The day before the 19^th of Novembers events, outlined in part one, started with a 20lb common to Kev and followed in short order by a spunky 21lb 5oz carp to Lynn’s rod before Kev landed another 21 lb fish. Sian and I were fishing four rods. Two for Carp and two for Catfish, our strategy was simple, to swap rods when one of us landed a fish.

The difference between catching Carp and Catfish can best be compared with a romantic candle lit night with your favourite fantasy figure and being rogered by a herd of rampant Rhinos. Fighting a decent Catfish is brutal and the tackle needed to subdue them, suitably robust. We use sea fishing, uptide rods. Whilst very strong, they have just the right action to absorb the insanely powerful lunges of these beasts. They are connected to the hook with 75kg braid and 150kg Kevlar hook link. 1/2 lb of lead ensures that the size 10/0 circle hooks sink home and the bait we were using was 28mm halibut pellets, six of them on a hair rig. The rods point to the sky anchored to mother earth by rod holders made from angle iron driven into the ground with a club hammer. The line is wound so tight that it sings in the wind and bite detection is provided by a bell clipped to the rod tip. Not subtle by any means. But very effective.

One of the Cat rods began to dance, the bell ringing madly. I picked the rod up and leaned into what felt like a very small Catfish. After an unremarkable fight we were amazed when the net slid underneath a 24lb 2oz Carp. In England, big Carp are usually well crafty and require quite a refined approach to have any success. In Spain, it appears, this is not the case. Anyway, this was a personal best for me. I have often focussed on a particular species for a while before fixating on another, often prompted by the changing of the seasons, however I had never gone all out for Carp and had never caught one over the twenty pound mark. The fact that the Carp had taken an unfeasibly large bait on very robust tackle didn’t dampen my spirits one jot and there was, once again, much whooping, back slapping and fist pumping. As an aside, the unfeasibly large bait syndrome has not been confined to carp. Kevin and I have both caught Roach on Carp gear with 22mm pellets as bait. Mine was around 1lb 12oz and Kev’s a shade over 2lbs.

The Catfish rods now became Sian’s responsibility even though we were still without a Cat. Sometime later one of the Delkim bite indicators screamed under one of our Carp rods and I lifted into what felt like a decent fish. The boys were getting very interested in things by this stage and I passed the rod to Aaron. He’s caught a few fish over the years but this was something else. As the fish lunged and the rod bent double he hung on, pumping the rod when he could and bringing the fish ever closer. When Aaron tired he happily passed the rod back and to me and the fish was netted WTF! I had broken the twenty pound barrier and the thirty in one day!!! My fish tipped the scales at 33lb 12oz. Beer was called for, then another and then… another. My day was complete. Over to Sian. She now had control of all four rods.

Sian’s P.B. Carp prior to the 20^th was a Koi of around 14lbs caught from the river Medway just above East Farleigh Weir. On the morning of the 20^th I had been fishing for Roach with Kev. The Carp and Cat rods had been set and Sian was in the Motorhome tying rigs, drilling baits and sharpening hooks. Not! Coffee drinking, F.B. and our kids’ breakfast were on the agenda and Sian was multi-tasking with a vengeance. All of a sudden the strident, staccato, signal from one of the Delkim’s indicated that a fish had been hooked and was not best pleased about it. Not one to miss an opportunity Sian came charging out of the Mo-Ho in her P.J’s, like Usain Bolt coming out of the blocks, picked up the rod, turned the reel handle to disengage the baitrunner, and leaned into her first Carp of the session. This fish was having none of it and Sian needed to be more suitably attired to educate it.

I was summarily dispatched to fetch her boots and spent the next couple of minutes trying to tie the laces, while she danced this way and that, applying side strain where needed, to vanquish the leviathan and steer it away from weed beds and snags. Job Done! The fish was netted and the scales recorded a colossal 37lb 10oz.Sian had busted her P.B. in style skipping the twenties completely. Her insane grin said it all! If I had one tip for a happy relationship it would be this… Take your partner to a wet, muddy, fly infested riverbank. Share your resources and above all else, compliment her on how she stinks of sexy fish slime after she has totally eclipsed you!

