A quick update on the cruise, from somewhere off the coast of Algeria

This article comes to you, courtesy of Mrs PBT’s who, just a day or so into her digital detox, decided that she really needed to reconnect with the world. Consequently, she signed up for a 24-hour, onboard internet package. She received a discount for being a Cunard Gold Club member, although I still won’t say how much the package cost. It might sound a bit hypocritical on my part to be criticising her lack of staying power, especially as I’m taking advantage of her purchase, so I won’t, apart from thanking her for the opportunity of posting this article from the middle of the Mediterranean.

Just so you know, I wrote this article a couple of days ago, so here we go. It’s day two of the cruise, and the second of 10 full days at sea. After yesterday’s overcast and slightly blustery conditions, it’s wall to wall sunshine today, and this afternoon it’s been positively balmy. We’ve spent most of the day cruising down the western coast of Portugal, having completed our, a surprisingly calm crossing of the Bay of Biscay. In the early hours of the morning, we rounded the most north-westerly tip of Spain, at Cape Finisterre (remember the shipping forecast), and commenced our long voyage south.

Tomorrow morning we’re due to berth at the southern Spanish city of Cadiz, the first port of call on the cruise, but in the meantime, it’s sit back, enjoy the sunshine, but not too much of it, and just generally chill out. I’m typing this, and other articles, on the new 13” laptop I treated myself to. You might remember me writing about my search for a suitable, small, portable device, well after much online searching, I found just what I was looking for, and at a reasonable price as well. It’s a Chinese brand called "Jumper" – strange name, but it seems to be doing the business, even though this is the first time I’ve used the device in the field, so to speak.

I’ve written before about cruising being the perfect way to relax, and even when the weather isn’t clement, there’s till nothing like sitting there, reading a book, or even typing out a blog post, whilst watching the wash from Queen Victoria’s powerful engines, disappearing into the distance behind us. We’re sitting at the moment, at the rear of Deck 10, virtually at the top of the ship, overlooking the pool deck, where lots of people are lying on sunbeds, literally frying themselves in the sun.  There’s some quite subtle and very relaxing “mood music” playing out, over the pool deck, but it’s barely audible up here.

Yesterday evening we attended the first of several gala dinners – the ones where the ship’s company encourage diners to dress up – black tie for those identifying as male and black dresses for those who identify as female – he said, facetiously. It was all rather swish, the food was excellent, and for once. The company was good too. This time around, Eileen and I were sat with a couple from Cheshire, who we both described as “down to earth and genuine” which was in stark contrast to some of the over-pretentious bores we’ve been lumbered with on previous cruises.

Tonight, it’s the Lido Buffet, where to be fair, the food is equally good, but you just need to help yourselves. I paid a visit to the Lido this morning, for breakfast, leaving Mrs PBT’s to enjoy her beans on toast, in the room. We almost slept through the waiter’s knock, as despite having been warned by the captain’s announcement about putting clocks and watches forward an hour, we almost slept right through. Looking out the window, dawn certainly seemed a long way off at 8am this morning.

The buffet was packed this morning, but when you’re on your own, you need to grab your food first, before laying claim to a table. Both tasks van proved troublesome but having the sense to procure a cup of coffee first, I had the other hand free, plus a convenient ledge to put my cup down, whilst I piled up my plate. You’ll no doubt be grateful that I don’t intend giving a blow-by-blow account of what I ate, apart from saying they rustle up a fine omelette on the Queen Vic, and they also serve an equally impressive, afternoon tea. This consists of dainty sandwiches (with the crusts removed), cakes, plus scones (with raspberry jam and clotted cream) is something of a tradition on Cunard ships, (it might be on other cruise lines too), but it only happens on sea days.

Eileen and I arrived just after 3pm, expecting the Queen’s Room, where the tea is served, to be half empty, but more seasoned sailors than us, obviously know the score, and the elegant ballroom was packed. The waiting staff still managed to find us a table, and we enjoyed a selection of dainty sandwiches – made with bread with the crusts cut off, a cake, plus a scone or two with strawberry jam and clotted cream. And that’s the trouble on a holiday like this, as unless one is careful, it’s far too easy to pile on the pounds and thereby undo all the good work the pair of us put into losing weight, over the past few months.  

