Dave wasn’t really…
A big drinker, just a steady three maybe four pints a night man. I got talking to him one evening and we realised we both had a mutual friend in the haulage industry. That friend was Steve an owner driver for many years doing the continent.
I was 23/24 and doing agency work because that suited me at the time. I had no problems driving, roping sheeting and knowing my way around lorries. I was confident but still a little green. Living near Pompey, sooner or later I knew my driving career would take me ‘over the water’. I’d doubled manned to Germany and did a trip around Holland once but I was hardly a seasoned veteran. Dave said that he’d keep me in mind if he needed short notice driver cover. I just thought it was the usual pub banter and forgot about it until about a month later, Dave asked me to do a run to Portugal in his lorry because his driver was on holiday. I felt obliged really, being sort of mates I said I’d help him out. I had no idea what I was letting myself in for. We agreed to meet in the pub car park and I’d go down to Pompey docks from there in the unit.
My first sight of the unit should have been enough to make me think again. Hindsight is a wonderful thing and looking back, I should have turned around in the pub car park and gone home to my safe reliable agency gig. A dull orange/rust DAF2800 sat forlorney in the corner of the car park. The cab just leaning a little at the front on the nearside. A Brittax mirror (the only one) on the passenger side replacing the DAF fitment had a tartan rag tied to it but that had long since shredded into little red tassels. A cracked headlight, a missing centre wiper and mudguards that may well have been ploughed over by a tractor in a field once finished the whole thing. Dave pointed out the twin tanks and explained the one way valve system. I suppose looking back it was about 900 litres capacity. He said there were a few bits in the cab that the regular man said I could use. His gas cooker, water containers and any tinned food that was there. I lobbed my bag and sleeping bag up, checked I had my passport, got all the load details from Dave and started her up. I know this sounds silly now but, the hissing of air from the clutch pedal as I tried to get reverse was so loud, I thought my red line had split. I got out to check but the line was ok. Just a little clutch leak, it’ll be fine I told myself. Pompey docks was 20 minutes. Just enough time to get comfy, put my ■■■■ lighter and things as I wanted them. The steering felt a bit vague and it all squeaked a bit but, I didn’t think was an issue. I got into Pompey docks, found the agent, got the paperwork and located my trailer in the massed ranks of export trailers on the dockside. It was an old Bennet trailer, a bright green tilt with red lettering. It was full right up with steel for a building in Faro. There were four straps over the load and a fair bit of dunnage in between. I’d seen better secured loads and wished I’d got some chains but I’d also seen worse. I coupled up put my number plate on got into the queue for the Caen boat. I showered and joined my fellow ‘Euro truckers’ in the smoke filled drivers restaurant. Got talking to a driver who said he was going down to Bordeaux and could follow him if I wanted to. I got my duty free and headed for bed just as the worst storm that year on the English Channel, blew in from nowhere. By the time I’d got into my bunk, the ship was rolling around like a pea in a tin. I didn’t like the pitching and the dreadful crashing noises as we continued. I didn’t sleep at all.
As I drove off the linkspan, there was a British registered Volvo F10 with a fridge waiting for me, I pulled up behind and then we both set off together. It soon became apparent just what a bag of ■■■■ I was driving. It would only pull away in first, I tried second low but that just made the whole thing shake. Once I did get going, the steering see-sawed. Not a small see-saw action but a large, constantly in need of correction see-saw. You could have offered me £500 to hold it in a straight line for 25 yards and your money would have been safe. Then the slight knocking, that was so much louder now I had a load on became quite worrying. I stopped to look under the cab but had no idea what I was looking for anyway. I suppose it made me feel better doing something rather than nothing. The other driver in his shiny efficient F10 had stopped and waited. When I got there, I explained that I was a bit slower than I had anticipated. He laughed and then disapeared into the clear blue sunny French day, never to be seen again (I don’t blame him really).
There was a European road map on the bunk so, I had to work out how to get to Portugal by myself, I also had to work out where I actually was. Needless to say, I got the last bit wrong and ended up down some tiny little French lanes with lovely scenic villages that were almost impossible to get through. I ended up stopping south of Nantes for the first night, bearing in mind that most UK motors would have got to Castets in the first shift. I was way behind already. The other thing I noticed was the fuel guage going down quicker than I had anticipated. I checked the extra tank and realised that it wasn’t going down. Seems the one way valve was more of a ‘no way’ valve. Supper was a tin of Tyne Brand minced beef with onions.
The following morning it didn’t matter that the only toilet free was the classic ‘hole in one’, I needed the loo fast! Tyne Brand minced beef with onions and me had violently disagreed with each other. A cracking start to the day I thought. I was confident I had a route planned out, the truck would actually do the job it had been given, despite the see-saw steering, constant knocking and squeaking. All I had to do was drive steady for the next few days or so.
What could possibly go wrong?
Edit; The destination was Sines which is quite some way above Faro. I spose 30 years or so has dulled my memory. So, Sines is the destination.
to be continued