Christian Yorke

What follows is a true account of a recent holiday, although certain names have been disguised to protect the culprits. A road trip to the south of France had seemed like a good idea at the time and one thing is for certain, those who were there will never forget it.

We pick up the action with me thrashing my weary (and now departed) M3 along the A7 and then down the twisting lanes to Port de Cassis. Over a concert of the Beemer’s straight six, eye watering wind, the Arctic Monkeys and terrified screams from my wife we had rumbled down Route des Calanques, past human quilt beaches, before I screeched into the cramped car park of Hotel Les Roches Blanches. Relieved, I remember grinning reassuringly at my wife. Unfortunately, her petrified features, and Bridget Jones hair, said that I was in trouble. Our peaceful holiday, a French grand tour, was seriously tits up.

Defensively, my mind had returned to the day, months earlier, when the lunacy was hatched. New Year’s Day had found the conspirators huddled over drinks, correcting hangovers. Those present included “The Cleaner” (cleaning business owner), “The Developer” (property developer), “the Lawyer” (that’s me) and their dear, long suffering wives. A summer road trip en Francais avec trois voitures was painfully unveiled. Those unsuspecting vehicles were to be a Porsche 911, BMW M3 and Mercedes sl55 AMG (hereafter “the Beast”) with almost 1200 bhp, and  500mph, combined.

The track would include Autoroute 6 to the Cote D’Azur, then Monaco, an about turn to St Tropez and a final stage through the Loire valley. However, although the Cleaner impressively breached the “it’s not a race” pact, proposing limiter deactivation, we knew the plan lacked largeness.

In a moment of inspiration, the Developer suggested that we should charter a boat. Aqua Sea Syndicate (charter company) could stun us for about £16k; four days, pro skipper, cook and bottomless booze.

The Cleaner vacillated.

“For God’s sake, you only live once,” urged the Developer accurately, shaking his goblet, speaking of “not being small” and “a different port each night.” Casino Square, Cap Ferrat and Club De Roy in St Tropez. Unarguable. To share the cost “the Gardner” (a landscaper) was also invited, and on that dirty winter’s day we thought that for some reason we deserved it. You could never have too much gearing and, let’s face it, we would be lucky to make forty anyway. With a convivial glass clink the scene was set.

Day one: The big mucky day arrived with a savage 4-30 am kick start and a short stage to Folkestone. Terror threats tightened security and, once I managed to open the bonnet, the M3 endured a mirrored strip search. Certified benign, we crept into Eurotunnel’s corrugated crates. No expense incurred; no Dixons, or Harrods or Costa concessions. Just lights out and a power nap.

We surfaced beneath a slate sky and lancing rain. With holiday smiles we weaved through snarled British plodders in Touaregs and Vectras; back windows obscured by potted plants and Shrek duvets. Canoe shaped containers decorated most roofs, like statements against nature; plastic coffins for tent pegs, emergency cornflakes and HP sauce.

After a two hour stint we pitted so the Cleaner could feed the Beast and the rest of us filled up with Croque Monsieurs. Later (fully forty five minutes), whilst powering through charcoal spray my wife started babbling tearfully about warp factor speed and vehicular incarceration, demanding a pool. Separated from the other teams, I had bigger fish to fry; 9 miles in the tank and no pumps in sight. My wife, renamed the Shrew, screamed unhelpfully. Sweat flowed until I saw the sign. At the “petrol station” two unmanned pumps, one working, cooked under perspex visors in a concrete field. Alarmingly, Mastercard, Visa and Maestro were casually spat back. Not French enough. Cash not good either. Zut Alors! 

The Shrew rocked, my fuel flat lined, then Sat Nav heroically forced me back north to a manned Esso. Awesome, but now I was miles behind.

Three hours later we enjoyed confused circuits of medieval Beaune before stumbling on our hotel, Hostellerie le Cedre. The Shrew hurled herself from the moving Beemer; it was time for some refreshment.

For joyous moments the weary teams downed Kronenburg and Rose beneath a small cloud hole allowing some summer in. Then the blackening sky sealed, and it pissed down. “Time for a long lunch,” offered the Cleaner through a Marlboro fog. The restaurant was a haze of red, white and sinuous Tripe sausage “of the region,” ordered in error. I allowed the Shrew a taste test, producing a vomit.

Day two: Alcoholically unstable, I slipped in the shower headbutting a forgotten shelf. Blood dribbled through breakfast, like Terry Butcher, or our ‘Enry. The Developer sacrificed croissants for a head start in the non-race. Finishing my cappuccino I heard the Beast powering away. Merde!