The carp rods were mine again and not long after I had a run. The fish was on for around 30 seconds before the hook pulled. Gutted! Then Kev lost one as well.

Meanwhile the match in the Promenade swim had finished. I don’t know how they did but there was certainly none of the pandemonium heard from across the bay that we had inflicted upon them.

The day before, Sian and Lynn had cycled to the town to pick up some supplies from the supermarket and tackle shop. There had been a few things on the shopping list. Wine and 3kg of 28mm pellets greatly added to the ballast on the return journey and there was a bit of grumbling when they got back. The girls said that they had met this geezer in the tackle shop who had given them some tips on the location of the Catfish. They arrived back with everything on the list, real heroes, Sian had to contend with a dysfunctional bike that changed gear whenever it felt like it. No mean feat, up and down hills with a twenty five kilo rucksack on your back.

We moved back to the Prom, back in the swim that Kev had worked so hard to selfish for us a few days prior. The temperature had started to drop though. In the mornings there was frost on our seats when we woke up and there was a solid rolling mist coming down from the dam. For the next two days we didn’t catch any Carp or Catfish but the bonus for me was a 2lb 3oz Roach caught early in the morning. Not to be out done Lynn banked a Roach ½ an oz over the two pound mark as well.

On the 23^rd a couple of geezers pulled up in their vans and we got to talking, as you do. Chris and Mark were their names and it turned out that Chris was the bloke that the girls had met in the tackle shop.

Let me take you back a decade. When my Dad passed away, I struggled to get back into gear for a while and Sian, perfect wife that she is, suggested that we should head for the Ebro for some Catfish therapy. We had been twice before with the Bavarian guiding service, but that’s a whole different story, Sian was six months pregnant with Aaron at the time, the Bavarians were horrified that we were taking this dilapidated house boat out on lake Caspe, (lake doesn’t do it justice) but Sian assured them that she would be ok and after some soul searchin, the prospect of monetary gain won the day and they agreed that we should proceed as planned…. Anyway when we returned the boat, a week later we were told that the Catfish record had just been smashed by some English bloke. Chris Trimmer.

Now seventy years old, Chris moved to Spain some years ago and here we were chatting about the old days. He suggested that we move to the other end of the Promenade, where there was a plateaux out in front around 9 meters deep, surrounded by deep water. “The Catfish come up onto the plateaux at night to feed” he said.” The old river bed is like a motorway and the fish drive up and down it, but…. they drive off the motorway to visit the restaurants in town. The plateaux is one of those towns”. Sian and I moved like a shot! This move presented issues however. Kev had located a shallow area close to the bank which he thought the big roach would move onto. Understandably he wanted to stay. With the amount of big roach coming out surely a 3lb specimen was on the cards. Another trip to the shops and a bigger landing net, scales and a weigh sling were purchased. What a tart I am!

The night was dark. The water was wet. My bra was cutting in, our baits were on the plateaux and… the Catfish were feeding. One of the uptiders hooped over, bell jingling like Santa’s life depended on it and Sian was into a Catfish. Yippee Kayay MoFo! After catching the Carp on the Catfish gear previously it was very satisfying to see the rod properly bent double, flattening out when the fish shook its head diving for the river bed. It’s a funny thing pain. There are times when pain is pleasure and the maniacal grin on Sian’s face confirmed that the hurt this fish was putting into her muscles was indeed a beautiful thing. Once the fish had been vanquished and was on the bank we all started the, by now, customary cheering, hugging and back slapping. Chris and Mark walked down to us from where they were fishing to see what all the fuss was about. The tale of the scales was 70 lbs. The fish was returned to its watery home after the photo call and Sian revelled in her sliminess in the way that only someone who loves fishing for these beasts can.

