An angel named Patrick

#6 Calpe

The issue with electricity was on my mind constantly. We always needed a pitch with an electrical connection. Here in the countryside, that might not be a problem. But on planned trips to Marbella, Cadiz, or Seville, it could be. Many touring enthusiasts report full camping and pitching sites in various forums. I was just mapping out our route for the next day using the Stellplatz-Radar app when I came across a hint on our way - 'Liontron' - a battery shop! Could this be coincidence? I had never seen such a note in the app before. I googled it, and indeed, this company specialized in lithium batteries for motorhomes, exactly what I was looking for. I sent an email, and not even half an hour later, I received a response from a Patrick with a phone number. I called. He answered in Spanish. I asked him if he speaks English, and he laughed. 'Français?' he asked. I looked at Icke for help, and she shrugged her shoulders innocently, saying, 'I only know merci and Louis de Funes.' I was speechless. Patrick noticed. 'You can choose: Spanish, English, French, or maybe German?' What a show-off, but I felt relieved. A Swiss person. Yes, they had a suitable battery, and he would also take the time to install it for me. 'I don't usually do this anymore, but we are currently moving, and I'm happy to help.' Yes, the Swiss! Who invented Ricola and the batteries? The Swiss! Let's go to Calpe! (I'm not so sure about the batteries, though...)

That was about 650 kilometers from our location. We wanted to meet at a specific place at 4 PM, the address of which Patrick had sent me. It would be tight. We packed our things, and at 9, we set off. When starting the engine, the display showed the message 'Check engine.' Damn it! I checked the owner's manual. It said, 'Urgently visit a workshop.' It couldn't be true now! We decided to ignore it for now and drive on.

After five kilometers, I heard a gasp from my right side: 'Oh no!' Water! From the direction of the toilet, a small stream was making its way and had already soaked the entire interior. I pulled over to the right in a small village. I had to stop the water. I looked into the compartment where the toilet cassette was housed. Everything was full of water, luckily clean water. There must be a leak in the toilet flush, I suspected. I scooped out the water and dried everything. We were no longer allowed to use the flush. And we had to keep going. When starting the engine again, the message 'Check engine' appeared. Stay calm...

Admittedly, our nerves were so frayed now that they were almost transparent. What if we couldn't stop the water? If the engine gave up? During the 650 kilometers on the AP7, my thoughts were racing. Did I ask too much of us with this trip?

Just before 4 PM, we arrived in Calpe. Patrick drove with us onto the large sandy pitch where several motorhomes had already taken up their quarters for the evening. When he jumped out of his car with a radiant smile and a battery under his arm, I immediately felt better. He was an angel. He may have been a few years younger than me and a complete professional. In just a few minutes, the passenger seat was removed and the battery underneath was replaced. I won't deny that we were very lucky because the lithium battery was 2 centimeters too high, but Patrick skillfully fitted it in a lying position, which is not a problem with lithium.

It had gotten late. We wanted to find a pitch in Calpe where we needed electricity again, probably for the last time, because the new battery was only 30% charged. In Calpe, that shouldn't be a problem. There were eight pitches for hundreds of motorhomes. We visited them all one by one. No chance. Every last one was occupied. In January. Unbelievable. We were already thinking about getting back on the Autopista when the woman at the reception whispered in Swiss German on the last pitch on our list, 'I still have one available.' The Swiss! I love them! Our motorhome should be no more than six meters long, she said. Absolutely no more! Ours measures 5.98 meters - without the bike rack. But who needs a stickler for centimeters somewhere in the depths of Spain in the middle of the night...