I doltishly announced that we must catch up. The Shrew, perhaps overtired, declared war and stormed off through pissing rain to do “some shopping”. Two cushions and a scented candle later we got going, and I struggled through nausea, dehydration and gut cramps, pondering the after life. I marvelled at the continental motorists’ misleading blinkers for miles after every blind lurch, the unpredictable lane straddling and chancy track drifting. Saxos and Twingos tailgated thrillingly before screwing themselves into pinprick gaps ahead of me. Crisis breaking at a ton kept me focused, with only the occasional word from the sexy sat nav for company; Shrew on silent.

Fortunately, Burgundy became Boulogne, became Lyon then St Etienne as we stumbled into summer.

Finally, we found Les Terraces d’Eze, cleaved into mountain and accessed by a helter skelter ramp. Each team had ploughed down oblivious to the traffic light control.  Management unimpressed but little harm done.

Day three: Time for the infinity pool and sultry reflection, looking forward to boarding the Sunseeker the following day. And then another setback in the pop-art bar. A.S.S had been on the blower exalting our six berth vessel.

We were seven with the Gardner.

ASS had a plan, but it was touch and go. 

The sun rose on day four and we drove the coast to Monaco, heading for Coulthard’s Columbus Hotel where parking was arranged. 

The wives joyously left the racers to sort the parking. “See you in a couple of minutes,” I said lovingly, but the Shrew was gone.

Then more surprises. No parking! Traffic snarled behind us whilst, stationary, the Developer called ASS who remorselessly directed us to a dark municipal half a mile away.

By the time our morning cognac was served ASS had found a replacement boat; but there was a sting. It was somewhere near Italy, had an electrical problem, needed an engineer and it was a bank holiday…they would do their best.

Gerhard’s Cafe in Monaco harbour became our  departure lounge. The Gardner arrived by chopper, cheerfully naive. We got the Rose in.

Five hours into our Rose-a-thon, ASS sent us Tabatha in a perfumed Z4. She frothed about having sorted everything and I wondered how she would give us our day back.

Our merry tribe finally staggered onto the Sunseeker Manhattan (River Gipsy) at 4 pm. And our spirits lifted. Lush carpets, cream suede walls (you had to be there), mahogany and a gleaming sun deck. I collapsed briefly in our 007 ensuite berth, complete with air con and plasma, before lift off!

Our skipper was a ragged shaved skull, called Onwhen, or Ahnwhyn or Inwahn; affectionately renamed Uncle Unwin, after the bankrupt off licence chain. Jemima, a frustrated violinist, supported him as cook, cleaner, sommelier and DJ.

Once out of the marina the Shrew vomited repeatedly, whilst we polished off the bottles of vino collapso. We then worked steadily through the Kronenburg whilst the Gardner grumbled about having to sleep on a shelf in an ironing cupboard.

 On returning to Monaco Mrs Cleaner and the Shrew struggled to walk, so a depleted band swayed towards the bright lights. After dinner (Le Grill at Hotel de Paris) Mrs Developer and the Gardner bailed out.

Minutes later the lads were in Casino Square, behind flagons of Kronenburg, watching the current of Lamborghinis, Astons, Ferraris and Bugattis. A hazy Casino followed, before walking the F1 track and running the Grand Hotel hairpin into the tunnel. The Cleaner revved, I hit the marbles and the Developer had gear box issues. What a sight. Three slightly intelligent, hammered, thirty somethings shamefully imitating racing cars. 

I swallowed some spew as we spotted our next pit stop at La Rascasse. The Cleaner mounted a parked Enzo, then bolted despite having no idea where the boat was. He returned sulkily to beer, sweat and a band belting out Creep. I cleared the dance floor with an air guitar, that I dropped more than once.  

Day five brought weeping brain matter and bacon butties. Uncle Unwin bashed about in the boat’s bowels whilst Jemima explained that Ronnie Wood and Keith Richards had recently chartered the boat, possibly explaining the broken cafetiere, lost toaster and red wine stains on the pristine carpets!

I opened the Zantac, whilst the Developer and the Gardner supped Sancerre. Then, right on cue, ASS was back on the dog with a mooring problem at Cap Ferrat. Instead we headed for Antibes and spent the day swimming, sunbathing and sipping cold beers. Were things on the up at last?

At sun set Uncle Unwin aimed at our Antibian mooring, whilst we planned dinner at L’Auberge Provencal. Then disaster. River Gipsy drifted and her propellor chewed up our neighbour’s mooring chain. And half their boat. 

