May 2011, I had booked my CELTA course to start at the end of June, and I was trying to find some short-term work to get me through the month in Barcelona. One friend had promised work in the weeks to come, but it was not showing much promise. I had spoken to my mate Baz who had been out in France doing tarmac and paving for three months, and he encouraged me to go out and work with him. I asked him some questions about it, and he told me that I would get 50 Euros a day plus lunch and accommodation paid for. Sounded okay. Not brilliant, but I needed money, so I decided to check it out. Barry gave me the number of his boss and I dropped a text asking about it. I got a reply telling me to be in the high street at midday on the coming Sunday and we would drive down to Dover and get the Channel Tunnel. I packed my things up and got ready.
Sunday arrives, I am waiting in the high street and a Toyota pick-up spins a u-turn to pull up in front of me. A red-haired guy gets out and says hello to me in an unmistakeable Irish gypsy accent, introducing himself as James. He is short but fairly well built, with a tough weathered face. Age, probably about late-thirties. He seemed friendly, but Barry had neglected to mention that he was working for gypsies. This might have influenced my decision to go out there. No, it WOULD have influenced my decision to go out there. Still, here I was. I couldn't exactly turn around and say, "sorry mate, didn't realise you were gypsies. I don't work with gypsies." It might not have gone down too well.
I threw my bag in the back and jumped in the car where he introduced me to his son. Friendly lad. We chatted a bit and I asked how old he was, and he replied that he was eleven. "So you just started secondary school then?" I asked him. He replied that he didn't go to school. "Okay. Cool." I should have guessed that. I kind of admire that though.
We stopped off and picked up his younger brother Martin, who was probably mid thirties. He seemed friendly, and we chatted briefly before he showed me his fist, swollen to double size after he went to some guy's house the night before and beat the crap out of him. He told me it was because the guy had insulted his wife. I diplomatically told him it sounded like the guy deserved it. James suggested that he get his story straight in case the police come knocking.
So off we drove. They told me about Aaron, the other guy that was working with my friend Barry, telling me how he was getting on their nerves because he was always complaining about the job. I asked the fiery-haired boss how long the journey would take. He replied that it wouldn't take more than three hours or so, but that we would be stopping off so that the three of them could go for a round of golf. I said okay, not feeling like I was in the position to bargain. He suggested that I either join them or I could wait in the car. I waited in the car.
I waited for probably two hours while they played nine holes. I smoked a couple and listened to music, wondering casually what I might be getting myself in for. 'Fuck it', I thought, 'it'll be an experience whatever happens'. That it was.
They returned from their golf and we set off to pick up Martin's wife and his almost-newborn son, then headed for Dover. On the journey I chatted with James' son. He played the Game Boy I'd brought along for a while, then took my Blackberry to play more games. I munched a bag of sweets I had and offered him one. He had one, then said he had a stomach ache a bit later, thinking it was probably from the sweet. He was probably right. Sugar is a gut-rotter.
Early on in the journey I had noticed that none of them wore seat belts, not even the mother holding her young child. James sped down the motorway at a minimum of 80 miles an hour, driving with his knees from time-to-time when his hands were busy. Now, I'm not trying to tell anyone how to raise their children, but my parents were very strict about seat belts. The first thing I do when I get into a car is put mine on. This was fine until I noticed that no-one else in the car did. From then on I felt like I might be somehow insulting James' driving skills. I imagined him turning round to me, "watsamattur-Saam, yoo tink-umma bad droivur?" I still wore it.
Dover, we drove onto a channel tunnel train, zipped across in no time. As we parked in the train James' son jumped out of the car and went off to explore the train, disappearing through the door in front of us. I wondered what he would get up to. James turned to me. "So, whaddaya tink Saam?" "What do I think of what?" I asked. "Just whaddaya tink?" I was stumped for a moment. 'What do I think?' "Just looking forward to doing some work and seeing France and Belgium mate. I've never been." "Itsalraight Sam, not bad."
We chatted idly on the journey under the channel, came out in France and headed towards the Belgian border, not far from Dunkirk and a lovely old Norman town called Bergues. The land became amazingly flat as we came into Belgium, you could see for miles, across wet farmland dotted with the odd tree. I imagined the German tanks rolling across the plains towards Dunkirk to drive the British Expeditionary force across the channel to Blighty. I could smell the history in the air.
I didn't notice slipping across the border to Belgium. There was no border security, not even a line on the ground. We drove for a short distance over the border, through one or two ghost-towns where the windows of every house we saw were covered with security shutters. It seemed like a holiday resort after the zombie takeover, not a single person on the streets, hardly any sign of human life except for the buildings and the parked cars. It felt a little ominous.
