253 TOP 5: BAD THINGS...

We have been home for a couple of weeks now, and it is almost time to put our adventure behind us and focus on the future, so what better time to look back with a top 5?

Today it is the 'Top 5 Bad Things That Happened On Our Trip'.

5. The Rain

The cars were prepped and looking spectacular right up to the point when the heavens opened as we headed to the M25, and they got a liberal sprinkling of road muck. The sun was cracking the flags when we entered France, but by the time we made it to Belgium it was piddling down again.

The following day, Carl and I got the cars washed ahead of the big meet-up with our fellow rally heroes...and it lashed down. Grrr... By the time we turned up for pre-rally registration in a delightful medieval square in Namur, we were in monsoon territory.

Trying to attach the graphics to the car in the drizzle the following day, then avoid every puddle on the route to the muster point, was a challenge we failed at. You only need to look at how miserable I look in the pictures at the start. Soaked, freezing and raging that the car was dirty again. It was still raining when we got to Bastogne to visit the war museum a couple of hours later. Rubbish.

4. Italian Motorways

The drive from Menaggio on Lake Como to Monaco was probably the least enjoyable part of the trip for me. Not only was the drive long and boring, but the roads were, for the most part, terrible. Bumpy, potholed and passing through large parts of Italy that were filled with, erm, nothing, it was a journey we endured rather than enjoyed.

After we 'turned right' at Genoa and headed along the Med towards Monaco, the road surface thankfully improved, but this part was uncomfortable for Richie, who isn't fond of heights. Not only did we cross many bridges that spanned deep valleys, but his sat nav proudly displayed the height of each bridge, which made his teeth itch as he was barrelling along at 85mph, on the wrong side of the road, surrounded by mad Italian drivers!

3. Hurry Up and Wait At The Borders

We raced the length of England to get to Folkestone to catch the Le Shuttle, only to be met by layer after layer of red tape and bureaucracy.

First, there was check-in: a drive-up to an automatic check-in screen that confirmed all the info you entered online the day before. <sigh> Now hurry up to British Immigration - GO!

Just enough time to queue up again and for us to get fingered for a random drugs wipe of the car. <sigh> Now hurry up to French Passport Control - GO!

Sit and wait while a bored mademoiselle scans your passport, scowling, and eventually waves you through. <sigh> Now hurry up to the queue for the train - GO! Sit there for the best part of an hour because the train has been delayed. <sigh>

To be fair, disembarkation from Le Shuttle was a breeze; drive off the train, drive out of the port, drive on the wrong side of the road for the first time at full speed, trying to work out how far a kilometre is in miles so you can roughly work out how far you are from where you are going.

The process for boarding the ferry from Bilbao to Portsmouth was as bad as Le Shuttle. Charge along the Spanish motorways and eventually get to the docks. Queue up, show your passport and get your ticket at the check-in kiosk to hang it from your mirror - eventually. <sigh> Now hurry up to Spanish Immigration - GO!

Queue up for the thick end of an hour in the heat waiting to be let through to immigration, get annoyed that the campervans and motorbikes are waved through while you baste in your own sweat, eventually get through and are required to get out the car and present your passport to a bored sénior in a hut who doesn't like the fact you now have a hobo beard and don't look like the picture in your passport taken 8 years ago. Eventually you are allowed to pass. Now hurry up to the queue for the ferry - GO! Sit there for the best part of an hour in the heat because, well, why not! <sigh>

Getting off a ferry is always a pain, but Portsmouth was the worst experience I've had. Get told to leave your cabin as we will be allowed into our cars shortly - experience tells me this is a lie so we wait. Get thrown out of our cabin to wait 20 minutes in a corridor while people politely jostle for position to leg it down to the car deck - fools. Eventually get the green light to go to our cars... and immediately wait 40 minutes before anything happens. <sigh>

Make it off the ship and into a massive queue as cars, vans and caravans head towards Border Control. Watch in horror as the queue you are in moves slower than the others, as there are not only caravans but motorhomes and some mad bastard with a boat in front of you - each needs to be boarded and checked for people trying to smuggle their way into the country. Watch as the immigration womble roots around Sagren & Gwillam’s manky Castleton Roamer for 15 minutes. <sigh>

There should be a separate lane for cars to whiz through, leaving the rest of the traffic to spend their own sweet time being searched, and letting normal people get on with their lives.

2. One Spanish Coach Driver

On the whole, we found foreign drivers to be sound. There were some quirks: the Belgians like to drive up your arse, the Italians see a gap left for safety between cars as an invitation to dive in, and the Dutch dart around the road like a fly trapped in a house, randomly changing direction without any warning, rhyme or reason. The Spanish seemed to be decent drivers, except for one coach driver.

We were happily pootling along, heading to Bilbao, when a Flixbus decided to try and deliberately push us into a barrier. A few minutes earlier, the coach had overtaken us and another car, ending up in the fast lane. We overtook a car in the inside lane and briefly ended up in the middle lane. For some reason, the coach driver slowed right down, forcing us to undertake him, and then drove so far up our arse that I could see our brake lights reflected in the front of his coach.

No idea why he did this, but I was debating just slowing down and down and down, getting out and throttling him with his tie. Still, I thought better of it and just carried on and got back in the inside lane when there was a gap. He then roared past us and tried to put us in the barrier. Cue me leaning on the horn and Lisa suggesting he was a fan of onanism (look it up). Absolute beaut.

1. French Pricks In Roadworks

We've all been there; there are roadworks up ahead on the motorway, you slow down, get into position and then merge once you meet the cones. Not in France you don't. What you do there, apparently, is throw a hissy fit because someone dares to pull up alongside you and then drive an inch from the car in front so they can't get in, almost causing an accident in the process.

After clearing the roadworks, you then run away as fast as you can because you are a massive 'Le Shithouse' and know there is a hefty lump of Englishman who is ready to jump out of his tiny car, drag you over the bonnet of your Renault and pull his skeleton out through his mouth.

Thankfully, Lisa dealt with this situation magnificently, flicking V's, hurling some impressive swear words, but having the control to let them drive off so I didn't spend the summer in some French clink.