Rouen, Reflexia and the Open Road
page 3 of 5
by Peter Gumbrell, 22 December 2008
continued from part 2 - click here to go to the start of the article
One week after originally setting off from northern France to Spain, I was now set to depart Spain and head back to France, in the direction of Toulouse, north of the Pyrenees. The mountains behind Donostia were again the cause of cats and dogs that cascaded down from the skies, and the wet climate was one of the only things that put off more people coming to settle in this otherwise beautiful town. I stopped off at Asier's workplace, where he spared me half an hour of his time after negotiations with his boss. We nipped next door to a hotel for a quick coffee, over which a last few sentiments were shared about the Renault 4, our reason for being there. What I had never realised until now was that Asier had only met Luis via my website, when they both realised they were Renault 4 owners living in the same city. It was the same way that they subsequently teamed up with long-time 4 fanatics Fernando and João in Lisbon, and set off on countless R4 adventures across their two countries, as documented in various places around this site. I had just assumed that Luis had been a friend previously, so it was good to know that my site had brought fans together more than once. I discussed how I still planned all these years on to do more in future to bring other fans together, whilst swallowing a pinch of salt as I did, in knowing how long I've held that ambition and failed to deliver it.
Before saying goodbye, I attempted one speedy snap in the miserable deluge outside (above), to try and capture both the cars together in one shot.
The 'Red Devil' had been in Asier's family since new, before being passed on to him in the late 1990s, so it was very special to him. And of course, it had the desired 'SS' number plate. He regretted having to sell any of his cars, but he would rather part with the immaculate blue one than see the Red Devil go. For now, though, it was parked up at his workplace and out of action most of the year round, whilst his other Renault alongside was used for most of the daily run-arounds.
Asier had been very welcoming, like the previous occasion five years ago, and I set off in the GTL wondering how long it might be before the next time we would meet, and whether Reflexia could possibly make it this far south again. The path north avoiding tolls was tedious and it was some while before I had even passed through Bayonne, but from there I found myself back out on the open road. I generally prefer to avoid major highways, not just because of tolls but also the monotony and unchanging views that accompany them. Getting a real taste of France can only be achieved by passing along its smaller roads and weaving through the traditional towns. It would also frequently result in passing a Renault garage, one of which seemed to exist in practically every French village. And here on the border of the Landes and Pyrénées-Atlantiques départements, I came to a screeching halt when I glanced at one such garage and was amazed to see two Quatrelles sitting for sale on its forecourt (below).
For myself as - until this point - a UK resident, this was an astonishing sight, though it's perhaps not so strange in other parts of the world. The owners of most Renault garages in Britain wouldn't dare display an R4 outside their snazzy showrooms, but the car is so ingrained in French life and culture that I suppose it is more accepted by the French, and not sniffed at in the same class-conscious way that it is by the Brits. At the end of 2008, however, publicity like this was still quite a surprising spectacle. The cars were of course secondhand and belonged under Renault's Occasions banner, alongside other discarded old favourites. This particular garage was located somewhere near the village of Cauneille, on the N117 east of Bayonne, but it was rather in the middle of nowhere. As I pulled over, a man I assumed to be the garage owner was leaving in his Kangoo for the lunch hour. He seemed equally bemused to spot my right-hand drive R4 opposite his garage so far down in the south of the country.
I parked outside the garage which was closed during the break, and examined the twin white opportunities in more detail. One was a 1982 TL in rather poor condition, at 500 euros. It certainly didn't look like it would give anything more than another year or two of life and probable grief, before rotting away. The other was a 1992 Savane TL model, one of the last produced, and now commanding an exotic fee of 2,800 euros. However, I wouldn't have described its general condition inside and out as startling, and it had done 151,000 kilometres. For such a high price, I wasn't tempted to swap, although I'd have loved to have seen the garage owner's face on his return had I managed to put my own car in position.
Whilst continuing my trek through France, I passed a few other Renault garages that had Quatrelles either taking pride of place at the front or being hidden away at the back, including a few vans. To see so many of the F4s and F6s knocking about was another extraordinary thing for me, since even ten years ago, when spotting an R4 in England was still possible once in every season, the cars would outnumber the vans ten to one. This corner of France still seemed to have both the saloons and the vans in plentiful numbers.
My journey east skirted around Pau and then straight through Tarbes, an attractive looking town but one that I should have avoided, since I found myself stuck in traffic jams through the centre for over half an hour. It was one of those French towns where the road signs suddenly stop, and you're left going around in circles trying to find the right exit to where you're going. Over the previous few weeks' experiences in the country, I'd come to loathe the French road signage and sometimes the road system in general. I found myself cursing several times and ultimately sticking my fingers up at horn-honking French motorists who can never stop beeping for the slightest pointless reason. As the signs finally displayed directions towards Toulouse on a green background, indicating a non-motorway road and the one I was after, it led me straight into a péage for the main autoroute. I carefully began reversing on the very wide stretch of roadway leading into the empty toll gateway, yet tedious French gits couldn't help beeping me as they came past, prompting my two-fingered salute. Of course, in France and most other countries outside the UK, the use of two fingers is completely misunderstood, so that would be my defence should I find myself in the courtroom having to explain, as I believe can happen in Germany at least. I would argue that the second digit creates a double negative that cancels out the first, thereby rendering the gesture meaningless.
As I approached Toulouse and navigated its complex ring road and main arteries, poor signage wasn't the only thing hampering me in reaching the youth hostel. The directions in my guide were pathetic and merely gave the name of an area which, when I enquired from several pedestrians in all corners of the city, seemed to be a place of myth that I could never hope to get to. It took me an hour and a half of careering around the city's streets after dark, on both sides of the river, before I finally located the hostel and could settle for the night, after another long day of intensive driving.
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