Two vessels became one tragic union and panic ensued. Raised voices and frantic telephone calls brought a haplessrescue boat that left defeated. Uncle Unwin disappeared for a private breakdown. The Developer strutted the decks shouting,“Get me ASS on the phone!” Neighbouring decks watched in hysterics. I took the driving seat, pumping the thrusters to avoid further harm, beer in hand.

The Cleaner stubbed out a fag declaring that Jack Custard would investigate. His Fatface was off and he examined tangled chains disappearing into the water’s sickly skin, amongst cigarette butts, used jonnies and sewage, preparing to dive in.

Mrs Cleaner was rightly traumatised. The second engine was still running, the Cleaner had consumed two bottles of wine and he couldn’t swim. The Developer helpfully intervened shouting, “Get in there Custard. Sort it out, then we can go super large!”

Disappointingly a professional diver arrived, banged a hammer at the problem for a bit, then reported that we were well and truly fucked. All the way to dry dock.

Making do, we prepared to hit the medieval town. The Gardner emerged in a bath towel holding the bathroom door handle and a chrome banister. River Gipsy was falling apart!

Our banqueting table was set amongst fig trees and limes. Seven courses came slowly as knackered waiters brought us meals intended for other tables. Hours later, we trudged to the stricken craft, debating our curse.

Day six: We were due at Niki Beach for lunch. The diver returned with that useless hammer. ASS tracked Tabatha down and the vacant child suggested a coach to St Tropez. Only four rickety hours and a small extra charge.

Statesmanlike, the Developer reminded the drab femme that we were paying £4,000 per day to travel on a boat! Tabby agreed to arrange yet another boat, but it would take time.

The Cleaner refused to leave the boat in case Custard was needed. The rest of us wandered around Antibes before a long lunch at Dauberge. Back on River Gipsy Tabby paced pointlessly until boat three (Samui) arrived.  She then arranged a minibus to Samui so we could sit on it. Jack Custard jumped into the front seat through the only functioning door. There was talk of us climbing in through the sunroof, but it did not have one, and so the rest of us walked.

Day seven: Our last day “on the boat.” We packed, and plodded round to Samui. Making new friends, the Gardner pebbledashed the side of the boat seven or eight times as the new skipper opened her up.

By late afternoon we were back in Monaco. Au Revoir to the Gardner and back in the cars for the short stage to St Paul De Vence. A few wrong turns later we crunched up the drive to Le Mas De Pierre, our  home for a couple of days.

Day eight: Sunbeds and swimming before an excellent lunch at La Colombe d’Or. Beneath lilly pad umbrellas we tucked into immense Hors D’Oeuvres, Foie Gras, and Sole (not on the same plate) washed down with Vin de Provence. The Gardner called. His chopper had been delayed, like his flight, where they served him a most unexpected vegan meal before he landed at Heathrow, his baggage at Schipol. It became clear. The Gardner had been our albatross!

Later, back by the pool we hit the Rose. Then the spa. Then got locked in because it closed. Fortunately our blunders were overshadowed when a podgy Deutschlander, in bright Vilebrequins, flopped into the pool, triggering the deafening alarm. Swimming verboten after 6-30 pm.

Day nine: We were woken by the pool alarm. Don’t those Germans learn? After a breakfast of scrambled eggs and espresso we saddled up for a scorching run to Cassis.

And there we were, in the carpark at Hotel Les Roches Blanches, wondering where the Cleaner was. When the Beast finally arrived, after a maze of wrong turns, he bitterly regretted not spending a few quid on a Euro Sat Nav upgrade.

This was the last night with the full team. Dinner was fittingly at Le Grand Large. Then it was fond farewells.

Day ten: I was apprehensive as I prepared for the 509 mile drag up the Loire valley, but it proved to be a pleasure. The Shrew had calmed down; human limiter off, I pushed the M3 hard. Very hard.

By early afternoon we were enjoying drinks on the terrace of Chateau de Noizay. Admittedly my brake pads had just exploded, but that didn’t seem important anymore.

Day eleven brought a mere 318 mile stage to Calais. As we skirted Paris the northern latitudes brought clouds and dipping temperature.

Back in Blighty we stopped off at The Mermaid in Rye for a swift pint and watched the French tourists arriving on their grand vacances. As we sat and reflected I felt the first sting of autumn against the dying sunlight.

And there it all almost ended, but we were due in the Lake District for the traditional family get together. So it was a wallet crushing visit to BMW for new brakes and off up to the Lakes for the next installment; but then, that’s another story as is the staggering compensation claim that followed. 