The following day, Tom and Aaron saw some action. Unlike Dead Fred’s Finger, the Prom produced Roach all day long. The boys were doing their school work and playtime came in the form of Roach fishing. Tom had the first fish of around 6oz, then Aaron had a larger fish of perhaps eight. Aaron was happy with this and both boys happily endured the cheers and congrats that follow an awesome capture. But Tom needed more and continued fishing putting another five Roach on the bank to just under 1lb. Size isn’t the be all and end all and catching a good roach on balanced tackle is as surely as satisfying as catching a big Carp or Cat. Tom has become addicted to that jag jag erratic pull of a Roach fighting to evade capture and wants more. That’s my boy!k

trackmytour.com/mSDxX

 

Travelling Europe since April has been epic for many reasons. However the fishing had proven to be difficult as the purchase of licences and permits was prohibitive on the cost front for the amount of time we were spending in each country. Finally we arrived in Spain and a meet up with two of our besties for a couple of weeks fishing on the Rio Ebro.
At this stage I must point out that my mate Kev is a secretive fellow when it comes to fishing so to protect Kev’s identity he will be referred to as Dog Chops, or Dog for short. Mr Chops is married to the lovely Mrs Chops, who has no issues at all with regard to her identity and will hereafter be referred to as Lynn.

 

We met Kev and Lynn (bored with Dog already) on the Promenade Swim where they had been having mucho success catching Carp in the twenty to thirty pound bracket, Roach and Rudd to nearly 3lb, truly remarkable specimens of pristine, piscatorial perfection. They had gradually manoeuvred themselves into a position, which, once we arrived would give us selfish possession of 120 metres or more of one end of the Promenade. We arrived at around eight in the evening sat-navving in on the co-ordinates which Kev had sent us previously, just as he was landing a 20lb-ish Catfish on his Carp Gear. We had a few beers and a catch up as we hadn’t seen each other since Sian’s 40th birthday, some 37 years earlier. (Just kidding my love X).
The next day, and disaster occurred on a couple fronts. I was setting up our gear and discovered that I had forgotten to pack our Catfish reels which were loaded with expensive 75kg breaking strain braid. Then some Spanish geezers turned up and informed us that there was a match taking place on the promenade swim and we would have to get the heck out of town. Tool tart and tackle tart are phrases that have been used to describe me, so the first disaster was happily overcome with a trip to the tackle shop to buy some shiny new reels and braid and other miscellaneous items, permits etc. The second disaster turned out to be a blessing in disguise. The Promenade swim is in the gusset of a large bay and we had moved to a new swim at the upstream end of the bay called Dead Fred’s Finger. As soon as the match started the gusset became a very dirty gusset as tons of floating weed drifted in making the fishing next to impossible. Now I’m not one to bear a grudge but …..Hahaha, serves them right. Before we left, in the morning, Aaron decamped and started poking around the rocks at the side of the river. Suddenly he shouted for attention. Dad look at this… its some sort of crab or something. He’d found a Crayfish which promptly scurried underneath a rock. Aaron stuck to the task of catching the creature finally managing to trap him between a rock and our fresh water watering can he had pilfered from the van. Sadly at this point he entrusted the final act of extraction to Sian who promptly failed in her task and Pinchy (he had been affectionately named) escaped to pinch another day. Not deterred by this set back further plans were hatched for capturing the elusive Pinchy.

If the Prom Swim was in a very dirty gusset, Dead Fred’s Finger was in some lightly soiled panties. Although we had problems with some light clumps of floating weed, causing us to re position our baits when they were dragged out of place, it was still eminently fishable. Over the next three days we landed 9 Common Carp and only one under 20lbs.
The biggest fell to one of Kev’s rods at a little over 40lbs. This on the 19th of November. The River Ebro near Mequinenza is vast. The river levels are controlled by a series of Dams producing Hydro Electric power to the grid. After the dams were built and the valley was flooded, the houses, farm buildings, Olive and fruit groves all disappeared under the water, presenting an added challenge to us highly skilled, resourceful and dedicated piscatorial gladiators. The size and topography of the new river bed and the location of the old mean that casting baits to the fish is rarely an option. The bait, in most cases has to be taken out to the fish in a boat.