We arrived at the chalet we were staying in, part of a small park of holiday chalets, again lifelessly quiet. I expected the zombies to jump out at any moment. They didn't though. The chalets were fairly cosy inside, although ours had a peculiar smell like something had died in the walls. Barry spent some time trying to get into the extractor fan hole a bit later, convinced there was a dead rat or bird in there. There was probably a corpse hidden somewhere.
When we got in I met Aaron, a friendly lad of about 29 from Dover. He was smoking so I rolled up one of my own and smoked it with him, and played a couple of racing games on the playstation and small TV they had. We were staying on beds which were in a raised open roof space up a ladder. The back of the chalet had a nice tidy garden which looked out across a few acres of completely flat wet farmland. A family of birds somewhere sang sweet songs. At the far end of the line of sight across the farmland was a railway that crossed the entire horizon. It was very quiet. Peaceful, but with a slightly ominous undertone.
Barry, my old friend from London, had popped out. We said hello when he got back, having not seen each other for several months. He had a bag of groceries from the supermarket so we had some food and went outside to enjoy the view and have a smoke. He spoke to Aaron and asked that they put their differences behind them - they had apparently had a falling-out earlier.
I asked James what time we were starting work tomorrow. In his 'Oyrish' gypsie accent he told me that they didn't have work yet, and that they were going out tomorrow to find some. "Ah. Okay." I had been under the impression that the work was already there.
Barry, Aaron and I spent the evening out in the garden drinking beer and smoking, watching shooting stars and satellites in the clear night sky, popping in occasionally to play on the Playstation. It was a pleasant evening, and we felt hopeful about getting work tomorrow. Barry told me they had been working solidly for 3 months. We headed off to bed once we were tired.
Monday. James and Martin head out to try and find work. The lads and I get up and decide to pop into the nearby town, which is a half hour walk away. We walk down quiet roads with nice spacious detached houses along them, cars parked in the driveways, but not a single sign of life. We head through a forest and across a quiet main road and stop to look at a war cemetery, before heading into what seemed to be a deserted seaside resort. It turned out to be, in fact, a deserted seaside resort. We have some food in a cafe that we are lucky enough to find open and sit on the beach with a couple of beers. We see a couple of people. At some point Barry gets a call from James, who tells him us three lads are moving out of the chalet and into a caravan in a park just over the border in France. We are not too happy.
That evening we pack up our stuff and drive to the caravan park. It seems friendly, but it is off a main road in the middle of nowhere, the nearest shop a good few miles away. In his favour James does leave us the work van to get around in, but tells us not to waste too much petrol. When we get to the caravan our hearts drop. It is tiny. With our bags in there it is hard to get in. James busies himself about trying to make it seem infinitely better than it is. It has electricity, but no water supply, no fridge and no cooking facilities. The caravan park did have toilets and showers costing 1Euro, but the caravan was awful. We glumly moved our stuff in and waited for James to go off before starting our bitching. "He's havin' a fuckin' laugh." "Where are we supposed to sleep?" "We can't even cook anything."
Barry rang James and very politely complained about the accommodation. He pointed out that none of us had any money, there was no work and the caravan had no cooking facilities. James made out like he was hurt, pointing out that he had done us a favour by getting us this caravan, like we were all being terribly ungrateful. We didn't have much choice but to put up with it. James said he'd sub us all a little cash the following day.
Wednesday finds no work again. We meet James who lends us 10 Euro each and expresses his absolute distain that we don't like the caravan, emphasising complete and utter shock at our ungratefulness. The three of us stay fairly quiet. We say goodbye hearing promises of work soon and again spend the day in Dunkirk.
Barry had met some French people previously who sold him smoke and he wanted to try and find them again. We found them in the park milling among a few groups of friendly students and so we had some more cheap but wholly adequate wine and a smoke, threw around a frisbee for a while, and then moved onto the football, booting it about between us in high spirits.
A short tanned French guy of probably early fifties who was relaxing in the sun got up to play with us. We kicked the ball around a while before more French lads came over to play too. A couple were very good, doing impressive tricks when the ball came to them. They looked like a tough bunch, many seeming to be of Algerian origin, some black, some white, some somewhere inbetween. Everyone was friendly. When they left we said goodbye, kicking the ball around some more before we sat down for a smoke, joined by a couple of French girls. They spoke a little English and we talked with them a while. We left soon after them and drove back towards the caravan park, listening to music through my phone. I remember 'Sloop John B' coming on and skipping it. Those lyrics were too close to my feelings at that moment.