Fortunately, portions are not massive, and given the distances between various locations on board ship, it’s also easy to keep one’s step count up. Without really trying (apart from three laps around the promenade deck), I managed to clock up 10,000+ steps yesterday, and I’m well on the way towards doing the same today. I’m going to have to sign off soon, as the sun is moving round, and it’s getting difficult to see the screen, but I have to say that I really like this combination of taking it easy, watching the ocean roll by, whilst at the same time, bashing out an article or two. It’s a way of life I could become really use to this, but without further ado, I’m going to sign off now, head down to collect Mrs PBT’s from her place in the shade and head off – perhaps for a pre-dinner drink at the Golden Lion – the ship’s pub, and then make our way up to the buffet.

I will update you all, tomorrow possibly, although with time ashore, in Cadiz, it might not be until Thursday that I hit the keyboard again!

Getting ready for the off, with a brief taste of Oktoberfest before we depart

In less than a days’ time, we will be into October, the 10^th month of the year despite the chronological mismatch of its name and, as ever I have to ask the question where has the year gone? The fact that as we grow older the years seem to fly by quicker, is just one of the cruel tricks that nature plays on us, but as there's little, we can do about it, we just have to do our best to make full use of the time that we are given. I thought I'd been doing quite well actually in this respect, until mid-August, having enjoyed days out, in some of Britain’s leading beer cities, as well as visiting some cracking pubs, closer to home.

I had another trip scheduled for mid-August, in the form of a well-planned, trip around some of the Black Country’s classics pubs. Then, less than a week away from my Black Country tour, COVID came knocking at my door, for the third time! (How did that happen?). Worse was to come as I ended up passing the virus on to Mrs PBT’s. I'm still not sure whether she has forgiven me, as what made the situation worse was her testing positive on our wedding anniversary!

To be honest, I'm still not sure what the fuss is about, because we don’t normally make a huge fuss in the Bailey household, over such anniversaries, in fact there have been times when both of us have forgotten the whole thing altogether. Unfortunately, it's a convenient point to hang something on, and not something to argue against logically. So, in the interests of peace, harmony, and marital bliss, I've been keeping my head down. Annoyingly I've missed out on several CAMRA bus trips, a Pub of the Year presentation, plus one of the best beer festivals around. This just happened to be the launch of this year’s Kent Green Hop Beers Fortnight, which took place, as usual, at the Canterbury Food & Drink Festival. The event was missing for a couple of years, due to COVID (what else?), so I was really looking forward to its return, the other week.

The launch of Kent Green Hop Beer Fortnight is one of the very few festivals I attend these days, and as the weather is normally set fair at this time of year, the surroundings of Canterbury 's Dane John Gardens, make the perfect setting for enjoying a few of these “one off” ales, brewed with freshly picked hops. When there’s a touch of late autumn sunshine, to warm the happy faces of festival goers, it makes for a fantastic day out. Small wonder then it has always been one of my favourite events of this time of year.

Getting around the country by train, hasn’t been particularly easy this year, due to the preponderance of rail strikes, and whilst the trade unions involved are required by law to give a minimum of two weeks’ notice, before walking it out, it does make long-term planning that little bit harder, especially when it comes to buying Advanced Saver tickets, for long distance journeys. I don't want to say too much, but with both government and unions dug in, and neither side prepared to compromise, it looks like this problem will effect Proper Day’s Out, for some time to come.

Now where was I? Keeping a low profile, as for some strange and illogical reason, my good lady wife has it in her head, that public houses are one of the prime places for contracting COVID. She’s quite happy for me to go to work, and mix with colleagues, many of whom could potentially be carrying the plague, but somehow, it's pubs that are the problem. Talk about female logic when a total lack of logic would be more appropriate!

I’ve largely gone along with her concerns during the run-up to our cruise, which departs from Southampton in a couple of days’ time, but yesterday I had a few errands to run down the town. One of which was a very necessary visit to the podiatrist, to sort out a couple of ingrowing toenails, that were giving me grief. With plenty of circuits around the promenade deck in mind, the last thing I want is to be hobbling around in agony.

