Little did I know that when I touched down in the UK after a lovely flight, that it would take three times as long to get home as it did to fly in from France.We arrived bang on time, picked up my car and left the airport at 11pm. Half and hour later on the southbound motorway, my car was making strange noises. My friend asked if my tyres were okay, she’s considerably more practical than I am, most people on this planet are. So I had no idea. She said we should probably stop at the next services a few miles ahead. Two minutes later she said we need to stop NOW.
I pulled onto the hard shoulder and we saw that my car had a puncture. So it was cold, drizzling and very dark. Most of the traffic was huge lorries driving at crazy speeds and we were stood in a ditch, behind the barrier with cold, sandaled feet hoping my tiny car didn’t get hit.
It took a while for me to remember who provided my breakdown cover, but luckily there was a good signal and once details were taken a very efficient Green Flag lady said someone would be with us as soon as possible.
Pretty soon I had a text letting me know the name of the technician and the registration number of his vehicle and that he would arrive by 1.44am. That was an hour and 20 minutes to wait!
I didn’t know they’d sent another text saying the technician would be there by 2.15, probably just as well, we were already pretty miserable by then, but singing nonsense songs to cheer ourselves up.
Normally on the motorway, we see police cars buzzing around hooping to catch speeding drivers, and the breakdown company had informed Highway the we were an ‘incident’. It would have been reassuring if one had nearby and stopped to check we were okay. No such luck, I bet there would have been if I was speeding though!
Lewis from Newport arrived just after 2.15. He’d driven around 70 miles and had us back on the road in half an hour, driving home on a compact spare tyre at 50 mph. I crashed into bed at 3.40 am.
Breaking down on a motorway late at night is most women’s worst nightmare isn’t it? But never mind, I’ll focus on the nice parts of the journey home from Marseille.
Happy travels everyone!
A high, partly obscured window.
Am I the only one that hears a place name like Ouagadougou and wants to go there? The answer is probably yes, unless you say otherwise!
When I was there, it was very hot, the blue sky and white stone were dazzling. It was tempting to go back into the station building and stay cool, but I had to check it out.
The view was fabulous, all the way to Notre Dame de la Garde on the hill to the far right. I nearly stayed put at the top, but I’d seen photos and wanted to see the stairs going up. I’d need to save my energy so I went slowly down.
104 steps, I went back up even slower, pretending that I was stopping to enjoy the view, but actually saving my breathe and my knees!
Everything about Barcelona makes me feel in the pink and makes me smile. 
That guy must have scraped his knees getting up there!
Houdou means serene in Arabic and Riad Houdou was exactly that.
Lucid Gypsy 