I thought the post-traumatic stress disorder arising from my experiences at the last European football championships had been fully cured until an email arrived this week and caused flashbacks.
It was from a car rental company, Enterprise, about a survey of Irish fans heading to the latest tournament. Among other things it suggested that half those travelling would hire vehicles of some kind. Then it added, soberingly, that “1 in 7” respondents had reported “at least one accident or minor ‘prang’ while driving abroad in the past”.
Happily, I did not have any crashes at Euro 2012. I did, however, have something you could call a prang: to which we’ll return. But if I suffered any long-term damage, it was from the stress of combining a family holiday with work (never again!), while also making my debut as the driver of a rented camper van.
The challenges started early when, having secured the last such van in northern Europe, from a company on the Dutch-German border, I had to drive it back into Amsterdam and park overnight.
Bicycle town
Amsterdam, as you’ll have heard, is a bicycle town. And although most of its bikes are of the “granny” type, they tend to be cycled with an aggression not normally associated with female grandparents, at least in Ireland.
It must be be stressful piloting even a small smart-car around that city, never mind a large camper, with outsized wing mirrors. Everywhere I went in Amsterdam, I felt as welcome as a Russian tank driver in 1968 Prague. Still, at least the van was unscathed.
There were similar horrors one night in Hannover, where I had to follow complicated directions to a car-park just as German fans spilled into the streets to celebrate a win.
Flags
The van’s blind spots were big enough already without flags draped over the windscreen. But due to this and other distractions, I drove the wrong way up a (short) one-way street, full of drunks, while police – perhaps noticing the cold sweat – waved me on.
There too, the vehicle went undamaged. And more remarkably, it also survived all of Poland, although there were roads in that country where two sets of outsized wing mirrors were not meant to meet.
Seeing a lorry approach, often, I would hug the kerb and hope for the best. But hug as I might, the experience of seeing trucks speed past in the opposite direction gave me an insight into what it must have felt like being a knight in a jousting tournament.
Sure enough, among other camper drivers I met in Poland were a group of Irish lads who had lost a wing-mirror in action. Their plan was to replace it locally, and hope the hire company wouldn’t see the join.
That option was not available to me, alas, when the rental van and I finally ran out of luck. It happened in a suburban cul-de-sac in Magdeburg, on one of the many occasions we got lost trying to find a campsite.
As if to repel just such vehicles as ours, the small turning area at the end was guarded by a giant boulder, disguised under greenery (and darkness). I only noticed it when, during the 52-point turn, I heard an ominous crack somewhere.
This proved to be the van’s protective side panel, between the wheels. And when I surveyed the damage in daylight, it seemed like a cruel joke on the whole Irish-football-fan experience.
Yes, the crack was 90 (centimetres), or near enough.
Having forgotten to take out excess-damage insurance, I briefly considered a 500-mile side-trip to Turin, to get a replica panel from Fiat. That would probably have been cheaper.
But in the end I had to surrender to the mercies of the German camper-van hire people, who were not feeling merciful.
Mechanic’s verdict
While I nervously awaited their mechanic’s verdict, the office woman regaled me with the various misfortunes of the fleet returning from Poland. She was as mournful as the queen of Spain discussing the fate of the Armada. And I knew this was just softening me up for the impending blow.
But in search of consolation, I asked what the most expensive prang had been. So she mentioned the camper driver who had managed to write off a “brand-new Audi” somewhere.
Ouch. Continuing to await the mechanic’s return, I consoled myself that, as long as it was a low-speed collision, there are worse things to hit than a boulder.