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Boiling brakes, a forklift truck, a deux chevaux and a horse

“Yeah, he doesn’t do very much,” boomed Bruno, the mountain sized mechanic, as he threw an accusing thumb over his shoulder in my direction.  It seemed a little bit harsh to me.

I had only arrived at the garage with our neighbour – also Bruno – and Charlie Charleston about an hour earlier. The yard was full of old cars and motor parts and was dusty and shadeless, so after sixty minutes of French-translated car banter and discussion about 2CVs, I had grabbed the chance to step backward into the gloom of the workshop to avoid the relentless glare and heat from the sun. Thankfully, I quickly realized that the thumbs’ accusatory trajectory was passing me by and as I turned to follow it, came face to face with a shameless, but still disinterested, horse.

Un cheveaux

A horse inside

Not so much of a work horse

Not so much of a work horse

 

He was barely a few metres away from me and so completely still and silent, the single cheval had melded into the darkness, watching impassively as big Bruno went about his business on our deux chevaux. Apparently he is a regular attendee, but clearly not much of a team player. It was a pretty unconventional garage in other ways.  As an ex- mechanic I was really looking forward to getting a look underneath Charlie, when they put him up on the ramps. In this part of France, for ramps read forklift truck! Safety stands are for sissies.

Charlie and the forklift

Charlie and the forklift

Up, up and away

Up, up and away

 

No sissies here!

No sissies here!

The next surprise was the bill. For an hour and a half of work, including giving Charlie a full once-over, changing a tyre and a couple of other things – 10 euros. Yes,  TEN euros!

The two Brunos

The two Brunos

Big Bruno also worked on him a second time a few days later, replacing the steering rack assembly, the control arm and king pin for the princely sum of 150 euros for parts and labour.  With Bruno from El Castell still on hand to translate, we also got the stories from his father of his trips across the Sahara desert in a Peugeot 504, which he did five times – taking European 504’s to sell at African markets.

Charlie looking a little slimmer and slightly surprised

Charlie looking a little slimmer and slightly surprised

Shopping for spares

Shopping for spares

A good look at the engine

A good look at the engine

We found similar generosity in Spain a few weeks ago, and luck. Which is something of an understatement when it comes to losing brakes on a long descent down a narrow, winding mountain road, where every corner is a hairpin bend with no safety rails. Pont del Comte sits at 1800 metres and we were coming down the hill, having proudly conquered the summit earlier in the day.

Geoff and Charlie up the mountain

Geoff and Charlie up the mountain before the descent

Now 2CVs are real workhorses (unlike the one in Bruno’s garage), but there are some quirks that you have to learn. Firstly, their old design doesn’t work with some modern inventions – like synthetics. So, no synthetic engine oil or brake fluid. No problem until you drive it hard on a hot day and the brake fluid starts to boil and the brakes start to fail. It started with needing just a couple of pumps on the pedal to get a response, then three pumps, four pumps till after a few kilometers I was tapping my foot faster than a fiddler at a hillbilly hoe-down. So, as we hit the town of St Lorenc de Morunys, pumping away at the less-than-ideally responsive brake pedal, we rolled passed a garage with a sunshine yellow 2CV sitting outside. Surely, a sign! I don’t speak French, but I was able to communicate with the mechanic with lots of pointing, hand gestures and my best mime of driving a car with no brakes. When you don’t know the language, just keep smiling and making an ass of yourself. I thought the brake fluid was contaminated and asked if he could flush the system. The mechanic was great, he stopped what he was doing to work on our car.

Breathing space from boiling brakes

Breathing space from boiling brakes

Two plates of tapas, and a couple of hours later we were on our way again, with cheery waves from the owners and offers to come visit any time! Two hours labour, new brake fluid and adjusting the rear brakes, total cost a ridiculously low thirty euros! Cheap bills and cheery service seem to be the norm when you drive a 2CV. The next day we dropped by the Citroen garage in Solsona to ask about getting repairs for a hole in the exhaust we have had for a while. Sure, bring it in tomorrow morning.  We had bought some new exhaust parts when we were in Alcaniz , so as well as welding the hole, they also fitted the new section. Again – a pretty cheap bill, friendly, fast service and we were on our way again. Charlie Charleston has been in good hands right from the start. I confess to a slight bias, but from the ever-generous Johan in Amsterdam , even though he looks a little crazy here:

Johan is a good guy really!