Ola! After a weird trip (see Part 1 for a recap) we found ourselves in Madrid on Hotel Urban’s roof terrace. It was early Saturday morning after my wife had forced me to wake up by opening the big electrically operated blinds and dazzling me with phosphorus sunlight. The contents of the mini bar, that I’d wolfed down the previous night, were starting to make their presence felt, but I ignored the pain and nausea to appreciate the view over the city at the start of a sunny day in May.

In order to keep me a safe distance from the edge my wife guided me towards the pool, which turned out to be little more than a slightly large garden pond. I expected Percy Thrower to materialise and start scooping frog spawn from the freezing water that had a maximum depth of 2′6”. I was amused to note that even at 8-30 am towels bearing the German national flag, pictures of Michael Schumacher and David Hasselhoff already adorned the sun loungers.

It was time for breakfast and we hopped into a large smoked-glass lift that brought us to the airy lobby. Shades on, we headed down Carrera de San Jeronimo and chose to enjoy a taste of Spain in the Cathedral Cafe. The secluded wooden booths were calming until a waitress chucked down some laminated menus that included photographs of the dishes. I always find pictures of food helpful and pointed at the most authentic Spanish dish. When the food arrived my wife tucked into some fruit and I worked through a scrambled eggs, pancakes, maple syrup and crusty bread combo with pure iced orange juice and a pint of fierce coffee. If not for the pancakes and syrup this would have been a feast fit for Ian Fleming himself.

Full to the brim and 60 Euros poorer we headed towards Plaza Puerto del Sol where a human traffic jam awaited us. Some kind of parade was brewing as hundreds of Spanish men in important pseudo-military uniforms prepared to march somewhere. Judging by the hundreds of cops and an outside broadcast van this was a big deal. We ducked into a shop selling hunks of ham to avoid the crush and escaped down a side street to do some shopping.

I have little memory of the following hour or two other than regularly handing wads of cash to my wife and bags appearing in my hands. However, all things shall pass, and we ended up in a bright but (as far as I could tell) nameless square. I am told that Madrid is the third most populous city in Europe and the Madrilenos were out in force here. There were Ferraris and a couple of Porsches illegally parked amongst the scooters and a lively vibe in the cafe terraces beneath the white buildings that shimmered in the midday sun. It was hot as hell; no free tables. So we left.

Entirely by accident we ended up in Plaza Major, which I now understand to be a major tourist attraction. What I mistook as a Spanish hobo took pity on us and explained that the Plaza dated back to 1620, although I had always been taught that it could trace its origins back to 1581 when Philip II of Spain asked Juan de Herrera to remodel part of the old, seething Plaza del Arrabal. Over the years this historic venue has seen bull fights, executions and coronations. The Plaza is enclosed on all sides and accessed through archways and arcades at street level. The richly coloured, harmonious buildings are decorated with allegorical paintings and create a powerful sense of enclosure. The centrepiece is a commanding statue of Philip III on a muscular steed who (confusingly) is said to have ordered the building of the Plaza in 1617.

Although Plaza Major did not have the romantic grandeur of the truly magnificent Italian Piazzas it was alive with people and we found a table at one of the cafes and watched the world. As I sipped an ice cold San Miguel a hurdy gurdy troop started belting out Europop classics on an accordion and three accoustic guitars. Falco’s Rock Me Amadeus went down well, as did Robbie Williams’ Angels although the classic That’s Amore enjoyed the biggest cheer. As the performers did the rounds asking for payment I noticed that the very, very fat man on the table next to me had seen fit to remove his shirt so that everyone could marvel at how much sweat he was producing. It was time to move on.

Again, by accident, we arrived at the Prado Museum on Paseo del Prado. I had never heard of the place but apparently it is seriously important. It is full of work by such legends as Goya (who has his own statue in the grounds), El Greco and Vasquez (who also merits a statute). The queue was about two miles long. We gave it a swerve.

There is a very attractive church close to the Prado, called the Church of San Jeronimo el Real. I was feeling the need to repent some sins and suggested that it would be nice to stroll up the small hill and check it out. However my wife had spotted somewhere more interesting and I was out voted.

Minutes later we were at The Ritz. This grand hotel was the wish of King Alfonso XIII (oh to have that power!) and the result was a luxurious palace in a baroque style. We were shown to a table in the Ritz Terrace where we could dine under the shade of pristine white umbrellas. I eased back in a comfy cane chair and watched Madrid’s beautiful people sipping wine and enjoying lunch. I ordered the Ritz speciality burger. It was average. A waitress missed a glass and glugged water over the table. Oh well, it was a great experience.

