roadtrip – Let Luce!

Gotta Split

Posted on 28th May 202228th May 2022 by luce

‘Lower your expectations and you’ll never be disappointed.’

I took heed of these wise words as I stepped up onto the bus in the unseasonable heat of the morning, ready for the 4 hour 40 minute journey from Dubrovnik to Split. I had never been on a Croatian bus and so I didn’t know what to expect but the bus was perfectly adequate and met expectations. As I settled in for the long haul with my table down, crochet out, headphones on and Netflix ready, I noted that most passengers were Croatians rather than tourists. None of these locals had lowered their table and unpacked their bus activities and journey snacks. Did they know something that I didn’t?

As we were about to set off – accustomed to the UK and its health and safety – I murmured to my son about putting on my seat belt. He looked around and observed with a wry smile, ‘I think you’ll be the only person on the bus with a seat belt on – even the nun who is sitting in front of us doesn’t have hers on.’ Hearing this, I decided to do as the locals do. If the Croatian nun had sufficient faith in the driver, then so did I and so I let my holiday waistband enjoy the unrestricted freedom.

Approximately forty minutes into the journey, as we coasted along the main road, our tickets were checked. The bus employee slowly made his way from front to back and, upon speaking to the two passengers seated behind us, he soon called down to the driver. In response, the bus was pulled over on the empty roadside and came to a swift halt. As the two young female passengers were instructed to perform the walk of shame down the aisle and dismount the bus, I couldn’t help but wonder on their fate. Even now, I fear hearing an evening news bulletin announcing the discovery of two bodies in roadside shrub as a result of bus fares not being paid. I noted not to put even a single toe out of line whilst in Croatia. I also pondered on why our tickets were checked 40 minutes into the journey and not at the bus station before we left…

Roughly 10 kilometres of our journey took us through Bosnia and Herzegovina and this meant two passport checks within the space of about 30 minutes. As bus passengers, this involved a more lengthy process where we all had to dismount, queue up at the booth, have our passports checked and then get back on the bus.

For the smokers, these passport checks were welcomed minutes of avid inhaling and exhaling as they queued, grateful for the opportunity of a pit-stop puff. As a non-smoker, the wafts of the unsavoury smell of smoke merely polluted my nostrils, however I admit that I was just jealous that shots of coffee were not so readily available at each stop.

Curiously, during the short time we were in Bosnia and Herzegovina, we made an unannounced stop at a roadside kiosk where one single passenger and the bus driver disembarked to make a purchase of cigarettes. I’m not sure why only one passenger was permitted to disembark and make a purchase or whether this was some sort of unscheduled duty-free stop but with my complete lack of Croatian language and with no reaction from my fellow passengers, this was one of those moments in my life where I shall remain in ignorant bliss.

All in all, it was an interesting ride which gave some sort of insight into Croatian custom. Now in Split, desperately searching for my first coffee of the day, I ponder on the curiosities of my bus journey.

Crete, earthquake

Shake, Croissant and Roll

Posted on 31st Oct 202131st Oct 2021 by luce

Tuesday 28th September 2021 7:47 a.m.

My first experience of an earthquake.

I was already awake when the hotel bed unexpectedly started moving. It felt as though an invisible someone was at the end of the bed pushing it back and forth. Woken up by the tremors, my husband suddenly sat bolt upright in bed, wide-eyed and confused.

We looked at each other and a wry smile immediately came over my face as my first thought was that perhaps the couple in the next door room were having an early morning shag! (We were staying in a nice beachside hotel but it did have rather thin walls.) However I then realised there was absolutely no sound: no heavy breathing not even a grunt or two and no bed frame squeaks. In fact, there was nothing but an unusual silence. Almost instantly, I became aware of the eerie quiet that hung in the air. Finally the penny dropped; it was another earthquake.

24 hours earlier, as we had woven our way along the Cretan coastal road to Rethymon and then headed through the mountains to the south of the island, we were oblivious of the earthquake (measured at 6.3 on the Richter Scale) that had occurred whilst we were on route. We had felt nothing and we only discovered news of this first earthquake later in the day when we had arrived at our destination, the coastal town of Mátala.

At the time we casually brushed off the idea of an earthquake; we hadn’t felt it, we saw no evidence of it, so we didn’t worry. However later when we saw a BBC news report, it became apparent that it was more serious than we thought. A frantic phone call with one relative, who had seen the news from the UK, enhanced our concern as we considered the severity of our location which was just 40 miles from the epicentre.