 

We heard at night and saw during the day, Carp and Catfish rolling and lunking over what would have been the near bank of the old river bed, they were clearly feeding; this meant rowing the baits out up to 200 metres into the river. There was a thick mist in the morning and Kev rowed his baits out on his own, due to the fact that no-one else was committed enough to the cause to be up before dawn. His Nibs had pushed it a bit too far this time, even for him, and when he placed his furthest bait, there were but a few reel handle turns of line remaining on the spool. Kev figured that the situation could be rectified if, when the bait was picked up by a fish, he jumped into the dinghy and fought the fish from there. This would enable him to reel himself towards the fish without risk of having the rest of the line stripped from the reel, losing the fish in the process. Fine in theory but when he had a run on this rod it all went horribly wrong.
The fish tore off stripping the remaining line from the real at an alarming rate. However Kev hadn’t informed me of the situation with the line, or his plans for the battle if his bait got nailed. Kev picked up the rod and leant into a strong fish. He somersaulted into the dinghy, desperately trying to stop the thing he had become attached to. Now, not many people are aware that Kev is a black belt in Origami! As he transitioned gracefully from bank to boat his leading foot sailed within an inch of my chin as I held the boat steady for his boarding. This fish was having none of it and as it began to tow the boat out into the river two things became apparent. That this was no small fish and that Kev had forgotten to take the landing net with him in his haste to get out on the water. “Tone! Chuck us the net”, he bellowed and the net was duly despatched, landing in the boat, more by luck than judgment, before the fish had towed him out of reach. As the distance from the shore increased the line on the spool decreased until Kev was looking at an empty spool and one suspect, dodgy spool knot. After a frantic battle of wills he managed to get some line back onto the spool only to find that he was once again without a landing net which he had knocked overboard in the mayhem. All that could be seen was the last ten inches of the handle, slowly sinking into the depths. Anyone who thinks men can’t multi task would have be convinced otherwise having watched him rowing the boat whilst attempting to control the forty pounds of angry Carp on the other end of the line, with rod clasp between his legs and retrieve the landing net at the same time. Finally the battle was won and the Carp was on the bank. Photos, cheers and back slapping ensued and the fish was safely released to fight another day. (There was no such mayhem apparent on the prom from the unfortunate match anglers). He followed his forty up with an eighteen pounder and a 33lb 12oz fish.

 

With all the excitement of fish on the bank Tom and Aaron were desperate to catch one of their own and set to feeder fishing for Roach. Patience however is a very necessary requirement here and both boys tended to reel in and recast ever so slightly more often than necessary. During one of these moments when Tom was reeling in yet again contrary to, Kev, Sian and my advice (what do we know?) we heard the wonderful words “Dad I’ve got one, I’ve got one”. As he reeled in there was definitely some additional weight on the line and when the terminal tackle was finally lifted from the water, who should appear, gripping the feeder tightly in his Claw, but their old mate Pinchy . What a feeling, he was made up as was Aaron who was as excited as Tom to finally see Pinchy on terra firma and this time gripped tightly in Sian’s hand. The Crayfish was duly named Pinchy (or Pinchy 2). Poor Pinchy was kept for two nights in a bait box. The boys diligently changed the water regularly and tried to tempt Pinchy with various delicacies but the dude wasn’t tempted. Pinchy was relocated and released in the Promenade swim a couple of days later.

