The third of March isn’t a good day for Daggs. Three years ago on this day Chris was bitten by a fox when he and Benj were trying to release it from a snare. We went to see the doctor who was convinced that Chris would have to go through the six-month programme of extremely unpleasant course of anti-rabies injections. Luckily he eventually found out from the national rabies centre, or something similar, that the Boussac area wasn’t a hotbed of la rage, so a tetanus jab and some antibiotics would do. However, Chris is decidedly less fond of foxes than he used to be.
Today it was my turn for the third of March unfortunate event. Are you sitting comfortably? Cup of tea or coffee, or glass of wine by your side? Then I’ll begin. Caiti and I were en route for Angers to visit the university there. It was having its JPO (open day). We stopped at services just outside Tours, and slightly more than an hour away from Angers. I’d ended up in the lorry parking section, like quite a few other cars, since the signage for the car parking area was less than helpful. Anyway, we shared a Twix and a cappuccino and then went back to the car. I started the engine and a ‘steering fault’ warning came up. The power-assisted steering had stopped working. Fortunately I’m good with machines. I knew what to do. I turned the engine off, and then turned it on again. Strangely that didn’t solve the problem. I tried a few more times. I got out of the car and looked at it for a while. But still the fault persisted. We phoned Chris for advice. He undertook to look up on the Internet about possible causes of the problem. We worked our way through the manual but nothing fit the symptoms. I reversed and drove forwards again in our lorry space and managed to get the wheels to turn a little but the car obviously wasn’t drivable. Chris came up with nothing so we rang GAN, the insurance company. We have breakdown cover and finally we were calling upon it.
Mélanie was very helpful and patient. She gave us a dossier number and then explained that, since we were at motorway services that technically counted as a breakdown on the motorway, so the next thing we had to do was call 17. I relayed that to Caiti.
“But that’s the police!” she cried in alarm.
I had an idea it was but, reluctant as I was to poke a sleeping policeman, that’s what I had to do. The gendarme I spoke to was confused for a while (my French reverts to babyhood whenever I’m stressed and ‘my power assisting has failed at a motorway service station’ isn’t something they teach you at school, but really, really should be). But eventually we sorted out what was going on and he put me through to depannage (breakdown) central. That lady hadn’t heard of the only set of services of the A85 but I was able to persuade her they existed and after a while she came round to my point of view and arranged for someone to come and see us within half an hour. This was a French half an hour, so closer to a full sixty minutes, but I was grateful for any help at all. There wasn’t much I could do about it anyway!
The breakdown guy rang to ask what the problem with la direction (the steering) was, but other than telling him elle ne marche pas (it’s not working), I couldn’t give him any further clues. A big Renault breakdown truck rolled up sometime later. Parking in the lorry section had been a fortuitous move on my part because this thing needed room to maneouvre. The mechanic started the car and then checked out the engine and various fuses. He drove it backwards and forwards a bit too, but no miracle cure. So he loaded the car up onto the truck, a sight which was enjoyed by all the other motorists around. I’d have enjoyed it too if it hadn’t been my car in the starring role. I wanted to take a photo of the car being winched up, but Caiti hissed and looked daggers at me, and I remembered how self-conscious teenagers could be, so desisted. Shame. Off we went to the Renault garage at Faverolles sur Cher. This was my first ride in a breakdown truck in thirty years of driving.
Have you ever noticed those little roads lead off the autoroutes with barriers across them? They’re breakdown vehicle access points and we went to go up one. Yay! (I know, I lead a sheltered life.) We got to the very closed garage after about twenty minutes and the mechanic opened everything up for us and even turned on the central heating. Within half an hour he was able to tell us that the problem wasn’t something he could fix there and then. The electric motor that controls the power steering had broken. He’d have to order parts in on Monday and the car would be ready Wednesday or Thursday. That was a sinking heart moment, but our breakdown cover includes getting passengers home. Melanie got organising again. Our offered options were initially train, hire car or taxi. But Melanie soon narrowed those down to one, since there were no trains anywhere near either our departure or arrivals point and she couldn’t find any hire car places that were open. So another French half hour later our taxi rolled up, driven by an elderly lady. She was very pleasant and apart from gluing herself to the bumper of the car in front, a very careful driver. Two hours later we were home.