It was with these thoughts that we woke up in our hotel room to the second quake – this one we felt – which was measured at a magnitude of 5.3. To die-hard experienced earthquakers, perhaps they would have just relaxed in their room, lay on the beach, taken a dip in the pool or enjoyed a beer in the beachside bar, but to us earthquake novices, we felt a deep sense of unease that morning. We decided to leave. We abandoned our planned sightseeing which would have taken us closer to the epicentre, and agreed to head back to our dwelling on the north of the island further away from any earthquake movement.

Decision made, we soon sprang into action. Never have I showered so quickly, nor packed up my things so efficiently and never, never ever have I eaten so little in a hotel buffet breakfast. It seemed scandalous to depart so swiftly without taking advantage of the abundance of croissants, Greek yoghurt with honey, toast, cheese, eggs, rolls, bottomless orange juice and coffee, but sometimes you have to weigh up the odds and make a sensible decision. Earthquake versus big breakfast? Or to be more dramatic: life versus calories? In less than half an hour, we had fled the area.

In the days that followed, where little if any earthquake movement was detected or reported, we pondered on our decision to up and leave so quickly. Upon reflection, perhaps we could have continued our sightseeing and perhaps we overreacted by departing so suddenly but hindsight is always a wonderful thing. At the time, it was a scary moment of the unknown and I shall not forget how I felt at the silence of the tremors.

To end on a more lighthearted note, a return trip is planned and I look forward to finishing my hotel buffet breakfast!

Car breakdown

Motorway To Nowhere

Posted on 26th Sep 202126th Sep 2021 by luce

“Take your high viz off!” my husband hissed at me with a panic-stricken sense of urgency. About to squat behind a smattering of branches which gave a meagre leafy covering from the lorries and cars rushing along the M20, I laughed and was grateful for his warning. It had been an hour since we had broken down (and donned our high viz jackets for safety) and I had no choice but to use the primitive outdoor facilities that the grassy slope offered. Had I not removed my high viz, my attempt at having a discreet motorwayside wee might well have been a delightful fluorescent show for passing drivers.

An hour earlier, our car had decided it had had enough after a ten hour drive through France. Exiting the tunnel onto UK soil, the battery light illuminated in red and then about 20 minutes later, the car started to lose power. Having just passed a sign warning of no hard shoulder for 8 miles, I quickly pulled into the emergency SOS zone, which conveniently appeared as if answering my silent panic.

After an immediate call to the Highways Agency via the SOS phone, we were soon contacted by our breakdown company who said it would be a five hour wait. However, after highlighting the precariousness of our location, we were promised an update within half and hour where they hoped to improve on the wait.

Our next thought was safety. The emergency lay-by was framed with a wall (about 6ft) which was edged with a metal rail. “I’ll give you a leg up,” my husband said. I looked at him amused as I contemplated the extra pounds and years my body had accumulated since he had last given me a leg up, but then I realised that he was serious. So after a joint entertaining effort of a clumsy lift and a few undignified heaves, we managed to climb to a safer place. Once up on the ledge, I looked down and wondered if I would ever get down again.

At first, our spirits were positive, but as we waited and waited watching an endless stream of cars and lorries race by, our energy began to flag. It was now midnight, our phone batteries were low and, although it was still officially summer, we were getting cold. We could do nothing but wait. With no improvement on the predicted five hour wait and with no updates as promised, we began to feel a little helpless as time slowly ticked by. We called again. The wait on the phone to the breakdown services was depressing. No answer. Kept on hold, I desperately hoped that someone would pick up but instead I listened to a chirpy automated voice on endless repeat suggesting that I opt for an electric car as my next purchase. My patience was running thin and my language was certainly getting worse.

As midnight came and went, we began to wonder if anyone would ever come and rescue us. Looking at my husband who was now wrapped in a double bedsheet that he had retrieved from the car, I felt angry with the breakdown company. We were stranded in a dangerous location and they had basically shut down all communication with us. An update of some sort would have been comforting.

Feeling irrationally sorry for myself, I looked up the number for the Kent police headquarters ready to call and spout off about human rights and the expectation of us having to potentially sleep on the side of the motorway. However moments later, I pulled myself together and steered away from my ludicrous self-pity as I pondered the plight of those who were homeless and genuinely had something to worry about.