After my treatment, I called in at Sainsbury’s for a few last-minute bits and pieces, but also to pick up some Euros, for trips ashore. Mission accomplished, it was time for a beer, and despite Mrs PBT’s misgivings, I headed for Fuggles Beer Café at the top end of the High Street. I was aware from their website, that they had a couple of genuine Oktoberfest beers on tap. By genuine, I mean beers that are actually served at the main event in Munich. The festival itself draws to a close early next week, but the team at Fuggles had managed to obtain all six Oktoberfest beers.

The offerings from Paulaner and Hacker-Pschorr, were the only two left, so not wishing to miss out completely, I entered Fuggles and made my way to the bar. The place was relatively quiet for a Thursday afternoon, with bar staff nearly outnumbering customers, but after studying the blackboard lists behind the bar, I was pleased to see the two aforementioned beers were still available, along with a couple of homegrown Oktoberfest beers.

Torn between Paulaner and Hacker-Pschorr, I opted for a half pint of each, and given that both had an abv of around 6%, this was probably a smart move. I made the barman chuckle though, by saying I knew one was supposed to drink these beers by the litre, but could I just have just a half of each. He grinned and poured them for me, making sure I knew which one was which. That was easy because colour played a role with the Paulaner, being the traditional gold colour one would expect, whilst the Hacker-Pschorr version was much more of an amber colour.

This is because it is brewed with the characteristics of a true Märzen beer. As I explained in a previous article, Märzen was the style of beer served at Oktoberfest until the mid-1970s, when lighter, golden coloured beers became the norm. It was interesting trying both styles side by side, as the Paulaner version was definitely sweeter than the Hacker-Pschorr brew, but the letter was probably better balanced.

I enjoyed them both, but wondered what it would be like chugging back a litre of each. Pretty good I imagine, especially when swept up in the fervour of what is promoted is the world's largest Folk Festival. Picture sitting, side by side, at a long table, with a group of people, swaying along, singing, whilst at the same time knocking back those massive 1 litre Maβ glass mugs of beer. And, as we have already discussed, it isn’t just any beer that’s served up in the festival tents, it’s those strong, 6% Fest bier specials, that I had a brief taste of in Fuggles. I’m sure that the contents of those   impressive glass mugs would slide down a treat.

It’s back to reality this morning, and the final packing for our cruise. We’ve a taxi booked for the morning (ouch!), but with the car still in at the dealers, and son Matthew not particularly confident about motorway, or long-distance driving, we’ve had to bite the bullet, and go by cab. Dependent on wi-fi connections, or data, I shall try and post from some of the destinations we dock up, but if not, there will be an awful lot of catching up to do upon my return.

Letting the train take the strain

After eight days with my car still parked at the local Skoda dealer, and no update either as to what the fault might be, I remain car-less. It's like having your arm chopped off, but with the weather remaining quite mild and with not much rain either, it hasn't been that much of an issue. Having said that, I remain unimpressed with the service I’ve received from this main dealer, and whilst I won't embarrass them by naming and shaming, their current staffing issues must be similar to our own. This seems to be the way of the world at the moment.

These past six days I've been travelling to and from work either by train or by a mixture of lifts from son Matthew or from a colleague.  I've quiet enjoyed travelling in by train, and walking to and from the station at either end means I’ve easily clocked up 10,000 steps a day. The train ride itself is pleasant as well, although somewhat confusingly, the station at Chiddingstone Causeway where my company is based, is called Penshurst despite the village of that name being a couple of miles away.

Penshurst station is only two stops from Tonbridge on the line towards Redhill, and because I'm going against the flow of commuting traffic, the trains are not too crowded. When they pull in at Tonbridge station each morning, before making the return journey to Redhill, the sheer volume of school kids they disgorge onto the platform has to be seen to be believed.

This is because the town is a centre of educational excellence with two girls grammar schools (equivalent), one boy’s grammar, plus two other schools, one for each sex. One of those is Eileen’s old school, which had something of a reputation, back in the day, plus the comprehensive where Matthew spent six years of his life, getting up to mischief and not really learning as much as he should have done. 