Johan is a good guy really!

to those we met just passing through….. mechanics are bloody great people.

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The donkey killers and the fire starters

“I don’t know why we do these things – there was probably a reason once, but no one remembers  anymore – it’s just how we do fiesta here in Catalonia.” …….

Our host at the campsite in Oix – a tiny village celebrating its annual fiesta this weekend – shrugged as I asked him to explain last night’s high jinx. It’s as hard to describe as it is seemingly to explain, but here goes: Imagine stepping onto the set of Mad Max – where grown men and women are dressed head to toe in dark maroon fire-retardant trench coats, sporting old-style motorbike goggles, one wearing a rams head masks, horns, most with their faces painted, wicked grins all round and wooden staffs spiked with fireworks.

Rams Headed Fire-Starter!

Rams Headed Fire-Starter!

At eleven at night the few village lights still glowing were doused, the purple pirate drummers struck up a hearty beat and then the rebels came alive. Each of them lit the Catherine wheel fireworks on their staffs and ran at the crowd herded into the narrow street leading down to the church. Yes – AT the crowd!

Drummers

Drummers

Purple haze

Purple haze

It quickly became apparent why so many men where wearing old straw hats, as the sparks flew and the locals dashed not away from the maniacs trying to scorch them, but straight into the centre of the spewing embers to dance in circles with the fire-starters.

Dancing with the fire-starters

Dancing with the fire-starters

More dancing with the fire-starters

More dancing with the fire-starters

Fireworks showered down on us from the balconies overlooking the square and the little road that circled the church; sparks shot up our trouser-legs as the pyromaniacs swept the road around our feet with more explosives. As one firework died down another was fished from a leather pouch slung over their shoulder, pegged onto the staff and quickly lit.

Fireworks from the balcony

Fireworks from the balcony

Showering down from all angles

Showering down from all angles

 

Herding into the narrow streets

Herding into the narrow streets

 

Too late to look for cover!

Too late to look for cover!

A full circuit of the church later, the drums thrashed a final charge, the dancing became more frenetic and then almost as soon as it started, it was over. What the hell was that all about, and what the hell is coming next, we wondered. The lights came on and then, somewhat incongruously, a local Catalan reggae band started up on the stage – playing to a diminishing crowd as the fire dancers melted away back home again. It was fabulously crazy and we still haven’t found out why they do it. For equal mystery we could have stayed in Solsona – the town we left to come here – for their festival. Hanging donkeys by the neck and hauling them up to the top of the church spire is not my idea of a party.. but apparently that’s what passes for a good fiesta in Solsona!

Donkey disaster

Donkey disaster

Even at the gift shop...

Even at the gift shop…

Don’t panic donkey-lovers… it’s only a story and that’s only a model.  Apparently the donkey killers of Solsona were some not-so-smart fellows who had heard there was grass growing on the roof of the church, so decided the pull their donkeys up there for a feed… by the neck. They also have dancing giants and a bunch of other stuff that seems a little crazy to outsiders like us, but makes perfect sense to the locals. Solsona and Oix are in the heart of Catalonia. An autonomous region, with its own government, flag and language; the people are fiercely proud to be Catalan first and Spanish second.  It seems a lot of things are different here and traditions abound. Given that we are also so close to France – about 20 kms as the crow flies high up into the Pyrenees – I can get away with saying “vive la difference” !  

Rams Headed Fire-Starter! Too late to look for cover!Showering down from all anglesDancing with the fire-startersDrummers Herding into the narrow streetsPurple hazeMore dancing with the fire-startersFireworks from the balconyDonkey disaster