Around 01:30, our saviour came in the form of a 26-year-old who drove a local breakdown truck. (His arrival was all thanks to the Highways Agency who had helpfully intervened and who were equally frustrated with the silence of our breakdown company.) Never have I been more grateful to see another human being and he didn’t even batter an eyelid when he opened our car door and smelt the waft of over-ripe Camembert which was quietly festering in the now warm cool-bag.

Chatting animatedly on route, this young driver shared his life story and was just the tonic we needed to take our minds away from the previous few hours – hours which had felt endless at the time but which instantly dissipated into the past as his stream of warm and friendly words filled the truck.

Next time maybe we’ll take the train.

Travelling to France

Are We There Yet?

Posted on 30th Aug 202130th Aug 2021 by luce

Each summer, for the past twenty years or so, we have packed up our car, bundled the kids in the back and headed off to the Lot-et-Garonne region in France. Two adults and four children with luggage in a seven-seater Galaxy easily filled the space and the ability to stretch out or unfold was a valuable commodity.

This August, however, it was just the two of us. Our kids are no longer kids, and even if the youngest two siblings had wanted to join us, they couldn’t. Without a double vaccine, adults are currently not allowed to travel to France without an ‘essential reason’. Going on holiday is unfortunately not deemed to be essential and the two of them had not been double-jabbed at the time of departure. So with just us parents in our seven-seater, it certainly felt a little different.

When we first set off, I looked in the rear view mirror and saw empty space – a void that I was not used to. No teenagers slouched in their seats precariously held in by their seat belts; no limbs tangled in a blanket or draped over bags and no mishmash of piled high luggage limiting my view of the traffic behind.

I had taken advantage of our new ‘empty nest’ situation and had lavishly packed a multitude of items which would cater for any possible occasion on this holiday. I had a bag for my yoga blocks, belt and mat; a bag for my latest crocheting projects; an unnecessarily large wash bag; a bag for more clothes than days and a separate shoe bag with a range of footwear that I would probably not wear whilst away. Yet despite this, the luggage remained a meagre pile which lay low and lost in the boot.

The car was eerily quiet: no child had started on the snacks within five minutes of leaving home and no child was throwing up into a discarded empty plastic bag which had been found in desperation in a hidden side pocket. In the silence, I relished the idea of belting out a few tunes or enjoying a podcast at a higher than necessary volume. However, due to buying the wrong connector for my phone to access my playlists and podcasts (which I didn’t discover until underwater in the Eurotunnel) I soon realised that my entertainment was going to be limited to CDs. The upside of this was that it meant a trip down memory lane, delving into my music collection from years gone by.

As we drove, I felt strangely liberated singing aloud in-and-out-of-tune with no criticism from the back. There was no one to complain and no volume control needed to be maintained. I sang along to songs that I knew word for word which I hadn’t listened to in years: Barclay James Harvest, Melanie, Scouting for Girls and more.

At lunchtime, as family tradition dictates, my husband and I swapped the driving. Taking up the passenger role, I was free to fill the baguettes – baguettes which had been bought from a crowded and somewhat unsavoury service station. This year, it was quietly noted that we only needed one baguette. In the past, the kids’ unspoken rule was that I was the trusted lunch maker and with nostalgia, I recalled which family member had which filling. In my opinion, you can’t beat butter and marmite.

On these trips, crisps would often be passed back and forth, but it was hit and miss whether the bag would be empty before us adults in the front would even get a look in. This year, however, gluttony was rife as the crisps stayed firmly between my husband and me in the front.

After a doze, I became aware of an unusual comfort in my surroundings as I realised that I didn’t have a child’s foot propped at the side of my headrest. I sort of missed that foot, but I was equally enjoying the agreeable reclining position of my seat which had been newly unleashed in the space available.

As we swept past familiar fields of beckoning sunflowers and the undulating landscape of vineyards, I smiled a contented smile. Filled with nostalgia of the past and enjoying the tranquility of the present, I mused on how perhaps one day, when my husband and I are old and frail, we may be passengers driven by one of our children on this same journey through France. Will we be the ones snoring in the back, complaining about aches, asking for food and awaking from intermittent car naps asking, ‘Are we there yet?’