So speaks the judgmental parent, but against this background, it’s small wonder that property prices in the area are so high. Trains on the Tonbridge-Redhill line operate on an hourly basis, although at morning and early evening peak times, there were two services every hour, in both directions. This works out fine for work, but even so, I'm looking forward to the return of my vehicle, when we return from holiday.  

Now for a few interesting facts about this rail line, which forms an important east-west, cross-country link.  The railway between Tonbridge and Redhill was part of the original line from London to the Channel coast and after following the course of a natural gap in the chalk hills, to the south of the capital as far as Redhill, departed from the mainline and turned east towards Tonbridge, Ashford and ultimately, Folkestone.  It wasn't until the 1870’s that the more direct route north-west, via Sevenoaks was opened, its construction prior to this having been hindered by lines of steep hills, namely the North Downs and the Greensand Ridge. Crossing these natural barriers necessitated building several tunnels as well as a number of deep cuttings.

When I first moved to Tonbridge in the mid 1980’s, the line towards Redhill was operated by diesel multiple units (DMU’s for the train anoraks out there), but a few years British Rail finally found the funds to electrify the line, a move which provided a seamless link into the rest of the South East rail network.  As well as a busy line in its own right, the link between Tonbridge and Redhill, serves as a useful diversionary route, which is particularly useful when engineering work is taking place on the line that runs through Sevenoaks.

Even before electrification I became quite familiar with this line, particularly during the early days of my involvement with West Kent CAMRA. The railway facilitated evening visits to pubs, such as Little Brown Jug, opposite Penshurst station, as well as for visits to pubs in small town of Edenbridge. If we were feeling really adventurous, we’d continue to the end of the line at Redhill, where the Home Cottage, a large Victorian pub belonging to Young's brewery, served as the ideal meeting point for joint socials between WK CAMRA and the local Reigate & Redhill branch.

I made a return visit to the Home Cottage last year, whilst waiting for a connection back to Tonbridge. This was after completing a section of the North Downs Way. The Tonbridge-Redhill line proved especially useful whilst walking other sections of this long-distance footpath, along with the western extension of the line towards Guildford.  

This section, known as the North Downs Line, is still awaiting electrification,
something that is unlikely to happen given the fragmented nature of the rail network, and the botched privatisation designed for the benefit of shareholders, at the expense of passengers and rail workers. Diesel, or not this section of line was very useful towards the end of my NDW, as it allowed me to access various stopping off points along the way, at remote stations such as Betsworth and Gomshall, as I walked towards the penultimate section of the walk, between Guildford and Farnham.

I’ve finished at work now until after our holiday, which means three weeks away from the office. I’ve had to work like a Trojan getting everything up to date before turning the expansion project I’m involved with, over to colleagues. They will then look after the next phase and take care of my responsibilities during my absence.  In the meantime, I’m off for some last minute shopping, before making a start on the packing, so that’s all for the time being.                                                                                                                                                                                                              

A few more books at bedtime, plus one for the cruise ship

 “A Book at Bedtime” is the name of a long-running radio programme that is broadcast on BBC Radio 4 each weekday evening. Its 15-minute slot, that goes out just before bedtime at 10.45 pm, presents readings of fiction, including modern classics, new works by leading writers, and literature from around the world.

This article is the third in a rather drawn-out series of the same name, and like its predecessors looks back at some of the books I’ve read over the last year or so. There’s much to be said about “a book at bedtime,” especially as one can lose oneself in another word, before drifting off into a restful sleep. Climbing into bed, and snuggling down under the covers, with just enough room to hold and read a book, is certainly a good way to relax and to forget about the trials and tribulations of the day just passed.

My most recent “Book at Bedtime” article saw the light of day in December 2021, so almost two years ago, and as Mrs PBT’s and I countdown the days to a lengthy period afloat – a period when there should be ample time for further reading, here is a quick look-back over the books I’ve digested over the past 22 months.

Rural Rides - William Cobbett

William Cobbett (1763-1835) was an English pamphleteer, farmer, and journalist, who is best known for his book, Rural Rides. Cobbett was a radical anti-Corn Law and social campaigner, speaking up on behalf of the rural poor. He was newly returned to England, following a spell of self-imposed political exile in the United States, and between 1821 and 1836 Cobbett made numerous journeys, by foot and on horseback, through the countryside of southern England. On his travels he observed the English countryside and agricultural practices at close hand and saw many examples of injustice and poverty which angered him.

