We’d got as far as West Norwood (all of two miles), and I realised something was not quite right. The trusty Golf Estate was labouring a bit up the hill. And it was hardly Mont Blanc. There was a lot of luggage on board, but surely it didn’t weigh that much?

As we motored down the A3 to Portsmouth a yellow warning light appeared on the dashboard.

What the hell does EPC mean?

Something to do with the Electronic Power Control system, apparently. Which could mean almost anything, apart from an empty tank or a flat tyre. No smoke, no smell, no temperature gauge shooting up. We pressed on.

We boarded the overnight ferry to Saint-Malo, went for dinner, then to our cabin, and tried not to think about it.

***

By the time we reached Nantes the next morning the dashboard had acquired a second warning light, which, thanks to the owner’s manual, Anne managed to interpret as a fault with the exhaust system. This could be serious, we were told: go immediately to a VW service centre. There was one about 10 km away, just off the ring road. I practised the appropriate explanation in French as we parked up. Did we have an appointment? Obviously not, you twit. Ah, dommage. They could see us in a fortnight or so. Sigh. We pressed on.

The reduction in power when climbing the hills was now obvious and I found myself sandwiched between lorries on a few occasions. We did have RAC European cover but I really did not want to break down on a French road with a car full of gear. That had happened before (on a boiling hot Saturday in August many years ago), which had led to three days kicking our heels in Tours. Followed by a week with a hire car.

We still had another three hours to go, but we made it to La Bréchoire without incident. But what now? Should we call the RAC, or have the car looked by a local garage?

We slept on it

The next morning Anne called the RAC. I have to tell you that they were great. They said that a warning light is considered to be a mechanical failure, and sent a breakdown vehicle that turned up within two hours. The Golf was duly carted off to the VW dealer in Cognac, and RAC found us a courtesy car, a Renault Captur, in nearby Mattha. I had to cadge a lift there from a neighbour, of course, but otherwise it was straightforward and cost us nothing.

A couple of days later we drove to Cognac to collect the Golf, returning to La Bréchoire in convoy. I was expecting a hefty repair bill, and was grateful to have taken out parts warranty, but we didn’t need it. I never really understood what the problem was, but it had something to do with the turbo not working properly. No parts needed replacing. And, to my surprise and delight, the bill came to less than 200€.

***

I have only had two (vehicle) breakdowns in the last 25 years, and both were in France, en route to our house. Hardly a tragedy, but it makes you wonder if it’s possible to get there, enjoy an stress-free couple of weeks, and go home refreshed. There is always something that needs attending to. For example, the toilet won’t flush, the TV won’t turn on, there’s a gas leak, a power cut, a wasps’ nest behind a shutter, the door won’t shut properly because of the damp, or the heat or the cold. Or (I say this because we’ve just paid to have it sorted), you discover your staircase is infested with wood-boring beetle larvae.

This time it was obvious that we’d had a roof leak during our four months away.

Two leaks actaully

It turned into three when I noticed raindrops kept falling on my head as I stood by the bed. This happens all the time in France, as everyone’s tiles seem to slip. But don’t they look so charmingly rustic?

The major problem with having a holiday home is that you could have a serious issue for months without being aware of it. You learn to accept the risk. but it’s a worry. Then there’s the taxes, the insurance, the bills and the constant maintenance – even when nothing’s gone wrong. When I was younger I thought nothing of spending a week painting all the shutters and power-washing the terrace… and I don’t think much of it now. Boom, boom.

However, as my friend Sheena says: “you wonder if it’s time to sell up, then you go and fall in love with it again”.

Once you’ve unpacked and assessed the condition of the place, you can finally sit down with a plate of delicious food and a glass of wine, admiring the garden you spent so many hours planning and planting, and paying someone else to maintain. Listen to the birds and the bees.

Cuckoos, hoopoes, warblers

It’s lovely. Then you think: at 71 years of age how long can I carry on doing this? But you know you don’t want to give it up. Not yet. The to-ing and fro-ing in your mind is an aspect of the soul searching, irrational anxiety and creeping passivity that goes with – to put it bluntly – growing old, or the fear of it. Something to be explored in a later blog, if and when I feel up to it.

***

So that’s the first quarter of the year gone. January was all about funerals, February was Thailand for a change of scenery and weather, and March was for catching up with friends and domestic tasks. I’d like to get back to playing music, but Bern’s long-delayed surgical procedure has put One for the Wall the back burner. I have other things I want to press on with. I need to write, commission and edit a ton of articles for Herne Hill magazine, since I rashly offered to take charge of the next issue. And Mum’s probate is still not settled. So, there’s plenty to occupy me and – for a while – take my mind off current events.

The splashdown of Artemis II last week brings to mind the sour, trenchant lyric of Barry McGuire’s one hit single, The Eve of Destruction:

You may leave here for four days in space
But when you return, it’s the same old place
The poundin’ of the drums, the pride and disgrace
You can bury your dead, but don’t leave a trace
Hate your next door neighbour but don’t forget to say grace

But it turned out we weren’t on the eve of destruction after all, since those words were written more than 60 years ago.

That’s one positive anyway

I’m wondering how I will feel about 2026 when we get to December (assuming the destruction of the world continues to be postponed). The news is pretty grim, mainly due to those maniacs Putin, Netanyahu and Trump (not that the current Iranian regime and their proxies aren’t dreadful too). What’s the point of a democracy when cynical, greedy and frankly stupid “leaders” can do anything they want with impunity? I find myself in the unusual position of agreeing with the Pope.

Even those who are less affected, so far, by the violence and the economic consequences are appalled, but there is very little we can do. I realise that disasters, natural and man-made, are nothing new but it’s the pointlessness of the wars in Ukraine and the Middle East that so depresses me. So many deaths and so much destruction.

To be able to sit on a terrace listening to birdsong is a privilege to be treasured. Value what you have and be as positive as the situation allows. Things might just get better.