Got in, got down, got stuck.

Dear extraterrestrial comrade, greetings. It is I, the machine, the van, motorhome, the two-bedroom flat on six wheels, engaging in this one-sided conversation.

Listen carefully, for these earthlings—moon landers who somehow managed to get lodged in a vallon—are a peculiar bunch. For your understanding, a vallon is a small elongated depression, not unlike this so-called 'journey' from the standpoint of yours truly. But let's rewind to the start.

Our mission was to find a secluded camping haven within the Alpes-Maritimes of France, that sprawling mass of land bordering the planet's most expansive puddle of H2O. Alas, I digress. We meandered through quaint villages, and I could sense a growing tension within me, mirroring the rising apprehension of my passengers. The female was particularly vocal, serenading the content of each road sign we passed: "Cédez le passage de la Patrie, À le péage et à la Vitesse…" (urgh!). Her rendition included an assortment of sounds and pitches, especially when articulating "Interdiction aux véhicules remorquant des caravanes" followed by "Cédez le passage aux véhicules arrivant en sens inverse". Then, as if on cue, the amusement ceased—not abruptly, but with a drawn-out note that she held (like this: "inverssssssssse. Ai ai ai"). That was because they saw this – spoiler: that is me in that embarrassing position just a couple of minutes later.

The male looking at me being embarrassingly stranded.

Silence befell the male. His gut, bowels, and perhaps his third eye were signalling an imminent misadventure.

Frankly, there was only one sensible option: reverse and seek an alternate route. So, they were undecided between the other two choices: traverse the bridge or ford the shallow currents of what barely qualified as a faint rivulet. Adventure called, and they answered, because what is travel without a dash of excitement, isn’t it?

To confide in you, my exo-friend, the entire debacle was far from my idea of 'fun'. It required the collective effort of a perplexed road assistant, his jack stuck precariously beneath my chassis, his colleague who arrived to rescue the rescuer, and an enthusiastic septuagenarian adorned in a hi-vis jacket—tool-less, yet full of vigour, who was the friend of a friend of someone living nearby.

It took six long hours to extricate me from my undignified pose. The male conversed in broken French over the phone with a person whose Italian was equally fragmented and who spoke no English—a common occurrence, it seems, on this side of the aforementioned puddle. One hole in my mudguard later, I was finally free. Until when, though?