Cobbett believed that reforming Parliament and abolishing the rotten borough system would help to end the poverty of farm labourers, as he matured into a radical left-wing politician. He was also a farmer who ensured his labourers had access to the three Bs: bacon, bread. Rural Rides is Cobbett's remarkable account of what he saw and is a detailed portrait of rural England at the time. It remains one of the greatest celebrations of agrarian England.

Knowing quite a few of the places that Cobbett visited on his travels, makes Rural Rides even more interesting for me, and his description of the countryside either side of the Medway Valley, to the south of Maidstone is one I wholeheartedly agree with.

The Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald

The Great Gatsby is a 1925 novel by American writer F. Scott Fitzgerald and was his third book. It is claimed to be one of the great classics of twentieth century literature and stands as the supreme achievement of Fitzgerald’s career. It is rather a short book, and if you want a tip, don’t read the introduction before diving into the narrative. Why? Well for starters, it’s nearly as long as the novel itself, and like many similar introductions, written by various pompous, “literary fellows,” it makes little sense until you have actually finished the book!

Set in the Jazz Age, in a fictitious small settlement on Long Island, near New York City, the novel makes use of a narrator Nick Carraway, who writes in the first-person about his observations and interactions with mysterious millionaire Jay Gatsby. Billed as an exquisitely crafted tale of America in the 1920s when, according to the New York Times, "gin was the national drink and sex the national obsession," the novel depicts Gatsby's obsession to reunite with his former lover, Daisy Buchanan.

Why is Gatsby so great? Because that's what Nick tells us. If Gatsby told us, we would just think that he is a rather boastful, and shallow character. Instead, Jay Gatsby, is the embodiment of hope, and no one can dissuade him from his dreams, even though the novel has a tragic ending (spoiler alert). The story of this slightly naïve, but fabulously wealthy dreamer, and his love for the beautiful Daisy Buchanan, is one that embodies the age it was written in, as well as the American dream. Small wonder that it’s referred to as a brilliant literary masterpiece.

I picked up this book at St Pancras International, intending to read on the train to Brussels and Cologne, where I was travelling to for the International Dental Show. Instead, by swapping seats, I manged to sit opposite one of my colleagues from the sales team. She was good company and being Irish had plenty to say as well. We sloped off at Brussels Midi for a crafty beer, and nearly missed our connecting Thalys train to Cologne, but that’s another story.

Finally, we come to the book I am reading at the moment, and am currently 219 pages in to a 821 page novel. The book is Tom Jones, by Henry Fielding, and Tom will be accompanying me on the cruise.

The History of Tom Jones, a Foundling

Often known simply as Tom Jones, the above is a comic novel by English playwright and novelist Henry Fielding. It was first published in February 1749 in London and is said to be among the earliest English works to be classified as a novel.

Tom Jones was hugely popular when it was first published and tells the story of the foundling Tom and his journey towards adulthood and marriage. This journey is a complicated one, as well as a comedic one, involving an intricate and interwoven plot that is full of different twists and turns.

Tom is a foundling of mysterious parentage brought up by the local squire, Mr. Allworthy on his country estate. He falls in love with Sophia Western, the beautiful daughter of the neighbouring squire, although along the way he succumbs to the charms of several local girls. After a series of misadventures, he is banished from Mr Allworthy’s house, and finds his way to London, to make his own fortune. Sophia follows him to the capital to escape an arranged marriage, and the adventure really begins.

The novel's events occupy eighteen books, but despite its age, is very easy to read. Described as a vivid Hogarthian panorama of eighteenth-century life, spiced with danger, intrigue, and bawdy exuberance, Tom Jones is one of the greatest and most ambitious comic novels in English literature, and I look forward to discovering what the book’s hero get up to next.

 Cask, the Real Story of Britain’s Unique Beer Culture

Should I manage to read the remaining 600 pages, or if I fancy a change, I shall be taking along a copy of Des de Moor’s recently published tome –  Cask. The book has received mixed reviews to date, with some complaining it is too long, and others saying it is too technical. One reviewer even described it as lacking feeling. I shall of course, read it without any pre-conceptions and present an honest review at the end. I doubt somehow, I will be able to plough my way through a further 300 pages of text, so that appraisal will probably appear later, rather than sooner.

