Being disabled in Europe - taking our car back to the UK

No-one can ever accuse me of being a Francophile. After several bad experiences with our friends across the Channel, I have never felt the urge to join in a chorus of La Marseillaise, I consider French wine best suited to consumption with a portion of British chips and I've always seen France itself as an attractive country spoilt by its inhabitants. However, this changed recently.  

We emigrated to Central Italy in November. For anyone who thinks that this means a new start - forget it! Because of my disability, we have been compelled to keep our old car which comes complete with right-hand drive. It is not easy to register it in Italy - not without a major administrative exercise and considerable expenditure.  

As a result of keeping ye ancient and trusted jalopy, a trip back to good old Blighty was necessitated in order to gain the desirous award of MOT. No way could it be put in for 'La Revisione' - the Italian equivalent, not without registering it in Italy first. Anyone who has mistakenly been lead to believe in the 'United States of Europe', think again. We may all be playing the same game now but the rules vary from country to country and there is a whole lot of dodgy refereeing going on.  

The problem also lay in us having pets whom we refused to entrust to Italian 'kennels' as these seem to consist solely of wooden poles and short steel chains to which they would be fettered. Our pampered hounds, used to spending all day, every day with us, would not have survived five minutes in such a place. We had to take them with us.  

Although it is much easier nowadays to travel with pets, it is still far from easy. You have to get them inoculated and into Britain within 24 to 48 hours of the inoculation being given. It doesn't matter that you might have to drive 1,500 miles to do so nor does it matter that the inoculations last for up to 6 months (so why the hurry?). Anyway, we set off on our mad dash up the Italian peninsula, through the Frejus tunnel and into France. North to Switzerland was out of the question because of our pet passengers and Switzerland not being part of the EU.

France has a great invention - every 10 to 15 miles along the motorways they have 'Aires'. These are rest areas (nothing new there) but the French have transformed what in Britain would be a barren, asphalted and concrete desert into a whole series of mini theme-parks.  

There are two sorts of aires - the first much more like what we are used to; a dining area, petrol station, car park, toilets etc, the second sort, a much more rural creation; just a parking area and toilets. Often these are situated in mixed woodland, well back from the motorway. They often have sculptures or themes relevant to the area you are travelling through. Bourges-on-Bresse, for example, famous for its poultry, has a big chicken which somehow manages to avoid looking too tacky.  

Many of the toilets have piped music - not always desirable. All are clean and unvandalised. It is hard to imagine this in the UK. They are open all night and the Police patrol them to make sure that they do not become either a paradise for 'cottagers' or junkies.  

So what else has turned my head? During our mad dash, we caught a few hours sleep in the aires. There wasn't time enough to stay in a hotel if we were to make the 48 hour deadline. We saw many aires including some very busy ones. Not one of them though had anyone who wasn't authorised to do so parking in the disabled spaces. These are always well-sited and fiercely reserved for 'the handicapped, war-wounded or expectant mothers'. No-one, but no-one, parks in them who doesn't qualify. It just isn't done. One aire we went to had people driving round and round looking for spaces while three 'disabled' ones lay vacant - two after I'd taken my pick.  

We had a few hours to kill in Britain so we took the opportunity to do some shopping. Italian food is very limited and we were missing some 'essentials' like gravy granules and baked beans so we stopped at Sainsbury's in Folkestone. It was a moderately busy, drizzly day. Sainsbury's had really gone to town on disabled spaces and there were literally dozens of them - all full with non-disabled persons' vehicles! Eventually I saw one become free and tried to get in it only to be shouted at by another driver (not disabled) to go and find a space further away (along with some other abuse). The whole episode was not helped for me by seeing a Police car block one of the spaces without any good reason - clearly they weren't going to be my champions!  

The space I did find in the end was too far from the supermarket for me to get there so my wife did the shopping unaided. I sat in the car silently cursing our hypocritical attitude - create the spaces and then deny their use to the people who need them - until another driver drove into the back of our car. I think he had been reading a list given to him by his wife.  

Later that night and earlier than planned, we took the Shuttle back to France. I cannot believe I am writing this but I felt glad to be there!