In Defence of Swift….
I have read a few posts on various forums recently about the shortcomings of Swift Motorhomes which I feel I must balance.
Everyone likes a bandwagon. A vehicle to jump on which is reasonably comfortable, filled with folk relishing fun, frivolity and let’s face it, a good time.
People like to be in with the in crowd… it’s easy, let’s face it. There’s an undeniable tendency for people to gravitate towards social scenarios that positively affirm each other’s beliefs, dislikes, dare I say bias, prejudice….
There are various views on school uniform. Some might say…. (in the words of Clarkson) (that the Stig wears a uniform)), that uniforms in school help to prevent bullying, enable an amount of ‘levelling of the field’. Others maintain that the uniform disables the expression of free will essential for the progression and growth of young minds.
As an adult Motorhomer I am neither Clarkson, The Stig, Young, A bully, In with the in crowd, or prone to jumping on waggons of dubious musical bias.
We’re nearly five months into a fourteen month tour of Europe with our two lovely children. Don’t get me started on the Europe thing….
We purchased our 2009 Swift Kontiki 675 from Don Amott in Derbyshire after months of research. Fixed twin beds in the rear for the kids (which with a flourish converts to a king size double), a spacious double overcab for us with an option for one of us sleeping on the sofa when it’s too hot to co-habit “fnar fnar”. A fab kitchen with three gas rings and an electric plate when on hook-up, enough kitchen storage for the four of us… (Might as well be six with my appetite for consumption) a fully automatic fridge, 12V, 240V and Gas, microwave and extractor hood.
The Garage is enormous. There is another smaller storage space under the bench seat on the offside which houses ramps, BBQ, tool kit, hook up stuff, Gaslow stuff, screen wash etc. etc. The upholstery is comfortable and robust (our kids haven’t destroyed it yet!)
We have driven across Poland, Slovakia, Hungary, Croatia, Serbia, Romania, Bulgaria and have now reached Greece. The ribbons of tarmac in France and Germany will never test a Motorhome like the former. The ride is really good and guess what….. It’s really quiet when the stereo isn’t on… The only bug bear there is if I pack the crocks before we leave, instead of Sian, the plates and glasses tend to rattle a bit.. Honestly if any roads were designed to test the expertise of the body builder these are the roads
In short, as you probably guess, we are really happy with our Swift. It has carried us for over 10,000 miles so far without a complaint. It has housed us, looked after us, demanded very little of us in terms of maintenance or upkeep, and we look upon it as our home.
Swift could have specified the smaller Fiat engine but didn’t…. The 3L Turbo power plant was the perfect pairing for this 4.5 tonne lump. (5.5 tonne train weight for those wishing to trail a couple of big fat Harleys)
I fervently wish that people would refrain from sticking the boot in just because they can. I believe that there was an issue with the CI MoHo’s, now RollerTeam, at the rear with regard to damp ingress, I have been invited into a Hymer ‘A’ class (yes the much vaunted Hymer) where I have had to stoop in the lounge area because the roof has not been designed to accommodate 20th century male as well as the oh so fashionable drop down bed (you couldn’t seat four comfortably round the table either).
There was a MoHo trending on F.B. this week which cost a million quid. I’m sure within a week or so of living with it I could find things that could have been built, suited me better…
I know there are a lot of happy Swift Owners out there. (By the way my in-laws own a Swift Static Caravan which has also exceeded expectations)
Constructive criticism is good, it enables us to make informed decisions but comments on forums like “I would never buy British, or the base van is good, it’s the body builder that’s poor” isn’t constructive. Or informative (perhaps).
Consider jumping off of that band waggon, steering a course in your own and finding peace and tranquillity.

Once you get your head around the fact that you can’t travel everywhere (well almost anywhere actually) at anything approaching the speed limit it kinda becomes fun driving. You absolutely cannot let your concentration lapse for a moment though. There are potholes in the road of course. We have them in England. They have them in Germany. They even have them in France (although these are a rarity). In Romania though they have a vastly more diverse selection too choose from. The Pot Hole, the bucket hole, the bath hole, the skip hole, the oh shit the road edge has just crumbled into the abyss hole leading to certain death if you drive anywhere close to the edge.
When we drove the Transfagarasan and came down the other side we were revelling in the views and experience, stopping every few miles to drink in the latest vista. There is an almost infinite choice of hairpins to challenge the driver in Romania and none more than in this beautiful region. We had just successfully navigated another of these beauties, only this one was different. It wasn’t that the drop on the outside of the bend wasn’t precipitous. Not that the tarmac wasn’t deeply rutted from the passage of millions of lorry tires, causing our steering to become almost like I would imagine it to be like driving a train, your direction pre-ordained by the direction of the tracks, not even the inadequacy of the barriers (where they exist at all) or the slippery mixture of dust, small stones and whatever at the edge of the road denying any hope of traction. This bend will be etched forever in my memory because of the hundreds of candles at the edge of the road, each contained within a small, red, glass vessel, marking the passage of a vehicle through the barrier and into the screaming nothingness beyond. I tried to imagine that moment. The realisation that, for whatever reason, you’d got it wrong! The moment that forward momentum began to slow and gravity rapidly took control. I tried to imagine the moment of realisation; that life was about to end and the sheer panic as whoever had crossed this divide between substance and fresh air began to accelerate towards inevitability…. And I’m sure, I utterly failed! I have, only once crossed my hands on the steering wheel whilst driving in the mountains and thoroughly admonished myself for this momentary lapse in concentration.