Thursday, we get up, fed up, and I'm talking about going home Friday whatever happens. I consider the prospect of hitch-hiking. We once again go into Dunkirk with a football and a frisbee and chill out. We meet the French people and buy some more smoke and a some more cheap wine. We eat the cheapest food we can get our hands on by the port and have a fairly nice day. When James calls to tell us there is still no work, he suggests to Barry that we find the nearest job centre and sign on. He's having a fucking laugh.
That evening we decide to go to Bergues and set up a bonfire in the forest with a few beers and a few smokes. We find a nice spot, a small, flat, clear patch at the foot of a wooded hill, with a ledge a few metres down from us falling about 15 foot, before a field of tall grass with a path cut through it. We drink a couple of French beers each, listen to music, chat and watch the fire burning. It was nice. Love a bonfire. As it started to get dark we begin to think about packing up, but we had a couple of beers left so we stayed a while longer, heating and bending bottles in the fire.
As the fire dimmed I got up to get wood. It was dark. I carefully walked round the fire and up the hill, grabbing some dead branches on the floor and headed back to put them on the fire. As I put them in the flames smoke blew into my eyes. I recoiled back, hands over my eyes, and fell, misjudging where the ledge was behind me. Suddenly I am weightless. I hear myself shout out in surprise a brief moment before I land hard on my back on the ground below. It is a long fall. I am in shock. I am in pain. I cannot breathe properly. I cannot move. I open my eyes and I see darkness. I take as much breath in as I can and call out, "lads, I need your help."
Aaron later told me that upon hearing my shout and then my call for help, Barry jumped up and nearly ran over the edge of the drop himself. Aaron had to grab him and stop him from falling straight over after me. That might have finished me off. They edged down the slope near to me, shining the torch on me as they approached. I quickly told them not to touch me, that I was hurting and needed them to give me a minute to compose myself. I was very short of breath, very shaken. I had to check if I had done any serious damage.
I was lying on my back, but arched up over an old log which I had fallen onto. This log had broken in two under my weight. In my mind I was very aware of the possibility that I might never walk again, and looking back I'm surprised how calm I remained. I was certainly in shock however, and what else can you do in that situation but stay calm and assess the damage. I wiggled my toes successfully, which gave me hope. After a minute or so I attempted moving my legs slightly, which I managed painfully. Barry and Aaron removed the log from under me as carefully as they could, and I lay flat on my back, which hurt even more. I quickly asked them to help me onto my front, which we managed carefully. As soon as I was onto my front and off of my damaged back I thought I might cry with the relief from the pain. I lay face down in twigs and dirt and asked them to give me a couple of minutes, that I thought I was going to be okay, but needed a bit of time to get my breath back and get over the shock. I lay there and breathed beautiful air from the forest floor, feeling incredibly relaxed and relieved. I had just escaped death or very serious injury, but I still did not really know if I had done permanent damage to my back.
Barry and Aaron nipped up the slope to put the fire out and grab our stuff, and I lay on the forest floor in the twigs and leaves and dirt. When I opened my eyes the world around me was pitch black, so I kept them closed. They came down ready with our stuff and gave me a minute or two more. Barry shone his torch up at the ledge from which I fell. "Holy shit Trig, you're a very lucky man." I tried to look up at the height and agreed. The ground around me was littered with spine-breaking loose cobblestones. If I had fallen a foot to the right or left my back would have been broken like a twig.
I was ready to try walking again, and both the lads gently helped me to my feet. I could just about walk, very slowly and painfully. Barry gave me a large branch to use as a walking stick, and we slowly made our way back to the van. By this point I was smiling and joking, definitely still in shock. I was hurting a lot, but I was alive and walking.
We got back to the caravan and I tried to get some sleep, but it was difficult. Before I drifted off I told the lads that I was going to head back to England the next day, regardless of what happened. I couldn't work now. They both agreed they were going to do the same.
