There’s good toothache and there’s bad toothache, right? The good kind is just a dull ache – enough to induce the weirdly enjoyable need to constantly press on it, whilst not exactly being a throbbing pain. The bad kind makes one want to commit murder.
Luckily, it was the good kind that started up for me as we drove across Hungary to a campsite at the south end of Lake Balaton. I had a good feel around with my tongue, concluded that a tiny bit of tooth had chipped off (a sucky sweet may have been involved – I couldn’t possibly say), and seriously considered asking Steve to get his Dremel out once we stopped. Then I forgot about it.
The next day we went into Hevis to check out the market. Steve had an urge to buy proper Hungarian paprika, and spent a long time with a little old lady testing the samples on one of the stalls. Steve is pretty nifty at working around language barriers and only resorts to the joy that is Google Translate as a last resort. In fact he has an absolute gift for finding words that can be understood across a fair whack of the board.
So, ‘piquant?’ he asked the lady, pointing at one of the samples. ‘Yes,’ she agreed, ‘piquant’. He indicated another sample and asked again. ‘Brutal piquant,’ said the lady, offering to bag some up. Er, no thanks, we’ll stick with the piquant – my mouth is sore enough.
In fact, the toothache was now ratcheting up and this meant I’d have to do something about it. Bollocks. My entire knowledge of Hungarian consisted of the word for thank you and now I had brutal to add to the mix. Didn’t bode well.
The next day was a Sunday so I just had to bide my time. By the end of the day another chunk of my tooth had fallen out. On Monday morning I went to see Janos in reception. He was a nice young man – big smile, bald head, had a nice Rhodesian Ridgeback and a good command of English. He explained the problem to the dentist next door (cos that was handy) and made an appointment.
By 10.30 I had a brand new filling, and had honed my negotiation-through-mime skills as to the price. Sorted. Went back to the van, waited for the pain to kick in, ate soft stuff, and watched The Handmaid’s Tale.
The next day we went to Keszthely to visit the Festetics Palace. This baroque beauty housed a fabulous library, several museums and exhibitions, a bird park, tropical gardens, and more besides.
The nerdily brilliant model railway took up an entire hangar, and featured trains through the ages hurtling through lots of well known Hungarian towns and landmarks. It had so much detail that I went round twice, happily spotting a couple snogging on a park bench, a lady with carrier bags trudging up a hill just past the bus stop, and – my personal favourite – an army tank that had sneaked in to the drive-in movie.
Outside the Palace was a vintage car rally. These were all old Russian cars – Volgas – and many of them were clearly still in use. One had a microwave perched on its passenger seat.
We saw exotic birds, some stunning cacti and amaryllis, and an interesting ‘Travelling Aristocrats’ exhibition, before discovering a building that housed over fifty old coaches, carriages and sleighs. They were lush.
And then it was off for coffee and cake at a cute little tunnel of a cafe, almost a corridor, really, but covered – absolutely plastered – in antique clocks.
And then my brand new filling fell out.
The next day I went back to the dentist, where she did a terrifying mime to show me that my tooth now needed to be extracted. We agreed, and she injected the living daylights out of me. I thought my throat was going to close over, and I certainly couldn’t swallow. I imagined saliva filling my mouth and dribbling out of my nose.
She got to work but what the poor woman didn’t know was that one of my main personality traits is tenacity, and it seems that that applies to my teeth as well. At one point I genuinely thought she was going to put her foot on my chest in order to provide the necessary leverage, and she was actually sweating. She managed eventually, and it was Dentist:1, tooth:nil.
An hour or two later, and it was the pain that made me want to murder someone. Steve had raced to the shops and come back with broccoli to make into soup, so it wasn’t going to be him. Then Georgie gave an almighty lurch and there was a horrible crunching sound. We’d been hit!
We both raced outside to see a rather large caravan stuck on our back ladder and a red-faced Latvian woman shouting furiously at her husband. Some careful backing-up of their van revealed a whacking great tear in their side, and on Georgie? Not a scratch.
The woman told us that she’d thought we’d been sticking out too far, but then she’d had a walk around and seen that we were, in fact, touching the fence at the front. So deffo her husband’s fault. Damn. Couldn’t vent my pain at him, either, because his wife had got that sewn up already.
On our last day we saw her again and Steve invited her in to see the walkie-talkies. She looked so relieved at the idea that I thought she might cry. I was so heavily medicated that I felt perfectly benign towards them both and besides, it was time to discover another country.
And then one of Steve’s fillings fell out…….!