France May - June '04

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"Assuming you are not a writer already, you probably should be. There is deffo a travel feature in there. I would sell it. You have the talent..... I have done my fair share of travel pieces....... some people make a living doing what you have just published to the world for free on the www".

From "a picture editor, Bristol Evening Post".

Well, that was the problem, I suppose - too much of a plan. 

I should have remembered, 

"We don't have a plan, so nothing can go wrong!", (Spike Milligan) and 

"A good traveller has no fixed plans and is not intent on arriving.", (Lao Tse). 

Monday 170504: We whooshed past lorries from all over Europe, (and more of them from eastern Europe than we'd ever noticed on previous trips). The Spanish ones were our favourites because, in nine days time, in Spain was where we intended to be.

"You know what's happening here, Jo", I said, "Hot weather in France is creating low pressure. The low pressure is creating these northerly winds and drawing us down to France at a most unholy speed. 

Some power bigger than we'll ever understand quite obviously wants us to be there! And quickly".

Jo hmm-ed and smiled in a way that avoided any need to say, He's all excited. Just humour him.

We arrived in Dover much too early, but only recently had I found out that in Spain motor vehicles are required to carry two warning triangles, so we walked to Halfwits and bought a second one. (Two days later in a French supermarket we found warning triangles at 2/3 the price we'd paid in Dover).

At 5.30pm we left Dover, (still 1hr 45mins earlier than our booked time). 

At Calais as we waited to leave the bowels of the ship, Jo was planning for us to press on to a campsite near St Omer, but I felt I'd had enough excitement for one day and that setting off dozy into France wasn't such a good idea.

Landing in the port area, despite my eagerly and correctly anticipated feeling that, 

This is me! 

Driving our super rhd van in Europe on the "wrong" side of the road is exactly what I am meant to be doing!,

we almost immediately became tangled up in diversions. 

Following previously supplied directions from a Club80-90 dude, we tried hard to reach the Sans Billet parking area within the port, but ended up approaching it by what seemed to be the only escape route - exiting a roundabout on one of its approach roads. 

Two dockworkers seemed neither bothered nor surprised, and re-directed us.

While I was taking an exploratory walk to the free and better than adequate toilets and showers, an African- looking dude (who appeared to be employed in one of the ferry companies' porta-cabin ticket offices and later got into a Belgian-registered car), asked Jo whether or not we were crossing to Dover that night. 

I guess one pushes ones luck just a tiny bit with a free stop-over here, pretending to be waiting for a ferry out of France, but nobody bothered us and the area is well lit, very secure and likely to be patrolled by the authorities looking for unfortunate illegal immigrants.

Update: At Calais there is another campervan / motorhome parking place. It's near to the beach at the point where the cross-channel ferries exit and enter the port. Although only a roughly graveled parking area with no facilities, it was even so another very handy overnight stop, but the local authorities have now, 290804,  tarmacked the area, constructed a proper servicing point and marked out parking bays for over-nighting campers.

After a while we put up our, (dated 1989, but new to us), Silver Screens and slept soundly through the all-night hum and squawk of the ferries and the lorries' crash and clatter.

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Tuesday 180504: Immediately I had the feeling again that,

This is me! We're in Europe proper! In our van!

and off we went into Calais to fill up with cheap diesel.

By coincidence we breakfasted at an Aire de Service where we'd filled up on our 2003 trip, and then we buzzed on down across the flatlands. 

Mid morning a convoy of seven excited men in five Ferraris and two Audis overtook us. Then overtook us again. 

By mid afternoon, the Jura range was hazily starting to rise ahead of us.

A small diesel shunting locomotive trundled very, very slowly past the campsite and over a rusty river bridge.

That evening we slouched, ate and lounged about before strolling along the riverside and past what turned out to be the wonkiest railway line I have ever seen in use. 

A long weir diverted the navigable part of the river towards the town. The wilder part curved around the back of the campsite. On the town side a huge sea-going barge sagged derelict at the water's edge, its open window frames with their broken glass shifting slightly in the breeze. 

We strolled towards a bar, (just like the old Continental in Lancaster), and got there just in time to find that it had closed at 9pm).

Following a stream as we turned back, we were distracted by quack-like croaks, the invisible owners of which became silent as I, (I suppose fairly thunderously), tiptoed towards them to investigate.

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