The problem with the French is that they only speak French.
After a morning spent at a local market where I bought proper french pate from a butcher in a wagon, we headed off to sort the gas.
Sometimes you can over research things and it makes the process in your mind over complicated before you have even began.
This was certainty the case when it came to the gas for Europe. Doug was, (and probably still is), convinced refillable gas was the only way to go, however when we picked up the motorhome between the exchange rate taking a pummeling after Donald Trump visited Teresa May, and my horrendous insurance bill for 6 months, I didn’t want to part with anymore large sums. The gas would just have to wait until my pulse had stopped racing.
So we waited and then as we got closer to Europe the advice was “You’re better to wait until France”. So we did.
The problem was, in France, no one would sell us the refillable gas bottles without correctly installing them for a price of around 500€. So this is where the cross country search began in heavy rain and gridlock traffic.
After coming to the realization refill gas was an impossibility, we then settled upon buying swap a gas that we could use in Europe and buying some connectors. I was concerned no one would even give us gas because apparently according to all the advice online, you need a French address.
Cutting to the chase here, the next morning when it all felt impossible, we rocked up to a supermarket service station, bought our gas and the connectors and we are done for around 40€ for a 13kg bottle just like you guys suggested to us and no questions asked. All it took was a few hand signals because no one in France speaks English.
Being right on the border with Belguim, our intention was always to head up from France and after the gas debacle Doug was quite keen to say goodbye to the French.
We arrive in Bruges and park outside a laundry to enquire the price. Here I am gesticulating to the boy inside re the price of the washer and mouthing in big syllables when he looks up at me and says ” its 4 € for a wash” in the clearest English.
So here we are in Bruges after a lunch at a local pavement restaurant, where Doug was shocked to discover the toilet was decorated in naked woman from the 1950s, sharing a meal deal of soup and salad because we are on a budget afterall, enjoying the sunshine and looking forward to exploring more after a wee nap.