I was feeling the effects of two Martinis and a beer. It was 3 0′clock. The sun was blazing. And the main event was ahead of us; the whole reason for the trip. Dinner at restaurant Lur Maitea. Tune in next time when I will fill you in with a comprehensive review of what is said to be one of the best Basque seafood restaurants in Madrid.

I felt as though I had drifted into a parallel reality when 16 Scoobydoos swigging from bottles of Hooch bounded into the Departure lounge, tails a wagging. I was sat impatiently with my wife in Heathrow’s T3 on a rock hard chair waiting for the last flight out to Madrid. Everyone seemed to be watching me as I failed to internalise my frustration, although the Scoobydoos (who were now trying to mount what must have been the Stag or birthday boy) cheered me up no end.

When it was time to board we were already an hour behind schedule. We were shuttled like tortured battery hens to some dark corner of a runway in a creaking bus before settling down for take-off. Once the stragglers and drunk cartoon dogs had stopped arguing about who should have the window seat (even though it was pitch black outside) my wife continued her motivational speach, trying to keep me centred. And then it happened. The engines died, the lights turned off, the air con failed and the temperature rose.

Let me tell you, that dead craft was hot. Over two hundred confined humans, breathing and grumbling with nothing to do except generate heat. As I sweated and ached one of the sky candy fired up a megaphone to tell us that the electrics had packed in. They needed to find some engineers, then the engineers had to find the parts, then they had to fit them and finally some machinery had to be summoned from somewhere to start the engines. It was going to take at least an hour. So we just sat there, in a dark, boiling coccoon filled with people who had now started to emit strange smells that reminded me of a long distance runner’s sock. I wished that I’d had more than two bottles of Budvaar with my burger at Chez Gerard’s. I wished that I’d bought the Persol shades that had been on a bank holiday special offer. Above all I wished that I hadn’t agreed to come to Madrid in the first place.

This saga had begun life last November at the Grosvenor House Hotel in foggy London town. I had been attending a Spinal Injuries Association dinner, which as well as being a big fund raiser was themed to honour the “magic” of the FA Cup. For those not in the know, the SIA is the largest spinal injury charity in the UK. As part of my day job I act for the spinally injured to recover damages that enable them to lead decent, fulfilled lives. I was on a table of fellow lawyers and as the wine flowed we decided to bid for one of the auction lots. Driven by our chief gastronome we went hell for leather to “win” an unrivalled dining experience at Lur Maitea. At times I am certain that we were bidding against ourselves, the upshot being that we did indeed win a meal at said restaurant for ten people; all for the bargain sum of £2,400. There were some second thoughts as the hammer fell and we were all rather subdued as we enjoyed the after dinner entertainment provided by Trevor Brooking, Gary Lineker (the evergreen silver rabbit), Steve Bruce (at least I think it was him), and a clutch of old soccer pros whose names I forget.

As I sat on the plane pondering life’s wonders I realised that if we ever arrived in Madrid I had no idea where out hotel was as I had forgotten the booking confirmation. Hotel Urban had  looked glitzy enough on t’internet when I booked it, but if we pitched up at 2am would they have held our room? Tramping the streets in search of alternative accomodation was an unbearable thought that lingered when finally the jet was patched up and we hit the sky.

On arrival at Madrid’s Barajas International Airport the next challenge was to navigate the almost endless escalators, dead ends and an internal tram . My shoe laces were undone but I no longer had the strength to fasten them. Instead I swore a lot as my wife counselled me in an attempt to keep me out of the Spanish cells.

When we eventually collected out luggage I felt certain that we were through the worst. I thrust by bags at a taxi driver and ordered him to take us to the hotel. Now Hotel Urban is a 5 star establishment and I had no doubt that every taxi driver worthy of his badge would get us there in minutes flat. But I was wrong. The first driver looked at me as though I had lost my mind, which looking back was not far off the mark. We tried a second, then a third but each non English speaking driver had never heard of the place. A group of taxi drivers soon gathered round us, pointing and whispering. One asked for the address and I said “Madrid” and he explained kindly (with hand gestures) that Madrid was a “big place”. In the end I had to pull up the hotel’s web site on my Crackberry and, buried in small print, I found its location. Hallelujah!

So, in the wee small hours we pitched up and checked in. And things were finally on the up. The hotel’s bar (the Glass Bar) was jumping and check-in was a dream. Within minutes we were shown to our duplex suite (it had been on special offer) and I hit the mini bar. 

Tune in next time to hear how we spent a fun filled Saturday and whether we made it to the restaurant in one piece!