Petal needed an oil change.

I thought we’d find a garage, leave her there for a bit and have a coffee. I hadn’t planned much beyond the coffee.

Norauto couldn’t take her. Too heavy. Other big chains gave us the same answer.

I felt this was a little unfair.

I hadn’t expected the oil change to involve an audit.

Eventually, we ended up at a garage on a mountain, somewhere in Portugal. Quite a lot of driving had now gone into finding someone to do a fairly ordinary thing.

We got the phones out.

I typed what we needed. The translator produced Portuguese. Their answer came back through another round of translation. There was some pointing. I tried rephrasing things in English, as though the problem might be my sentence structure.

They could help.

In two weeks.

I thanked them. We got back on the road.

By then I was tired of looking. I’d expected this to take up part of the day, but the garage search had become the day. We still needed the oil change. We were simply somewhere else now.

This is one of the less photographed parts of travelling in a van. You’re in Portugal, there are places you’d like to see, and you’re looking for a workshop with room for your house.

We eventually found a truck garage willing to help.

I was relieved. Petal had finally arrived somewhere her size wasn’t the first objection.

She’d been waiting for the oil change. I’d been waiting for the coffee.

Neither of us mentioned the kettlebell again.