Cranial Capacity 1400cc

By Rob Godfrey

Rural France and a house renovation, a radio station and holiday rentals. Rob Godfrey's fourth memoir covers the decade between 2007 and 2017, a period that saw some momentous events in history.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rob Godfrey
• Release date: Mar 13, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370547982

Rob Godfrey

Rob Godfrey was born in London on March 21st 1964. After travelling the world and having various adventures he is now pausing in a quiet part of south west France.

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Cranial Capacity 1400cc

Rob Godfrey

Cranial Capacity 1400cc v1.04

Copyright Rob Godfrey 2017

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Contents

70 Sheets Of Plasterboard

Local Radio France

Poets And Programmes

The Gite Business

We Are All In The Gutter

Epilogue

We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.

Oscar Wilde

Introduction:

This is my fourth memoir and covers the years 2007 to 2017. The previous memoirs are When I Went Out One Summer's Morn, The Yukon Queen and The Iberian Job. These previous books all involved travel to weird and wonderful places. This fourth memoir is quite static in that respect, taking place entirely in France. The latest episode of my life is set against the backdrop of momentous historical events which had a direct impact on me: the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.

Rob Godfrey

Charente, France

March 2017

70 Sheets of Plasterboard

Mud, glorious mud. Earlier that month a tremendous amount of rain fell from stormy skies. This was during the Hay-on-Wye Literary Festival. The field had been crowded with tents. Due to the torrential rain many of the campers packed-up early and headed for home. Now, two weeks later, the grass was still quite boggy. I parked my car beside the caravan and loaded half of my gear into it, fearing that a fully loaded Citroen 2CV would not make it across the grass. Even half loaded it became a struggle through the mud, but I made it out of the field and drove through the small copse and up onto the raised tarmac area. I then proceeded to ferry the rest of my gear from the caravan to the car, a distance of about 50 metres.

The caravan was a large static located in the camping field of the Clyro Manor Hotel, on the Welsh borders. It had been my home for the best part of 8 months. That caravan became a somewhat tranquil and surreal full-stop to a very turbulent four years of my life, four years that took me to France, Spain and Portugal, four years during which I went to hell and back whilst attempting to get an online business up and running (see The Iberian Job).

I'd been renting the caravan for the grand sum of £50 a week. My landlord was a really nice guy called Terry, a wealthy man who owned the Clyro Manor and Estate. The only drawback with the caravan was that it didn't have a phone line or any sort of internet connection; not good for someone still struggling to get an online business up and running. The Clyro Manor is a rather grand building, and sits a short distance from the caravan across manicured lawns. I used to have to go to the Manor for internet connection, where I'd sit on a sofa in the lobby and access the wi-fi.

After spending the best part of three years on the continent, I'd been back in the UK for not much more than a year. Now I was heading back to the continent again. This came about because my mother had bought a house in south west France, a part of the world where we have family. Shortly after the Hay-on-Wye Literary Festival my mother asked me if I would renovate the house in France. I had to think long and hard about that one. In the Wye valley I was starting to establish myself as a self-employed draughtsman (which has always been my trade). My landlord Terry was still seriously considering a business venture I had put to him. The family stuff remained pretty dire, yet I had lots of friends and family members could be avoided. The main thing that swayed it for me was that at mother's house in France I would have internet connection from my desk. I could get the Iberian Job back on track. I agreed to do the renovation.

A sunny afternoon in late June saw me bumping down the long driveway of the Clyro Manor for the last time. The blue Citroen 2CV was loaded to the gunnels with all my worldly possessions. I drove the three miles or so down to Hay-on-Wye and pulled-up outside my parent's house. My mother had signed the Acte de Vente for the house in France in March, and had been living there since then. Knowing that I was driving to the continent, mother had flown over to the UK a week previously, for a visit, and now she was hitching a lift back to France in my Citroen 2CV. Due to the fact that the car was stuffed full with my own gear, I told mother to travel light. In the event she had three big bags, which I struggled to fit inside the car. Once done, the rear bumper was just inches from the road surface.

