Five Day Trip to Calais
Day Five, Monday
The very acceptable evening meal at Le Hovercraft was, of course, digested on top of the uncooked burgers from Dunkirk…spelt more correctly as Dunkerque by Sir Gaffa in his comment. His comment using a more Anglo-Saxon term referring to his post-burger fear ‘Will I, won’t I puke?’ needs to be honoured in this final Calais chapter.
But all was well. Our robust British digestive systems had seen off any threat from le continent.
I woke up to gentle Restaurant-disapproving-rumbles coming from the other side of the room quite early, maybe 5am, and eventually took myself off for a wander along the sea-front esplanade. It was a gloriously sunny and warm start to the day, quiet, still, and deserted.
Beach huts on Calais beach
Not that I was wearing my Panama but the walk gave me time to be filled with a ‘hats off to Calais’ feeling. Whoever pushed through the redevelopment of the seafront, the town square, and general ethos has lifted Calais from its image of a pre-Christmas cheap beer and booze-infested English supermarket. Or simply a town that one passes through, and he/she deserves the Gold medal that its neighbour just up the road has forsaken.
Again, it impressed me that the whole esplanade is graffiti-free. Not one black marker pen streak, or gang postcodes, no ‘I woz here’, no hearts with arrows, no swear words with letters missing…just clean surfaces that all ages enjoy. I ambled along the whole length recording different sounds and images mainly on sub-standard videos rather than photos…well no-one was around to worry over some old codger talking to his mobile phone.
Turning around at the end the whole scene changed. Looming up behind me was a huge invading black cloud. It made for a contrasting image, the yellow sand illuminated by the early morning sun, hence the stick-man-like shadows, set against the monstrous and ominous dark cloud.
Calais beach
It was just before 7 when I returned. Not a car was moving. Not one. Does anyone go to work? Maybe the truth was that Sunday night which had been so pleasant, with everyone eating out, that the whole population had simply given a characteristic Gallic shrug ‘Work? It can wait’. Maybe we can learn a few things from our French neighbours.
Eventually, though, the chess set was packed along with all our belongings, and we were sitting in the queue at the port ready to embark on the ferry crossing back across the channel.
We ended as we had begun, tucking into cooked breakfasts, this time care of Irish Ferries, before indulging in one of our stranger habits walking round the decks of the ferry, I’m not sure how many times.
With the white cliffs of Dover approaching fast we re-entered the sanctuary of Dover Harbour and before long were driving to Canterbury and meandering through its familiar streets to take the road to Chestfield and, ultimately, Whitstable.
The White Cliffs of Dover
A quick pit stop and I was away on the return journey to Bristol feeling quite jolly; the gaffa tape still holding the visors in position.
Until the next time, it’s a wave from Sir Seagull, vowing to renew his interest in ants, cows, chess and much else thanks to Sir Gaffa.
God speed.