Next

 VIZILLE TO BRIANÇON

 Friday 2 September - 81 miles

	Bitter Sweet Symphony was on the radio again.           The van's overheating problem was in a way convenient because it meant that we wouldn't be trying any of the <<<<< severe passes (which often form part of the Tour de France's route) and Jo wouldn't be caused too much stress, although she's much less anxious about high roads than she used to be.

We drove into Vizille to remind ourselves what it looked like - old and smart - then fought our way out following small signs for Bourg d'Oisan because, surprisingly, there really were none for Briancon.             There were ugly old semi-industrial areas squashed into the valley bottom, but I was confident that things would improve. They did.
	East of Vizille. (It was preceded by this shot.

	On the Col du Lautaret. The valley looks so wild, doesn't it, but I had to include the little tractor-ish vehicle because it reminds me of my first trip to Switzerland in the early '70s when I was fascinated by their suitability for the alpine terrain. I suppose there are several makes and differing designs, but essentially they all look to me like a rotovator with a rigid flatbed.

I wasn't at all surprised to find that we were on the Route des Grandes Alpes. From Lake Geneva right through to the Med the route wiggles for almost 700 km and at altitudes between 1500 and 2800m (4500 and 8400ft) it crosses many of France's main alpine passes, the Izoard, Galibier and many others unknown to me.

Le Bourg d'Oisans was a little like a very much scaled up version of Llanberis or Betws y Coed in that it was almost totally adventure oriented, VTT being the main activity at this time of year, (Velo Tout Terrain, as in ATB, MTB).

We'd parked on the top of the dam when some elderly German's came alongside in a T4 (a newer model of VW Transporter). I was foolish enough to say something to the woman about wishing we had a newer van (i.e. one which didn't boil over) and in response was swamped by huge waves of German of which I understood only about 2 disconnected words in every 10. While trying to appear pre-occupied by some serious photography I nodded, made affirmative noises and smiled occasionally.

Anyway, what the devil were we thinking of, driving over a high pass with radiator-type problems and no electric fan? Well, in case you weren't aware, I should perhaps point out that I've long been a fully paid up (through the nose, again and again), member of The Let-It-Develop School of Fault Finding, and add that we'd got so far already so why shouldn't we get a little further?   Also it had appeared from the map, and did prove to be the case, that the road was wide and not horrendously steep, the few tunnels were short and if we had to stop suddenly for more overheating breaks, as indeed we did, we'd never be far from somewhere to safely pull off the carriageway. But essentially I was pushing our luck and before we crossed into Italy something would have to be done. I'd long ago run out of my own very few ideas as to what might cure the problem.

	.                   Glaciers!     We were, of course, quite close to the top of the pass when they came into view, this mix of harshness and beauty, the rock looking almost coal-like and the glaciers not at first so obviously the immense mountain-shaping force that they are.

	Jo? Or Yosemite Sam(antha)? Do you ever play that little mind game where you've been blindfolded and brought somewhere by helicopter and have to work out where you are? No? Well, perhaps your mind isn't small enough. Clearly there's no mistaking Jo for that armed hoodlum, but I did allow myself to imagine that these peaks might have fitted quite easily into the Yosemite.

Suddenly heavy, warm rain started out of a mainly cloudless sky and rivers rushed turning as they did so from a washy Tibetan poppy blue to café crême.

Rolling into Briançon we passed a British registered T3 long ago abandoned on the driveway of a former bunkhouse.

I braked suddenly and explained to Jo that I'd also seen a sign advertising a local VW agency (and you know how unimpressed I am by them). I turned back, wrote down the details and once in the town phoned the garage for directions. After we'd confused each other quite badly, the man told me that it was now a Nissan garage, (which at least saved me from getting angry with any VW-France people).

We phoned Red Pennant who suggested we went to a campsite and phone them again with our location. We looked for the site I've mentioned which had closed, then went on to Camping des 5 Vallées, St Blaise, 05100 Briançon, Tél. 04 92 21 06 27, which is on the old main road south towards Gap. Although it had everything one might need, (and things we didn't, like a swimming pool), I wouldn't return to it unless I could find nowhere better in the area.

Soon we were told that a local garage would turn out within the hour.

And that's just what happened!

A tired, taciturn and rather subdued dude in his late 50s arrived and wound us onto the back of his lorry.

Jo said she wasn't going to leave the campsite, but when the option was removed she reluctantly clambered up to join us in his cab. (I hadn't realised that she thought we'd be heading back over the Col du Lautaret to Grenoble).

We set off through the rain with the van held on by nothing but its handbrake and the winch cable. The MAN lorry made a very slow and feeble job of shifting us.

I'd quickly established that the man driving the MAN, who seemed like a nice man, was too tired or perhaps too shy to be bothered to speak more than was necessary to uzz foreigners. His local customers came to collect their cars and with them he was perfectly pleasant, almost jovial. He'd brought us to his Opel agency on a side road in Charlemente, (close to where we'd already been when looking for that disappeared campsite). A T3 was about to leave and another was apparently for sale on the forecourt. I thought he might pinch some parts from it.

Like almost any mechanic he appeared not to want the customer to be too inquisitive, but I managed to talk to him a little and to see some of what he was doing:

• He did a pressure test;

• Undid a nut on the top of the radiator on the driver's side, examined the washer and said, "Pas bon", with a look of disgust such as only a tired Frenchman could manage;

• Replaced the washer with a new copper one;

• Found my damaged sender / switch thing, asked if I'd done the damage, pulled another face and then replaced the damned thing with a brand new one from his stockroom;

• Rigged up a pipe from the outlet which goes to the expansion tank and

• While I revved the engine he occasionally glanced towards the water bubbling though a jar, until the bubbles stopped.

I don't know what else he might've done, but within less than one hour we were heading back to the campsite. It seems that the leaking washer had been allowing coolant out and air in and causing an airlock, or similar.

We'd been very lucky in finding a competent mechanic at a T3-friendly garage.

The total cost was about £60. Jo had to pay - I was annoyed to find that neither my debit nor credit card would work, although the debit card had performed well enough in supermarkets and when buying diesel.

The rain stopped and started. On the campsite incomprehensible and intrusive p.a. announcements came from speakers attached to trees. By late evening thunder was rolling around the mountains and for a short while the storm centred right over us.

Our refrigerator had stopped working, but the fuses were OK. It had stopped yesterday too and we had to throw some food away. Over the next few days it started to behave itself better.

On the radio was an atrocious French version of Free's Wishing Well.

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

The Magic Bus             Next