Don’t Baguette the COVID Pass

October 9^th, 2021. The day I moved from four walls to four wheels and embarked on an expedition that, for the first time, has no scheduled end. My new fixed address being a white converted panel van called Vishnu, a vehicle that will, hopefully, transport us to many places far-flung for the foreseeable future. Us being Lowri and I, who has bravely decided that moving into a confined space with someone with borderline OCD and non-borderline gassy bowels was an excellent idea. After months of lockdown plotting, we were as ready for the road as we’d ever be, with the setting of our first foray abroad being France, should our rudimentary vaccine printouts placate the Channel border guards.

In the lead up to our trip, we’d stringently researched the COVID guidelines of each European nation on an almost daily basis, anxious over any last-second changes that would condemn us to spend years in Folkestone, with no hope of ever leaving. Fortunately, the gendarmerie at the border barely looked at us, let alone our paperwork and waved us into the tunnel without a second glance. Despite their relaxed attitude, we have since observed that the French are following mask guidelines and social distancing to the letter – in stark contrast to the scenes we saw at Leigh Delamare services where the great unmasked were crawling over each to access their McCOVID Happy Meals.

Our first destination not named a village hall car park near Calais, was Paris. Which was easier said than done in a vehicle over six metres in length and three in height (some of our difficulties can be seen above). Despite avoiding the Arc de Triomphe, which would have almost certainly ended in pile up, it still took an inordinate amount of time to chaperon Vishnu around the narrow streets of the French capital in search of an unclaimed spot to lay up for the next few days. Eventually, after much swearing and soul searching, we happened upon pure gold. A space far enough out of the city to be free (and relatively safe) but close enough to allow us to reach the centre in under a lifetime. As our first day parked up just so happened to be my birthday, we quickly abandoned our vehicle, armed it with our advanced tracking device, and went in search of Paris’ most iconic attraction: Le Rugby Sports Bar.

We spent four industrious days and nights in the city, splitting our time between teaching in Vishnu and roaming the chilly streets. Sacré-Cœur, Champs-Élysées, Tour Eiffel, The Louvre, Centre Pompidou, Notre Dame – we walked past it all. It felt all the more enjoyable given that we weren’t spending hundreds on an overpriced Parisian hotel, and eating packet noodles with value soy sauce in the van of an eve. The only downside was the almost continual, and deafening, buzzing of scooters past our van during the night which made working, sleeping, talking, or thinking about anything but destroying every scooter in sight impossible. Why petrol-powered two-wheelers are still in existence is beyond my wee little millennial brain.

Upon completion of our Parisian escapade, we made the short hope thirty minutes outside of the city to the palace of Versailles – where, thankfully, scooters have been banned since 1751. We spent a morning wandering the palace and its grounds but could have easily spent a year, its scale is quite unfathomable unless you have been fortunate enough to visit (the gardens alone are four kilometres in length). The numerous Louis’ of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries took extravagant grandeur to a whole new level, and it was no wonder the local farmers and candlestick makers were more than a little pissed off living in the shadow of such excess. The only miracle is that they didn’t burn it to the ground the second they chopped off Louis XVI golden locks (and head) – and thank goodness they didn’t as it makes for a bloody good tour.

Our first week ends about two hours southwest of Paris in Good Town, or Bonneval as the locals call it, in an aire on the outskirts of this quite picturesque town. Everything was going swimmingly until our diesel heater, responsible for our hot water and heating, decided it didn’t like functioning on this side of the Channel and gave up the ghost, not without dispelling an enormous plume of white smoke that many of the locals thought signalled the selection of a new Pope. The result of this could mean we go without warm water until Christmas, which would have put us on a bit of a downer was it not for the fascinating locals of Bonneval – who perked us up with their jovial dispositions and endless French bulldog introductions (simply called Bulldogs over here). We spent a night drinking in the village pub, yes, the pub, and observed the comings and goings of the wide-eyed patrons – who could have been forgiven for thinking they had never seen two pasty Brits in a smoking van before. Next stop: La Rochelle.

J