We drove through evening sunshine, down to Portsmouth, where Brittany Ferries awaited. This book is my fourth memoir, and it's just struck me that each memoir begins with a sea voyage. This particular voyage took us overnight to Caen. From Caen to Mama's new house it's a six hour drive south via Le Mans, Tours and Poitiers. Shortly after saying farewell to Caen one of the front roof clips broke and part of the canvas roof whipped back and began flapping in the wind. I pulled over onto the side of the road, but was unable to fix the clip. The only thing I could do was roll the roof right back and secure it. Luckily we experienced only one brief rain shower during the six hour journey. For most of the drive we were in blazing sunshine. I had to stop often due to an upset stomach. By the time we reached journey's end Mama looked like she'd been simultaneously grilled and blow-dried.

I bought the Citroen 2CV two years previously, whilst living in France. It was a 25-year-old vehicle, hardly used, and in very good condition. The guy wanted 1300 euros for it. I got him down to 1100 euros, with two extra spare tyres thrown in for good measure. I now owned the real Macoy: a left-hand drive 2CV with French license plates. The thousands of miles I then drove in the car while doing the Iberian Job really gave it a hammering. The final straw, though, came when I was living in that caravan at Clyro Manor. With the approach of winter and wet weather, I used to park the car on the raised tarmac area, where it was totally exposed. The winter storms would come rolling down the Wye valley and totally soak the car. Now it was not in such good condition, with a fair amount of rust, although mechanically I had no worries about the car getting us to south west France.

We arrived in Chabanais at lunchtime. Chabanais is a small market town that straddles the river Vienne. It's about half way between Angouleme and Limoges and is right at the eastern end of the Charente department. It's a very rural area and is known as Charente-Limousin, and apparently it's second only to the South of France for its annual sunshine hours. Chabanais is also home to my uncle Dicky and aunty Ruth (Mama's elder sister). We were due to have dinner with them that evening, so we didn't stop in Chabanais and drove five kilometres south of the town to a tiny hamlet called Savignac, where Mama's newly bought house lay.

The previous March I'd accompanied Mama over to France for the signing of the Acte de Vente. I stayed at the house for a week, so I was already quite familiar with it. As is very common in these parts, it's a stone house with metre thick walls and a ground floor and first floor, built about 300 years ago. It's a long rectangle in shape, approx. 50 metres by 10 metres, with the short sides facing north and south. The south end adjoins the lane and in more recent years an annex has been built onto it, forming a small 'L' shape. Only about half of the building was liveable, with three bedrooms. The other half of the building was a wreck and ruin through which birds would fly.

During my earlier life in France I'd spent 18 months renovating a big house in the centre of a village called Roussines, which is about 18 clicks south of Savignac, so although not a builder by trade I was no stranger to this sort of work. The French mostly prefer new builds, which are a blank canvas as far as design goes. It's the mad Brits who buy wreck and ruins in France and renovate them. A wreck and ruin is much more of a challenge, because of course you have to design around an existing structure. As I unpacked the 2CV that afternoon I was quite looking forward to renovating Mama's house.

Ruth and Dicky lived in a quiet cul-de-sac about five minutes walk from the centre of Chabanais. Their house was quite small, with 2 bedrooms, although it had a good size garden. I never know whether to call Chabanais a large village or a small town. Whatever it is, the centre of Chabanais has an urban feel to it, yet many properties sit on a large plot of land. A lot of people keep birds and have vegetable plots. Ruth and Dicky's neighbour was a nice old boy who had turned over just about all of his huge garden to the cultivation of vegetables. The work this involved for someone his age was quite staggering. It was just him and his wife living there. What did they do with all the produce?

