’s accuracy. I was used to it, but grateful to have it. And so, after about an hour of south and west Paris, at 5.30, we finally were told “In 100yards reach destination”, and there in front of us was the green iron archway over the entrance to the municipal campsite. Now don’t ask me exactly where it was. I followed a post code on the internet and saw the rough area on the large scale map; suffice to know that we had arrived and Thomas knew where we were. We entered the park and drew up at the bureau of the concierge to see if we could book in. It was closed. A sign on the window stated that the office hours were 9.00 to 4.00 daily and 10.00 to 3.00 on weekends. Damn! What to do? Well, the barriers were up and people were coming and going, so perhaps try and sort it tomorrow morning? We drove in. The first thing that we noticed was that there were many small holiday chalets on the site, arranged along small loop roads. It was beautifully laid out with wooded areas and grassy camping areas, but as we travelled around the chalets were almost everywhere. We saw no caravans and no free sites to park. Not that it was crowded, there were plenty of free grassy areas, just no obvious plots for mobile caravans. Up one side road however, we came across several, camped near each other with a couple of chalets. I stopped to ask. This seemed clearly to be the local permitted gypsy encampment, and their French seemed to me probably as strange as mine did to them. However they were very friendly and I understood that they just said “park up where you want, it’s alright for a night or two” or something to that effect. They pointed across the clearing towards some more chalets and a low building and so we followed their directions and saw that the low building was a large shower and toilet block, and there was some room alongside this to pull in alongside some empty holiday chalets, so we did. The weather was still lovely and the park was quiet and peaceful. I had had some apprehension about the proximity of the “gypsy” group, but they were perfectly friendly and welcoming and we spent a good night there. The most enjoyable part of the stay being the shower block! I won’t say that we were filthy, because we weren’t. We had been having basin washes in the camper for two weeks, including hair washes, but because of the difficulty of filling up with water from a tap, we had had to be sparse in our use of water and so we had not been able to use the shower. This block was a bit old, but had large tiled showers, even a disabled one with a seat on the wall. The floor however was slippery, and the showers were delightfully fierce, but would have almost blown Father away! It meant a rather undignified effort of showering together which both of us found a bit embarrassing to start with I think, but it was the only way and it was so nice to feel really clean and fresh again. Because the floor was so slippery I had to hold Father up both in the shower and when drying him, and we really could have done with a third assistant! I was glad however that we had gone there in dressing gowns and slippers and not fully dressed. Just a simple non-slip floor would have made all the difference. Enough of the showers! Just use your imagination. After an excellent dinner of shepherd’s pie and salad, and a very peaceful night, we woke as usual at about 7.00 and were ready to go into the Saturday morning Parisian traffic for the last objective. I was hoping to take Father up the Eiffel tower, as he had taken me, almost 50 years ago. As we left for the gate, we filled up the water tanks and went to the office, to sort out our stay. Closed of course, but the barrier was open!
I had planned it so that we would drive just about 15 miles directly east to the Eiffel tower. I noticed two large parking signs on the Paris map close by and thought that we may be able to park there and I could take Father the last mile in the wheelchair. We followed the last mile of the journey on the west bank of the Seine with the tower in sight on our right ahead of us, Thomas having a lie in this morning as I simply followed the signs and looked out for car parks. We drove past the tower and followed signs for the coach park. I didn’t want the same problem I had had in Canterbury to spoil the end of the trip as it had the beginning. It was just after twenty past eight, and on the east side of the tower is a long pathway approach through a lawned tree lined area, and at the end of that a parking and dropping off area for coaches. As we drove into this it was clear that there were a lot of free spaces and I easily pulled into one. I went to a kiosk close by to ask if they had some change for the meter and if it was alright to park there. The official stated “D’accord. C’est libre aujourd’hui, c’est libre le weekend” Free at the weekends! How refreshing is that! There’s a lot to be learned here about Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité…Ken Livingstone and Canterbury Council pay attention!
