Before we left England, Georgie had the full pamper package: MOT, full service, brand new tyres, and complete habitation check. Money well spent for a bit of peace of mind, we thought. Well, apparently not. Firstly, we have all sorts of trouble with the levellers. These are the stabilising metal feet that drop down once we’re parked: they help us not to sleep on too much of a slope, and allow our sinks to actually drain.
They’ve always been on the temperamental side, but when we camp near Salamanca, in Spain, they drop down nicely then flatly refuse to fold up again. Enter Peter, with wire to tie then up until we can get them sorted out, allowing us time to sight-see.
Despite the replacement part, the fridge is still being a bitch, with a tendency to over-freeze then suddenly defrost itself, and flood all the food on a fairly predictable six-hour cycle.
Enter Dave, the old Canadian, who knows lots about RV’s and sorts that out in a jiff. He shows us where to clean out the back, and then switch it over to run exclusively on LPG. It’s perfect now.
But lazy levellers and snitty fridges are all mere niggles compared to the wobbly that Georgie throws at us next.
We make it right across Spain and into Portugal, but arrive a lot later than intended because we’ve spent a whole sodding morning sorting out the fridge and the levellers. So, instead of getting to Aviero on the coast, we make a pit-stop at a car park in Viseu. One night there, and we’ll be on our way in the morning.
We discover a brilliant curry house in town, run by a couple that lived in Birmingham for five years. As we leave, the owner shakes our hands and tells us if we need anything while we’re in Viseu, or have trouble with the language, we’re to come straight to him.
The next day we get ready to hit the coast. But as Steve start the engine, Georgie makes a terrible noise – a seriously wrong noise. In a flash, he’s switched her off, got the toolbox out, and disconnected the batteries, but it’s too late – her starter motor has burnt out, and there is smoke everywhere.
Steve heads off to see if the curry house guy is around, and can recommend a mechanic. In fact, there’s a repair shop nearby and they send him to a company just a couple of miles north of town.
Enter Joao. Our angel. He follows Steve back with a van full of tools and a damn good command of English. Between them they figure out the problem has been caused by faulty wiring, that didn’t let the starter motor switch back off once it’d done its job. Consequently, it just kept firing until it had burnt itself to a cinder.
Joao tells us his boss his Pedro is particularly good with starter motors – they are his thing, apparently, so that’s lucky. And Joao also says that, not only are electrics his own speciality, but that he’s a magician with them. Double lucky, then.
We also ask his advice about the tyres, as Steve has noticed a problem with one of them deflating. They are brand new and have only recently been fitted by supposed experts. Joao confirms what Steve suspected – not one of them has the right air pressure any more, and the inner tyres have been lined up incorrectly so the valves are hitting the hub caps as the wheels turn, causing air to escape. The whole lot will need to be redone.
While Joao is tinkering away, we meet Gerrit, a Dutchman who runs a campsite just down the road. Every morning he fills his trailer with bicycles, and his truck with happy campers, and drops them in our car park. They cycle along a scenic route, all the way back to his site. Downhill all the way, he says. He comes every morning, always stopping for a chat, and telling me about all the local places of interest and excursions that he recommends to his campers. If there is anything he can do, he says, and gives me his card.
There isn’t, but that’s okay because Pedro and Joao come down the following day, strip out the motor, and work out a solution.
The old started motor will be repaired, as a new one would take longer to arrive, be more expensive, and frankly be less powerful than the one we have. Before even seeing it, Pedro has already spent time sourcing parts he thinks we might need. The wiring problem can be circumvented by Joao installing a new starter button further down the steering column. It might take a few days as the parts are in another city, but they will call us at the end of the day to let us know.
We have some concerns about staying another night in the car park: what if the police come and insist we move on? We were only supposed to stay there for one night. It turns out that all the local cops, ambulance drivers, etc. all go to Pedro to fix their vehicles. And Joao has already spoken to a policeman friend of his on our behalf, and so he assures us that there is unlikely to be a problem. But if there is, Pedro gives us his personal number, and says that the police can just call him and he will explain everything.
Steve and I decide, what the heck, we’re stuck here for another day: let’s take Gerrit’s advice, and go and see some of this lovely country.
While we’re out, we have our first introduction to the Francesinha. Which is a sandwich: or so we assume, because the language barrier can be tall sometimes. The waitress mutters the words meat, cheese, and tomato, and sandwich – she definitely says sandwich – so I thought I knew what to expect.