 

Romanian drivers… Romaniacs we call ‘em.
There are the horse and cart drivers. They are everywhere and life moves at a different pace for them. They steer a steady course along the tracks, village roads, dual carriageways and city streets unconcerned about the deficiencies of the tarmac, such is the lack of speed.
Do you remember the episode of the Good Life when Tom hitched his rotovator to a small cart and he and Barbara proceeded to drive this creation down the Avenue, much to Margo’s disgust… we have seen more than a few of these contraptions as well, being driven by dark skinned smallholders on their way to who knows where.
The drivers in these first two categories become mobile chicanes for the faster, more demonic drivers to navigate as fast as possible.
The old Dacia driver. These elderly cars have been maintained on a shoestring if at all and the drivers almost fall into the horse and cart, and rotovator category. They are oh slow and for sure would not pass as fit for the road in most of the rest of Europe and yet the drivers, usually elderly gents, with the car filled with varied bric a brac, will take them anywhere, including motorways, where it is indeed possible to reach the 130kph speed limit. These rare stretches of tarmac are usually two lanes in both directions and the Dacia drivers cause others, including articulated lorry drivers to swerve into the outside lane, just about the time when you are overtaking them.
The sports car driver. There are, in fact, no sports cars in Romania however every Romaniac thinks they are driving one. Most roads in Romania are one or two lanes, pitted and pockmarked after years of neglect and poor initial construction. People drive with aggression usually seen only on a Saturday night in Maidstone at chucking out time. Overtaking is the real issue here. Given the endless procession of vehicles in the first categories, people feel the need to overtake wherever possible, and often impossible. They come at you, seemingly from nowhere, either cutting in in front of you squeezing into the space you have tried to maintain as a safety net between you and the Romaniac in front, or worse still causing you to chuck the anchors out in order to avoid a head on as a car tears towards you, after a blind bend, on your side of the road. It’s no mean feat reducing speed this rapidly in a four and a half tonne MoHo.
In their defence though, you sometimes get a contrite wave from the Romaniac by way of an apology for causing you to change yet another pair of pants, after their failed attempt to murder you and your kin. Long live the Romaniac! (Ha ha. Fat chance.)

SOME SAY THAT MOTORHOMES SHOULD BE BURNED AT CONCEPTION WITH THEIR DESIGNERS! Moho drivers should be imprisoned for life for clogging up the worlds, tarmacked arteries. The very concept of a home on wheels is an affront to the noble pioneers who raped the planet to extract the product of millennia of conversion of solar radiation by gentle, green leaved, Biosystems into vast stores of latent energy.
We say that there is more to life than speed. Waste gates are not the be all and end all. The sound of a pulsing, throbbing, Diesel engine can indeed be as satisfying as a screaming 3 litre V 10 (in certain circumstances).
There is a mighty steel and plastic creation which can munch miles, kill kilometres and eradicate inclines. Tomorrow morning it is taking us up the incredible Romanian mountain snake that is called the TRANSFAGARASAN. We know him as THE SQUEAKSTER!!!!!!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tq4ydUVgYTY&t=47s