Father felt that he could walk the 300 yards to the base of the tower, and we strolled up the plane lined avenue to the four great bases of the superb soaring steel spire, marvelling once more at the engineering which for its day, and probably even now, was a masterpiece of construction and design. There were already quite a lot of people waiting, mostly tour groups at the entrances to the tower bases, so I sat Father on a bench in the centre in the sun where he could watch my progress down a queue and when it opened at nine o’clock and I had got to almost the front of the queue, I beckoned him over. We still had one of those winding barrier things to pass through, the sort of thing that makes you feel you’re already at the front but actually winds another 50 yards of tightly packed people into a deceptively small space. Suddenly, magnifique! 'Un gentil home officiel ' beckoned us out of the barrier and he guided us straight to the side disabled entrance and straight to the bottom of the lift. So, there’s a lesson to all you young families…don’t leave the old folk at home..they’ll get you fast passes to all the places you want to visit, and possibly have a disabled passenger parking permit too! I don’t really remember very much about going up the Eiffel Tower as a child. I seem to remember the views from the top, but not the actual actual. Now, for a sixty year old, and even more for a ninety five year old, it is quite an unnerving experience, especially if you look out sideways as you go. It's not the height or the rapid ascent, but the effect that passing the steel girders so fast has on your balance. It throws your eyes into vertical nystagmus, and your vestibular organs turn on their heads! ( it can make you very giddy). We had a break at the second floor and took a short stroll to adjust. Father told me to go to the top and he would stay there and wait for me to return. I refused. We had done this together and would finish together whether it was here or at the top. He decided to do it, for me I think, but none the less, he was up for it. We entered the small cage that shoots you vertically though the centre of the upper two thirds of the tower. I held him facing me and told him to focus on my shoulder for 30 seconds.(I focused on his!) And so we made it, neither of us giddy anymore, on to the steel balcony at the top. Here, on the shady side it was chilly in a light wind, but on the sunny side it was fantastic and we looked out together over the city and the river spread out like a carpet below. Together, fifty years on, and with the role responsibilities reversed, we stood once again on the top of the pinnacle of Europe. It was a great moment and we had a hug. We met a delightful couple from California who I asked to take a photograph of us. They were astonished at Father’s age ( and actually mine too, but I don’t know quite what that says! They did not specify “What really sixty”, or “what only sixty” Perhaps it just says how polite Californians are when they are touring Europe?) After about 20 minutes walking the balcony, we descended again to the second floor and had coffee and a cake at the café, and then returned to the camper, all done and dusted, and objectives achieved by 11.30. Father was chuffed to bits that we had done it. He kept on saying “ I just couldn’t have done it without you” to which my simple reply was that I wouldn’t have done it without you, which I suppose is true of my whole lifetime relationship with him!
Our ferry home from Calais was booked for the following day at 11.00a.m., but, with all objectives achieved, an early finish at the Eiffel Tower and a fine day, we decided to go for the 200mile trip to Calais now, and see whether we could get an early ferry. Despite a leisurely trip and a stop for a picnic lunch, we arrived at just after four in the afternoon and they kindly swapped us to the 4.45 ferry. The only hiccup was the inspection by Immigration, previously related, but that was a part of a streamlined process of our embarkation, and once again, when we got on board, P and O ferries had arranged for us to park right adjacent to the passenger lift on the lorry deck, which made life so simple and comfortable. Thank you P and O for a really great service. The rest as they say, is history, well actually boring, but that isn’t the accepted expression. We stopped at Milton Keynes overnight as it had been a tiring day and there was no rush. It started to rain of course as we went north of Stoke on Trent, just to make us feel at home, and has persisted, pretty well ever since, over the last four weeks. Father was back in Windermere to a welcome reception from his friends and in time for lunch. I was back at the farm by half past one. Door to door distance? 3,542 miles. Bosnia or bust?....No worries!

Best wishes,

Doc.

Piccies to follow very soon. Watch this space.