Friday morning, I wake up early, hurting. I want a shower so I struggle to my feet and struggle even more to get to the shower block. When I get back I am covered with sweat and exhausted. The lads slowly wake up and I start discussing our departure with them. We talk initially about walking to Dunkirk, about 4-5 miles, then get the train to Calais. I tell them I could do it, but I would be very slow with a bergen on my back after my fall. Then we discuss the possibility of hitch-hiking, but three lads with all our luggage are going to have trouble finding a lift. Then someone suggests driving the van to Calais, about 30-35 miles, then calling James to apologise and tell him where it's parked. It's a bit dodgy, and Aaron isn't too comfortable with it. Barry and I suggest that he could drive us to Calais, and we'll give him petrol money to drive back, but he doesn't want to stay out in France in the shitty caravan by himself, so it is decided. We are going to drive to Calais in the van, park it somewhere safe and tell James where we parked it once we're away.
We had very little petrol in the van, maybe just enough to get to Dunkirk to fill it up, so we head off, hoping that we have enough to get there. The petrol light is on most of the way, and as we are coming into Dunkirk the engine dies. We find ourselves rolling dead down a road with parked cars either side, but no spaces. Then literally as the van stops its roll, a space appears on our near side, and with a foot or two to spare, we roll in.
We get out and hunt for a petrol station. We are all a little worried about meeting James and Martin, and go as fast as we can, but of course I cannot walk fast at all for my back. We cannot find a petrol station anywhere and head back to the van, where we find a little diesel in a can in the back. We put this in, and head to the nearest station and fill the van up. Finally, we are able to hit the motorway and get to Calais.
We head down the motorway towards Calais. We are happy to be leaving, having gotten more than tired of the cramped caravan that week. We joke briefly about what would happen if James and Martin turned up, but I dismiss this, as we would have to be the unluckiest guys in the world to run into them.
We see a sign that says 15 miles to Calais. We cheer. Then, after a brief silence, Aaron says three words that will always haunt me, "They're behind us".
"Fuck off Aaron, that's not funny mate."
"They're behind us."
The quiet, calm fear in his voice sent a shiver up my spine, and sure enough when I looked into the side mirror there they were. James was driving the Toyota pickup, leaning out of his window with absolute rage in his eyes, screaming at us to pull over. Martin his brother was out the other window, more rage, more aggressive, spit flying from his mouth as he swore and cursed us.
"We're fucked."
"We're dead."
"They're gonna kill us."
Their car swerved at us, threatening to drive us off the road. We continued, unsure what to do. They pulled in front of us and screamed for us to turn off at the next junction. We agreed that we couldn't do that. We didn't know where we were turning off and didn't know what they would do to us. We told Aaron to turn back onto the motorway at the last minute, that we had to get to Calais, to a police station or somewhere safe.
We began following them up a motorway slip road. As we headed off the motorway a large concrete separation approached us, splitting the road off from the motorway. It got closer and closer until I believed it was too late for us to turn off. I looked in the wing-mirror, and seeing a 40 ton lorry speeding up in the nearest lane I was sure that it was too late - we were turning off. My heart sank. Then suddenly Aaron twisted the wheel left and we flew back onto the motorway, just missing the concrete by inches. My heart jumped back up out of my chest as we sided into the lorry, which flew past and bounced us across the road without seeming to notice we were there at all. "Holy shit! DRIVE!"
Aaron sped down the motorway, but we all knew that their car, faster than the heavily laden van we were in, would catch up again very soon. We agreed that we had to just drive to Calais, another 10 minutes or so, find a police car and get out near them to be safe. It was not to be. James and Martin caught up with us again, twice as angry, twice as aggressive, and this time they forced us off the road. Both brothers jumped out of their car, screaming in absolute fury for us to get out of the van. I sat there and watched them, staying fairly calm considering, trying to stay focussed on what was happening than worrying about it. James told his brother to stay in the pick-up, for which I was glad. Aaron locked his car door. Barry, to my left, suddenly spotted a police car going the other way on the motorway, opened his door, said "run!", then ran across the motorway to hail the police car. I looked over and saw James screaming at Aaron to open the door. I got out and ran across the motorway as best I could, seeing Barry chasing the police car down, which had stopped a hundred metres away. Back at the van, Aaron was being screamed at by James. I couldn't leave him there, so I headed back across the road. Upon seeing me James screamed, "Fockarf y'asshole!" Then he told Aaron to get in the van, and he would drop him at the next turnoff. I hoped Aaron would not get in, but he did, and the van drove off.
I watched the van speed off with my bag, Barry's bag, and of course, our friend Aaron. I am left standing on a French motorway, luckily still holding my wallet, passport and phone in my pocket. My back is hurting. I have no cash on me, but I luckily have an overdraft I can hack into for the return journey, but first we have to try and find Aaron, and our bags if possible.