 

http://www.doualumi.com/

Wow.. We were not disappointed. We were welcomed by Wilma and Hans with the customary glass of booze. We drove the Squeakster in, set up and then jumped into the pool. There is something really special about this place. Not only is it almost unique in that it has a pool, but it is run by one of the most enigmatic, energetic couples I have ever met. The legends that are Hans and Wilma! It was August for Christ’s sake. Holliday time…. The kids needed a break and so did we. The next day they were expecting 30 campers, all bicycle riders from a group who ride their bike all over the planet. MENTALISTS! We thought twice about walking to the pool it was so hot.
That night we were fed by the support team that followed the group, carting their tents, clothes, and anything else that they had decided to bring along.. What a fantastic meal of chicken and polenta. Thanks guys.
The site seemed to be truly cosmopolitan and we quickly hooked up with Cristi and Adrian… a couple of young lads from Romania and Christine, Joost and Floury from Holland. The drink flowed and the stories more so and we were soon among friends…….
………Friends. A strange concept that I have never truly got my head around. Is it people who surround you for your whole life, always there for you, anchoring you to the place where you are, together, safe.. Or is it possible that friends can present themselves… out of the blue. You get a feeling that you could trust them… WTF!
We have made some great friends here.

….How about the border. We crossed from Serbia at 100mph. It was impossible to buy insurance in Serbia for less than 200 euro’s a day, according to the guy at the border with Croatia, who seemed more interested in getting us out of his genial face than selling us something we could hang our existence on.
After crossing back into Europe Romania began to unveil itself.
Sian found a car park next to a river in the City of Timisoara courtesy of Park4night. I turned off the road, the admittedly low slung exhaust scraped on the rutted edge of the tarmac and we were off road… headed for a bit of free camping and perhaps some fishing.
We descended from the road down a rutted incline and headed for the river. I pulled up at the bottom of the descent. “I’m not feeling this Sian”, I almost whispered, fearful of upsetting the boys, who had already endured a seven hour drive. Obviously, with one eye on our budget, free camping, wherever it presented itself was a bonus but this…
The wild dogs were ripping into the mound of rubbish piled up against the utterly inadequate bulk loaded bin provided by the local authority. The local kids were assembling in their cars and a quick escape in the middle of the night was looking very unlikely. We Amscrayed to the nearest campsite>>> Camping International. Wow what a shithole, and expensive too. I would recommend this place unless you enter the country, late, hot and bothered and with no better plans.
We left in the morning, a feeling of cleansing seeping into our souls as the kilometres passed. We set the sat nav for swimming pool, a campsite 5 hours away which, when we arrived, was being refilled after some repairs following a puncture. The lowlands are hot. Really hot. It was a tough decision but we set a course for a camping Doua Lumi in Transylvania, a further three hours of rutted roads, tortuous twists and unlikely inclines. This was a campsite that came with a guarantee (according to the Garmin and Google)……….

The wonderful thing about solar power is not necessarily that it’s free coz it isn’t, exactly. No the best thing about it is that when you have it fitted and have paid for it (the reference to it not being free) you get to stare endlessly at the digital LED display telling you how clever you were to get it fitted in the first place. Your cleverness is displayed in Amps or Watts of power going into your leisure batteries as the deficit in amp hours from last night’s consumption goes down. Based on this scale, at the present time, I’m pretty damned clever! By midday when the batteries are fully charged again I’ll be Einstein!
As I write, with the laptop plugged into the inverter and various other devices charging off the batteries via various cigarette lighter sockets and other notional drains we are charging at a rate of 3.5 amps and the deficit is down from 17.5 a/h at 07.30 to 13.9 a/h 09.30 and the sun is only, I guess, at around 20 degrees above the horizon, the horizon being a big hill to the east of us. The sky is currently being crossed by a succession of clouds being driven by a moderate breeze from the south west.
Deciding on a supplier and which route we went down was, as with all things we have had bolted onto the Squeakster, a matter of some debate and compromise. The debate centred on weight, cost and efficiency. We opted for a rigid panel as we were told by many sources that these were more efficient, the trade-off is weight with the flexible panels being around 6 kilo’s lighter. We did, later, attend a Motorhome show before we left England and there was an exhibitor who was demonstrating a new type of flexible panel which worked over a far larger range of frequencies and the demo was very convincing however I don’t have the knowledge to comment further.
We ended up having the system fitted by a company near Brighton called Sunstore. They were extremely helpful and reasonably priced. We turned up on the appointed day, Tom measured the available space on the roof and cheerfully informed us that he could squeeze on a 260W panel. We also asked to have another leisure battery fitted. On test the original was not holding up too well so on Toms advice we had two new leisure batteries fitted.
In a discussion earlier in the year, my mate Kevin described a solar panel as like a funnel collecting rainwater. He was considering having another fitted to double his current (excuse the pun) 100W solar capacity. I likened my plans to have a second leisure battery fitted as having two buckets to collect the water, you get the picture. Trade off 25kg… gulp, heavy old bucket!
We also had a Battery combiner fitted (B to B). This enables us to link the leisure batteries to the engine battery should this ever struggle to start the engine. We had Sunstore fit some other bits and pieces too, including an 800W inverter purchased elsewhere (Tom does sell a range of inverters) and the MiFi and booster we had previously purchased from Motorhome WiFi. (Internet connectivity will be a separate post).
We were extremely impressed with Tom and Sunstore and are happy to recommend them unreservedly. Tel: 01903 213141 Email: info@sunstore.co.uk
We decided to stay overnight the night before so we didn’t have to brave the M25 in the morning and stayed the following night to allow adhesive, sealants to cure fully before we made the jump to light speed. We stayed at a very lovely site a few miles from Sunstore. Coastal Caravan Park. 131 Sea Rd, BN16 1PD. Email: coastalcaravanpark@gmail.com Tel: 01903 366170 or 07976 928734. The site is right on the beach, really good for bracing walks and swimming etc. The site is rather small though so contact them in advance. The owner is fab and very laid back. My bad, I can’t remember her name. Memory like a sieve and all that…