The not so "smart" road to nowhere

There are some experiences in life that we either wish we hadn't had or, if we haven't had them yet, we don't want them to occur. Unfortunately, last weekend I found myself living one such experience, and whilst it turned out alright in the end, it is not something I would wish to repeat.

I've held a full driving licence since the age of 19, although it was several years later that I purchased my first car. Money was tight in those days, especially during my student years, but living in a city such as Manchester, where public transport was plentiful and relatively cheap, there was no need for me to get behind the wheel.

Since acquiring my first vehicle, a Mark III Ford Escort estate, purchased second-hand from the company I worked for at the time, I’ve enjoyed many years of pleasant, enjoyable, and relatively stress-free motoring. One of my worst fears behind the wheel, apart from the obvious one of being involved in an accident, has been that of breaking down somewhere at the side of the road. Being stranded somewhere, miles from anywhere during a long road trip, with an incapacitated vehicle, and unable to continue and complete my journey. Even worse would be for the car to suffer a fault whilst travelling in fast moving traffic, along a motorway, or other dual carriageway road.

I wouldn't say I'm a motoring geek, but I do check my oil and coolant levels from time to time and the same applies to my tyre pressures. These checks are particularly important prior to setting off on a long journey. Well, I was on a short car ride on Sunday, when the worst happened, and my vehicle developed a fault whilst I was driving along the motorway. Before going into detail, I'd like to set the scene, and explain what I've been doing I'm where I was travelling home from, so please bear with, as they say.

Early on Sunday morning, young Matthew and I had driven over to Chiddingstone Causeway, in order to grab a breakfast at the village hall. We left Mrs PBT's behind, tucked up in bed, as she is definitely not a morning person these days, and wouldn’t have thanked us, if we’d woken her up. We arrived at the hall shortly before 9am, where there was already quite a number of eager diners sat down inside.  We had to wait about 30 minutes for our breakfast to be served, but it was worth the wait, with several rashers of properly matured bacon, a farmhouse sausage, fried egg, toast, and tin tomatoes.

A small number of volunteers do the cooking for these breakfasts, which take place once a fortnight. All profits generated go towards the village hall fund, so with me working in Chiddingstone Causeway, it's nice to put a little something back into the local community. With breakfast done and dusted what should we do afterwards? There was very little that needed doing outside, as the with the growing season coming to an end, the garden is now more or less taking care of itself. Besides with rain forecast there would be no need to water anything either. This is where the kernel of an idea took shape in my mind, and because it involved a visit to a different branch of the hardware chain store that Matthew works at, he jumped at the idea.

My plan was to take a drive over to the mid Surrey town of Dorking, take a look around the town, and visit the local branch of Robert Dyas, before heading home. Prior to parking up in the town though, I told Matthew we would drive the short distance along the A24 towards the foot of Box Hill, park up at the Mercure Hotel at Burford Bridge, in the shadow of the well-known local landmark. We would then walk the short distance to the point where the North Downs Way descends from the summit of Box Hill and crosses the busy A24.

I wanted to take a look at the famous Stepping Stones which is where the NDW crosses a shallow stream by means of a series of flat and strategically placed stepping stones. I had missed this small, but significant stretch of the trail, when I walked from Betchworth station to the halt at Boxhill & Westhumble. That particular hike took place on New Year's Eve 2021, and it was whilst descending from the summit of Boxhill that I took a wrong turn. I only realised my error when I was about a third of the way down, but as the going under foot was very slippery, due to the long-wet grass, I decided to keep going and eventually reached the bottom, where the footpath brought me out from just behind the Burford Bridge Hotel.

Annoyed at having missed the famous stepping stones, I promised myself, for the sake of completeness, to return one day and see then for myself. Last Sunday seemed as good a day as any, and it wasn't that far to walk from the car park either. Matthew still managed to complain, moaning that I was leading him on a wild goose chase, even though it didn't take us long to find the famous stones, the clue being a small National Trust car park. We walked down to the stream and had a look at the crossing.