That evening we went round to Ruth and Dicky's for dinner. My aunty is quite tall and slim, whereas Dicky is short and stout with a balding head. They often had rows, usually about Dicky's gambling. Being back in their house I was reminded of that nightmare journey up from Portugal to Chabanais in February 2006, when I was in absolutely desperate circumstances. On that freezing night, not much more than a year previously, I stayed in Ruth and Dicky's spare bedroom. I remember taking a shower and just standing under the stream of hot water for ten minutes, washing away the stress and letting the heat soak into my body. I then slept solidly for twelve hours. Shortly after this I went back to the UK. Dicky came over for a visit while I was in the UK, but I hadn't seen Ruth since those desperate circumstances, so the meal became a reunion of sorts.

In mid February 2006, when I was living down on the Algarve, I received a telephone call from the bank. My cash card and PIN number awaited, after being lost in the post on two previous occasions. The run of bad luck had been unbelievable. I drove very carefully into Lagoa, fearing a road traffic accident. As soon as the card was in my possession I wasted not one moment. Bye, bye Carvoeiro, and thanks for all the fish. I headed east on the coast motorway, past Faro and on into Spain. I was taking the quickest route possible back to France, up through the heart of Spain and over the mid-Pyrenees. As the day wore on I went through Seville and Cordoba. The weather was atrocious, with strong winds and heavy rain. East of Cordoba, in the mountains and now in the dark, my Citroen 2CV, the Iberian Queen, had a puncture: the front passenger side. I came to a slow halt on a narrow mountain road that was quite busy. No hard shoulder or anywhere I could pull into to change the tyre. I had no choice but to continue on at a slow speed, hazard lights going and other vehicles swerving round me with angry hoots. After 5 Kilometres I came to the bottom of the pass. There was a service area. By this time the rubber on the tyre had completely shredded and the bare metal of the rim clattered against the ground. I changed the tyre in the pouring rain, then went into a restaurant to dry off with a cup of coffee.

It doesn't snow in Spain..? Try telling that to the Spanish Plain in February 2006. As I came down off the mountains, heading for Madrid, the heavy rain turned to heavy snow. It was gone midnight by the time I reached the outskirts of Madrid. I wanted to get much further than this at the end of my first day's drive. That puncture and the atrocious driving conditions put an end to this. I pulled into a service area that had a petrol station, hotel/restaurant and large parking space. Even at that time of night things were busy and it seemed like a safe place to stop. Feeling totally exhausted, I would try to have a night's sleep here; in the car, of course.

I managed to doze for about an hour. It was quite noisy there. Every time a vehicle pulled into the service area its headlight beams swept across the Iberian Queen. It felt bloody cold, despite the fact that I was completely swathed in a thick, blue duvet. At around 2am I gave up trying to get any sleep and decided to resume the journey. It had stopped snowing by now, although the landscape still looked like a Christmas card as I made my way on to the Madrid ring road. There was no other traffic about as I looked out for the exit that would take me north east to Zaragoza and the Pyrenees. The ring road runs mostly through industrial areas that in the early hours of the morning were completely devoid of life.

My solitary drive on the ring road ended when someone flashed me from behind. Perhaps they were annoyed about my cautious speed in the snowy conditions. A newish salon car matched my speed in the fast lane. There were three young men inside the car. One of them flashed a police badge and motioned for me to pull over on to the hard shoulder. I did so. The salon car pulled up in front of me. There was a momentary pause before one of the men got out the car. He looked smartly dressed and wore a leather jacket. I opened the window flap. The man said he was a policeman. He asked me who I was and where I was going. I told him. He said he needed to search my bag. I foolishly unlocked the car door. The man opened it and took my bag. He crouched down, put the bag on the door jamb and looked through it, ignoring my money belt. Then he sniffed the bag, no doubt looking for drugs. Then he returned to my money belt, unzipped it and took out the five hundred euros I was carrying. Without a word, he folded the bank notes, put them in his pocket and calmly walked back down the hard shoulder to the salon car. There was a momentary pause before the car drove away.

It all seemed to happen in slow motion. I did think about going after the man as he walked away with my money; but there were two others in the salon car. It was three