 

For those of you in motorhomes over 3.5T who want to get a ViaTOLL box for Poland here’s how it’s done:

How to find your nearest viaTOLL distributor
Open viaTOLL website
http://www.viatoll.pl/en/trucks/viatoll-system/viabox

Click on EN at top of page to display in English (or choose language for you)

Then click on the red box
Vehicles with GVW >3.5T

Next click on the white box in the top right hand corner with the horizontal red lines.

This will give you these options. (You must have the red VEHICLES WITH GVW>3.5T for this to work


Now select the ‘customer service’ drop down arrow.


Next click on ‘find customer service facility’

This will take you to this screen


To go straight to this page just follow this link:
http://213.25.68.37/dp/(X(1)S(mbrhd355cmj2x4554qzacj55))/Default.aspx?lang=en&AspxAutoDetectCookieSupport=1

Enter the name of the town you wish to search for we were in Wroclaw so we typed in Wroclaw. Then click ‘search address’

Address will then appear in the box below shown in yellow. Next click ‘start search’.



You will then be given a choice of contractors. If you are using a smart phone if you scroll right on the contractor names you will see their addresses. There is also a map but I could really understand the different option.


If you click on the one you want it will show you the opening times and full address.


Just enter the address in you sat nav and off you go. You may want to have a look on google maps satellite option to see which address has the easiest access and parking available. I had to do some moving around to allow lorries in and out while Tony was sorting out the paper work.

The paperwork!!!!

You will need:
Pass Port
Driving Licence
Log Book
A Credit card

We were then told that our log book did not show what type of engine we had (we have a Euro4 engine). For this they need evidence of the year of manufacture. The year of registration shown in the log book is apparently not good enough. After lots of searching through boxes, looking at MOT certificates, manuals etc. under the bonnet. We both agreed we didn’t have this and Tony went back into the office with every bit of paper we have. Luckily for us the very nice Polish man found it for us on a vehicle check document we had from the DVLA. The only reason we had this ad it was part of the vehicle check information given to us from ‘Don Amott Leasure, Hilton, Derbyshire’ when we bought the lovely ‘Squeaky’.


So once they are happy with your documents you need to pay a 120 Zloty deposit (today the exchange rate is 10 Zloty is £2.20) plus Pre Loading the box with another 120 Zloty. Checking on the ‘my metro bank’ app this came to £50.44 in total.

We have it. 😀

So now with Toll no longer disabled our time to Auschwitz has gone down from 4 and 1/2 hours to 2 and 1/2 hours.

Our first Toll:



It worked. Well it beeped and let us through.

Good Luck Folks. Hope this helps someone navigate the mission that is getting your ViaTOLL box.

Happy Travels

Sian and Tony