Apparently the Portuguese Francesinha, or little Frenchie, started life as a sort-of Croque Monsieur. But then it grew, and I don’t think it knew when to stop.
It is now layers of pork, smoked sausage, bacon and steak, wrapped in bread, and covered in a thick cheese sauce. It is microwaved until the meat is rubber, the bread is polystyrene, and the cheese is lava. Then it is smothered in a glow-in-the-dark tomato sauce, into which a years worth of chips have been tipped and are consequently wilting. It usually has a fried egg on top (just in case you feel it’s a bit protein light), but we are spared that, thankfully.
Anyway, we’re very hungry, so we give it a go. And all I can say is that afterwards, my stomach feels as if it has been beaten up. For quite a long time.
Food is a bit odd here 
The terrifying Francesinha
When we get back, there were five missed phone calls from Pedro, because Steve has put his phone on silent and forgotten about it. Sooner than they’d expected, Pedro and Joao have located the parts, fixed the motor, and – unable to contact us – simply come back to the van, crawled underneath and reinstalled it.
Minutes later, Joao’s car screeches into the car park, and he yells, Don’t connect the batteries! Which we’ve been about to do, as the whole burning-out thing has flattened them and Steve has got the re-charger ready. Not having access to the inside of the van, they’ve had to leave trailing wires. Joao will be back to sort that out first thing in the morning.
So we spend our last night in the car park. In order to keep our waste tanks to a low level for travelling, we’ve developed the habit of running down into town, with clenched buttocks, and using the loo at the shopping mall when it opens at nine. We haven’t washed much and I’m looking forward to being on a campsite again. I’ve had to learn to use earplugs as we are quite near a busy roundabout. They make my ears hot and can trap in the tinnitus, but still, best travelling purchases yet, along with blackout blinds from Ikea.
I hear Steve say, ‘there are police outside’, though.
We do our best to explain why we are still there, to a tough looking one and a hot one. Toughie speaks no English, but hottie gets by. They are mostly concerned with the fact that, in all the fuss, Steve has accidentally left the discharge for our grey waste open, and our washing up water has been draining out of the van and onto the concrete. We apologise, and then try to understand what they’re asking us, as the mimes are getting increasingly comical and seem to have nothing to do with engines.
Apparently, toughie has a motorhome too, but not as big as ours, and they’re convinced that there’s a door at the back that will open for us to drive Nibbles, my smart car, into. They’ve seen it on telly, and don’t want to leave without seeing it in action. Disappointing policemen is not high on my list of things to do, but in this instance it is unavoidable. They leave, shaking their heads – all that space just for two people and no car!
Joao and Pedro turn up the next day with profuse apologies for being half an hour late. Joao’s fiancé, Flora, has been rushed to hospital in the night, with a big swelling in her armpit and a lot of pain.
We ask him why he’s here, when he should be with his fiancé? To which he replies, that he told Mr Steve that he’d be here, so here he is. He couldn’t break his word to Mr Steve. We are stunned and humbled. How very blessed are we?
They wire everything up and install the new button. Georgie starts, with a car equivalent of that noise you make when you pretend you’ve only been resting your eyes. We follow Pedro’s car up to the garage so he can solder everything in place, and I start searching the van for something to give Joao as a ‘thank-you’ for all he’s done.
It has to be special, but the problem is that we carry little with us that isn’t essential. I find the perfect thing – and I hope she forgives me – because the reason it’s special is because my best friend from way back gave it to me. It is a silver key ring, with a locket for a photo attached. I’ve always meant to put a pic of Steve in there, but somehow never got around to it: I don’t like the idea of getting it scratched and tarnished, and Steve’s daughter has already given me a ‘madness hamster’ as a key ring, so what to do?
We pass it on to Joao, with our email addresses inside so he can stay in touch. At first he refuses; he can’t accept such a gift, he was only doing his job. But when he realises we really appreciate all the extra work and care he’s put in, he is delighted.
‘I get married next year’, he says, ‘we together ten years but now we get married. I send you invite; you come?’
‘Of course we’ll come. That would be wonderful. We’ll come in this’, I say, and pointing to Georgie.
‘You come in this, is good. But don’t bring that‘, he points to Nibbles. ‘You really drive all the way from England … in that?’ He shakes his head with embarrassment on my behalf. ‘Ay, ay, ay, is not real car’, he says, as he waves us goodbye.
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