I head across the motorway to find Barry and the police, catch up and tell him they have taken Aaron. We are very worried for his safety, explaining to the police that we have to find him or he might get hurt. I tell the police that James had told Aaron he was going to drop him at the next turn-off, so we could try there, but I am not too hopeful. Sure enough we do not find them, and so we head down to Calais to see if they have dropped him there. As we drive the police are asking us questions and making notes, taking names, numbers, dates and details, but their English isn't brilliant so we find some barriers.
We arrive in Calais but see nothing. We are very worried about Aaron, but reassured that they had seen Barry chase down the police car. The police find an English border control guard who speaks French fluently, and he speaks to us and tells the police the full story. The police ask where we have been staying and we tell them, but inform them that James and Martin are staying just over the border in Belgium, and they tell us that they can't go there. They decide to drive us to the caravan to see if they have gone back.
As we drive down the motorway Barry and I try to ring Aaron, but we soon realise he has no credit and so he cannot receive inbound calls abroad. We are worried. The police pull off the motorway and rendezvous with three police vans, get out and start talking when Barry gets a call on his phone. I answer and it is James. He asks where we are and I tell him we are in a police car. I ask if we can come get our bags and talk to Aaron but he won't tell us where they are, swearing at me, calling me every name under the sun, saying that we will get six years in jail for stealing his van. I explain calmly that we did not steal his van, that we needed a way to get to Calais, and that we were going to park it up and tell him where it was. I explained that we had wanted to leave but since we had hardly any cash between us, it was our only option, and that we were worried that he might try to make us stay if we asked him. I reminded him that I had sent him a message that morning asking when he was going to head back to England, because I had injured myself, but got no response.
I went backwards and forwards with James, receiving non-stop insults. I did not react to them, reasoning with him and asking if we could come and get our bags. He refused, saying that he didn't have our bags, that a couple of dickheads had left two bags in his van, obviously didn't want them, and now they were his. He also said that they had found work that day and were at a job. I asked if we could speak to Aaron, but he refused, saying Aaron was on a job. One of the French policemen asked if he could speak with James, but he got nowhere. James promised he would bring Aaron and our bags back on Monday. We did not believe him, but he refused to tell us where he was, and the chalet was over the border in Belgium, so the police could not go there. We ended our call and the police asked Barry and I what we wanted to do. We looked at each other. There was nothing we could do. "Can you take us to Calais?"
We drove to Calais in thoughtful silence. When we arrived we thanked the police for all their help and headed to buy tickets. They ended up costing £70 each, but it was worth it to get home. We had a short wait and finally got onto a ferry, relieved, almost ecstatic to escape the scene of the drama we had experienced. We got on board and went straight to the bar. I remember looking at Barry with a big puffy 'phew' look on my face, and we had a laugh and a good old man-hug before tucking into a well-deserved pint of beer. We sat and watched France disappear and the white cliffs of Dover emerge on the horizon, glad to escape, but worrying and discussing Aaron's fate. We felt that the involvement of the police might have saved him from serious trouble, but we still weren't sure. We resolved to top up his phone as soon as we were in England again.
We got a train to London from Dover, and decided to hit Camden for a drink or two. We were tired, and I was in pain still, but glad to be alive on more than one count. We grabbed some smoke and had a little on the way home, meeting a couple of Barnet pals on the night bus, sharing some of our crazy story. Finally got home and slept like a baby in a comfortable bed, still nursing my injured back.
The next day I put some money on Aaron's phone, and sent him a message. He replied back that they had not hurt him, but had scared the shit out of him, threatened him some, and that we could kiss our bags and their contents goodbye. I told him to stay in touch and that if he needed anything he just had to ask. They brought him home a few days later, leaving him at the side of the motorway a good few miles from home.
I spoke to James a few times over the next few weeks to try and negotiate the return of our bags, but he insulted me and asked what charity store I preferred, Oxfam or Barnardos. I ended up offering him £100 if he returned it to me. He didn't respond. Barry lost a laptop among other things, and was going to go and make a police report, but it never happened in the end.
So, that was the France fiasco. The last I heard from them was that Barry got a call from Martin apologising that it got so out of hand. He thinks that they probably wanted him to go and work with them again, as he was a good worker and made a lot of money for them. I asked and Barry assured me that he was never going to go and work for them again. Good idea.
So that was France. Went to earn some money. Came back with back injuries and stories of gypsy car chases, a couple of hundred of pounds down from the return journey. All good fun though. Or as Barry describes it, "The horror.....the horror..... :)"
This is 'The Fifteenth Blog Of Trig', signing off.