So, Caiti didn’t get to see the fac at Angers. That’s a pity because it looks like a very nice university. Maybe we’ll go and have a look midweek when we go up to collect the car. Our insurance covers the cost of the rescue trip so that’s a help. I can’t fault GAN. Mélanie took great care of us today.
The hunt for a new car will have to begin. The Renault is the flagship of the Dagg fleet of means of transport. OK, it’s seven years old now, has taken some dings in carparks (a hazard in France) and a pounding from golf ball size hailstones, is starting to rattle and one of the door trims has fallen off, but up to now it’s been the reliable, failsafe car. My ten-year-old legally roadworthy Stilo has a temperamental dashboard and other than that car, we’re down to two wheeled transport. The scooter has hit the deck a couple of times, and our assortment of bikes includes two that are more than twenty-five years old, but also a couple of last year’s models. Being rural dwellers in a public transport deprived area we need a dependable car so I think the time has come to tighten our belts and invest in a small left-hand drive vehicle. It’ll be fun looking around.
And now, if you don’t mind, I shall go and collapse. My nerves are in tatters!
Anglers often go to extremes not to lose their leads when fishing, but this whole concept works against them because a carp will use the weight of the leads and the softness of mono lines to set a continual bounce on the line between the hook and the tip of the rod which can either snap the hook length or pull the hook.
It’s complex, confusing and loaded with jargon. We describe it as both a sport and a hobby, a science and yet also an art. It is as complex as the female psyche. It attracts both casual devotees and total fanatics of every age and background. Jesus did it- but then again, so did George Bush. I am of course talking about fishing. From the outside looking in, we probably resemble a state of chaos on a par with the back of the a fisherman’s garage. From a long list of categories and subcategories, complete with strangely named tackle, our world can be a confusing one. Many of own early lessons came from dated, techy volumes in the school library- by God how we could have done with a starting point that had less dust on the cover and diagrams that looked less like torture diagrams done in biro. Quite how anyone might attempt to encompass the fundamentals of coarse, sea and fly fishing all in one neat volume is a mystery, but that has been my exact task working on “Fishing For Dummies”. It might seem a bit like trying to fit a lion, a gorilla and Arsenal reserves all into one toilet cubicle, but we’ve had a bloody good crack.
words from the US book, while giving the whole work a distinct UK bias. What does this encompass? Anything and everything from shotting a waggler, to picking sea fishing baits or casting a fly. “Dummies” is an affectionate term rather than a derogatory one, and in fact we take the reader to some places which are anything but village idiot grade. With the rise and rise of carp and predator fishing, for example, I felt I had to give the reader a friendly grounding here. Nor is the book strictly a “beginners only” volume. If you’ve spent the last decade drowning maggots, you might want to try tackling a trout stream with flies? If you’ve always fancied a crack at sea fishing, you’ll find the whole scoop from ragworms to wrasse. As my other half knows through hard experience, there’s always another fishing trip to make, another rod or species to try. Fishing for Dummies is thus a friendly grounding for any reader- rather like having a mate explain things clearly and give you a laugh on the way, so you don’t end up leaving the fishing shop with a pile of random tackle and a vacant look. Actually, that will probably happen anyway, but you get my drift. “Fishing for Dummies” is out now from Amazon and all major bookstores.
Nevertheless, the fish still bite on a sunny morning at Feneck. Crucians are one of my all time favourites for so many reasons. For the games they play with a float tip. For the way they wiggle and turn bumping circles in the fight. For the sheer cute cheekiness they possess. They remind us why we fish- to retain that childlike joy at seeing something beautiful appear where there was just a float tip moments earlier.