It was tempting to hang around in Isla Christina and relax a bit before the big drive north, but then we looked at the weather forecast. A deep Atlantic low was heading our way and thundery rain followed by a couple of days of drizzle was predicted for the southwest corner of Iberia. More to the point wind speeds of 40kmph were on the cards. Although it may be impolite to mention it, but Maisy, like many a doughty grey haired adventurer has problems with wind! In anything above a stiff breeze the van is not comfortable to drive, particularly on high level, exposed roads. One of the reasons we had planned our route north on the N 435 is it cuts a 'green-lined' route to Zafra, from the coast across the wild empty Sierra de Aracena, which forms the border between Andalucia and Extramadura. It seemed a shame to drive through here being buffeted by wind, the supposedly beautiful mountain scenery wreathed in cloud and viewed through squeaky windscreen wipers. So, we decided to leave the coast straightaway before the more unsettled weather arrived.
We packed up quickly and were off the site around tennish, which by our new relaxed standards counts as good going. Before we headed north we had a couple of jobs - shop for lunch stuff, then find a garage where we could check the van's tyre pressures; we had not done this since we collected it in February from Alicante. I had spotted a large Repsol service area near Huelva on the way here, so that's where we headed initially, but not before having a moment of regret as we turned left at the roundabout on the edge of Isla Christina and I watched the line of pine covered dunes disappear from view in the side mirrors. After 3400 miles and 110 days of wandering in a generally southwesterly direction, about turn!
The early-ish start meant we could have lunch somewhere with a mountain view and arrive in Zafra mid-afternoon with plenty of time to explore what the guidebooks promised to be an interesting old town. We soon reached the Repsol garage , I pulled off and found the air and water point. The airline was too short to reach the far side of the van so I had to turn around and reverse back up. Maisy spluttered a bit as she started, "That was a bit odd," I commented to Gill as I pulled back onto the service point. I checked the front tyre, it was only a couple of bars below optimum. I then came to pull forward to sort the rear wheels. I hopped into the cab, turned the ignition, and nothing happened, the entire cab electrics were stone dead, no lights, no clock, no chance of getting the van started.
First challenge, explain to the cashier that the air service point was now, and for some time to come, blocked by four tons of useless inert metal. The cashier was very personable, but spoke not one word of English. I reverted to Google translate, she read the message, smiled, "No problemo." She pointed to a second air-line next to the petrol pumps.
Challenge number two - get assistance from RAC breakdown. Once the central helpline had located my policy number, which took a while, ascertained that there were only two of us, that we had no pets, our exact location, when the van had left the UK, when we were booked to return, the height, width and weight of the vehicle, if we had a trailer... then finally he announced he was handing our case to his Spanish colleagues who would text us soon. He did not specify if this was an Anglo Saxon or Hispanic definition of 'soon'.
All we could do was sit and wait. This gave us ample opportunity to catastrophise our situation. Was it just a battery fault, but if so, how did the battery go from fully functional to stone dead without some kind of painful slow death scene, like something out of a Bronte novel? Was it the alternator? If so, would the garage have to order the part? What was our cover for temporary accommodation? Might we need to hire a car? At least having an anxiety attack helped pass the time. It seemed no time at all before a breakdown truck pulled up beside us, out hopped a smiling young man, who held out his hand and said, "José".
Introductions over, using a mixture of mime, Google translate on José's smart phone and our trusty 'little gem' Spanish dictionary we managed to connect the jump leads. Maisy coughed spluttered and shuddered a bit, but refused to start. José cranked up the revs on his truck, and gripped the jump lead clips to maximise the contact - a brave move which seemed to risk receiving a few hundred volt electric shock. In the event, José's well groomed hair did not stand on end, nor smoke billow from his ears, but on the third attempt Maisy burst into life, the dash board lights all lit up as usual and she sat there chugging away like a good 'un. José plugged in a diagnostic meter, "Alternator Ok." he announced, giving me a smile and the thumbs up, "Battery..." he waggled his outstretched down turned left hand, making the international 'dodgy' sign. I grimaced.
Bolstered by this success in multi-lingual communication, José broke into his best English, stabbing his finger at me, then towards himself, he announced, "Ford! me follow." And so we found ourselves hurtling along the N341 towards the nearby town of Cartaya, struggling to keep up with José's breakdown truck, which proved to be able to bomb along surprisingly quickly given its bulk.
Challenge number three - the Ford garage.... Nothing in Spain happens straightaway, social niceties need to be attended to, respects paid. So the first thing that happened is that all the employees downed tools to greet Josê, the manager ensured he was furnished with a coffee, José introduced me to the manager, we established to everyone's amusement that no-one in the place spoke any English. I signed the bits of paper that José put in front of me, we shook hands, and he drove off. We waited around for twenty minutes or so, then the manager pointed me towards the receptionist who needed our log book to 'open our account'. She carefully put all the vehicle details into the computer then followed me to the cab to check the mileage. She found the fact it was in miles, and right hand drive equally hilarious. I impressed her with my maths skills by explaining to her how to convert miles to kilometres. She seemed delighted by this!
Gill and I wandered about, then sat on the showroom window ledge in the sun. We began to look at our watches nervously. It was now I.40pm, at two the garage would shut for lunch, and not reopen until five. We did not fancy being marooned in an industrial estate on the outskirts of Cartaya until late afternoon. The technical manager reappeared. Quite clearly precision engineering skills were required, not brute force. He was carrying the tool beloved of all precision engineers, a large metal mallet. With over anxious owners looking on, clangs, thuds and incomprehensible expletives rang out from Maisy's cab. Then silence fell for what seemed like many minutes. Slowly a head rose up in the cab side window as if emerging from subterranean depths, the engine turned over, fired, then chugged away happily. At five minutes before lunch-break we had a fully functioning motorhome back. No damage done other than to our bank balance, which suddenly became €197 lighter.
Ah well, it's only money. Three hours later than planned we headed towards the hills of northern Andalucia on the first leg of our long drive homeward.
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