The setting was quite picturesque, although the stream didn't seem as wide as some of the photos I’d seen. This may have been due to the lack of rain in recent months. I took a few photos before walking back to the car, past the famous Rykas Café, and the hordes of bikers it attracts. 

We then headed into Dorking, for my first visit in many years. We had a stroll around this attractive town, which allowed Matthew time to call in at the local branch of his store, whilst I grabbed a flat white, from a local independent coffee shop opposite. By the time I’d received my coffee to go, and met back up with Matthew, it had started raining, so we hurried back to the car feeling a bit foolish for having left our coats on the back seat.

It was time to head back to Tonbridge, and although we had made our way cross country from Chiddingstone, on the homeward trip I decided we would take the motorway. After entering Reigate, we drove up the steep Reigate Hill torch towards Junction 8 of the M25 and joined the motorway. We were motoring along fine, until we reached the stretch between the Godstone turning and Clackets Lane services. As we were driving along, I was explaining to Matthew what “smart motorways” are, and how in my book, the powers that be had rather foolishly removed the “hard shoulder” in order to provide an extra traffic lane.

This was all well and good, I said, until something goes wrong - not for one moment thinking something would go wrong, but unfortunately it did!  We were travelling around 60-65 mph in lane 2, when the car started juddering and I experienced a loss of power. it wasn't a complete loss, but what on earth was going on? My vehicle is powered by diesel, and a warning light had been flashing on the dashboard, indicating a fault with the glow plugs, so this was an obvious clue to the cause of the problem. We’d already passed the A22 turn off, and the next junction was the turn off for the A21. It's quite a complicated junction and was some miles away, so what to do next?

Being in a vehicle, whose engine was malfunctioning, was not a position I wanted to be in, but equally there was nowhere safe to pull over, and stop. Fortunately, Clacket Lane services were not too far away, so I decided we would leave the motorway there, providing the car kept going, and call for assistance from there. On the way, we noticed one of the yellow-painted, so-called “refuge spaces” designed as somewhere cars in difficulties can pull over and stop. Matthew was surprised when we didn’t make use of this area, so I told him that it was far too dangerous a place to stop. We limped on until we reached the service station, parked the car, and phoned Britannia Rescue.

Despite the promise of a tow truck within about 20 minutes, we ended up waiting a couple of hours for one to arrive. This wasn’t a problem, but it was rather annoying. The main thing was we were both safe, and the car was physically undamaged. It was an obvious fault – according to Google, and with the recovery vehicle on its way, the car plus Matthew and I would be driven to a garage of our choice, where we could leave the vehicle for the fault to be investigated and repaired.

It didn’t quite work out like that. Sure, we parked the car outside the local Skoda main dealership, deposited the key in the external safe, and caught a train back to Tonbridge. The following morning, Matthew drove me over to the dealership, and I formally booked my vehicle in. I sat there and listened to the sob story from the girl on the counter, about how busy they were, and how they couldn’t possibly work on the car for two or even three weeks.

I explained that I required the vehicle back, in a drivable condition, by the end of the month, as we needed to drive down to Southampton to embark on a lengthy cruise. That had virtually zero effect on the stony-faced receptionist, so I told her if they were unable to repair the vehicle before the allotted time, I would have to leave it with them, as me being out of the country did make collecting it, just that little bit awkward!

The car is still at the dealership, and Mrs PBT’s has booked a taxi to drive us to the cruise terminal and back. Not quite what we wanted, but as I was able to cancel, and claim a refund on the overnight hotel stay, and 20 days parking, that goes some way to offset the cost of the taxi. Looking on the bright side, breaking down where we did was far more preferable than the vehicle malfunctioning on the drive down to Southampton. That’s before even recount the number of cases my good lady wife is planning on taking.

As far as “smart motorways” are concerned, whatever government numpty, or treasury official came up with that crazy idea? According to campaigners, there have been at least 79 deaths linked to smart motorways, and in January 2022, the rollout of new stretches of “all-lane running” (the type we were on), was paused for five years, in order to collect more information and make existing schemes safer. Ministers have now gone further and cancelled the building of new smart motorways.