ON THE ROAD
The (mis) adventures of octogenarian motorhomer Barrie James and his long-suffering wife Sylvia who have spent more than 40 years exploring the byways of Europe
A series of unfortunate incidents act as a reminder to stay vigilant
A NOCTURNAL BREAK-IN AND A ‘POTTED PLANT’
All of the stories I have shared have been happy, but one reader commented that touring in a motorhome seems to be one blissful event after another. I now realise that I should have included the few events that were not quite so pleasant.
In June 1999, as we bypassed Marseilles in our VW Trooper, a thunderstorm began. We had been travelling for most of the day and were getting very hot and tired.
It was dusk and ahead we saw a filling station with a huge car park and some motorhomes clustered near the lorries. Sylvia remarked, “The circling of wagons,” as in the early Wild West films where the wagons formed a defensive circle. Motorhomers are much the same when wild camping, perhaps not a circle but ‘near’ to each other. We joined them and, after a small meal, retired to our bed and slept through the heavy rain.
Just after midnight, I was woken by my wife crying out, “Someone’s trying to get in.” The passenger door was ajar. As I hurriedly pulled the curtains open, I saw a man calmly walking away whilst pushing a long rod up his sleeve. Scrabbling for my shoes, I opened the door fully. My wife called out, “There’s two of them, be careful!”
Rushing into the filling station, I asked the man behind the counter to call the police. He had trouble understanding, but finally made the call. I was put on the phone to an Englishspeaking gendarme who carefully listened to me. He suggested we park nearer to the café where the staff could watch out for us, advising us to make a report at the local police station the following morning. Sylvia told me later that she was woken by a flickering light onto the curtains, probably the man’s torch, then saw the curtains wafting about.
We hardly slept for the rest of the night, just thankful that it hadn’t been worse, only my camera had been taken from the footwell. It was the last time we would park on a motorway aire.
Next morning we made our way to the police station. We were met by a gendarme who had very little English, asking me if I would like a ‘potted plant’. We looked at each other and then struggled with his torrent of French, repeatedly using the words, potted plant.
It took almost an hour to complete our statement with one officer miming that the long rod I saw was a lever for forcing vehicle locks. Indeed, our lock was distorted and we couldn’t lock that door. The police issued us with a crime number for our insurance company on our return home.
We were so shaken by our experience, we cut our holiday short. It was many months without travelling before we realised that the three weeks Spain and France had been very good until the break-in.
It was to be many years before another incident happened. Whilst travelling on the Madrid ring road, a large black saloon drew level. Looking across, we saw two men. The nearest one held up a silver badge and indicated that we leave by the next slipway. Sylvia normally has a cool head but, on this occasion, she insisted they were police and we should obey. I was not convinced and, for once, disregarded these instructions. There were no blue lights, no siren, the whole thing did not seem right.
I waited until the intended exit was almost past then swerved up the off ramp. It was too late for our ‘police’ pursuers to turn and he was forced to carry on along the motorway.
For the next few minutes, an ashen-faced Sylvia berated me. Indeed I, too, was quite shaken at my actions and began to have doubts... yet I reasoned that I had done the right thing.
Sylvia disagreed, so I said that I would go to the nearest police station to report the matter, just in case. If they were real police I would argue that apart from the badge, I had no other reason to believe they were police officers.
The officers at the police station listened and they informed us that the occupants of the black car were indeed bogus police, that many other unlucky motorhomers had been fooled by them.
Throughout our 55 years of marriage, Sylvia has always been right. I accept that this as a common fact, but will always treasure the moment when she turned to me and whispered, “You were right. But…” I knew there was going to be a ‘but’... C’est la vie!