Five Day Trip to Calais

Day Three, Saturday (Part One)

The sliding window-door from the studio flat led directly onto a lawn approximately a cricket pitch length to the locked gate leading onto the impressive, new, and completely graffiti-free Calais esplanade which runs for about a mile or so south of the docks.

First stop, Groove.

Worry not, Gaffa and I did not. Groove is a rather fine café on the beach between the esplanade and the numerous beach huts scattered over the sands. The staff were very patient; I took about 15 minutes to order deux Cappuccinos in my best French, which they then translated into English.

The side windows are lowered by remote control, so, one minute you are sitting quite relaxed chatting away and the next the froth on your Cappuccino is flying across the room along with your Panama.

This occasioned the first of numerous conversations about scales of measurement. Inspired by the sudden blasts through the open window, I began to wonder whether, in a restaurant setting, a more suitable wind scale than the traditional Beaufort could be based on cherry tomatoes and how they roll under provocation from a stiff Easterly. Menus could be marked with a number of cherry tomatoes depending on the strength of the wind, or the lettuce scale for zephyrs.

Flights of fancy occupied our minds until we set off for our first journey in the MG, to find Le Chatelet.

I’m attempting to write a novel set in 1799 involving a group of English and French spies a number of whom land in a cove in Le Chatelet. The extensive research I had carried out involved a Google map of France south of Calais until a small village appeared. No pictures, just imagination. Well, blow me down, after a lovely drive through virtually car-free countryside we staggered across sand dunes and onto a glorious sandy beach stretching as far as the eye could see in either direction. And there was the cove. Almost exactly as I had imagined it.

The beach was lovely.

Very few people. Further along, a huge, abandoned truck with no clue how it had arrived, or why it was there. One or two sunbathers, one runner, a group of hikers with ski poles (Why?), and that was it. Perfect. And it was warm and sunny. A small cage marked off four beautiful Gravelot eggs laid in the sand.

Relaxed now, Gaffa set about on his final solution for the sun visors as we drove further south to Abbeville – and into steady rain.

Whereas Le Chatelet was simple, remote, and a joy, Abbeville was a mystery and rather strange. It must have taken about half an hour to find the Centre-Ville; signposts took us up derelict and shabby back streets and poorly surfaced roads. Eventually, we parked across the fast-flowing river, La Somme, and headed into the bright lights of the town. The first café, with customary chairs and tables outside, was open. No-one serving. Rien. Next shop, the same. It was as if they had all been whisked away by aliens. Eventually, we found a café and sat outside, it had stopped raining and there was a table with dry chairs.

For some reason, the earlier discussion about tomatoes and lettuce leaves came back to bite us. Maybe it was the strange atmosphere in Abbeville, or perhaps the owner who stood in the entrance (outside) and smoked his cigarette about two feet from Paul’s side of the table. It’s difficult to pin down ‘reason’ when reason departs abandoning us to fitting with uncontrollable laughter, tears rolling down our cheeks. For a long time. And just when you think you’ve recovered another seizure takes hold.

We rallied and enjoyed looking round the vast church, almost cathedral size.

Then over to L’Hotel de Ville to find the public toilet. We were directed ‘Là’ with some pointing and descended below street level into the loos. In a corner sat a lady in a ticket-office-like booth. Initially, I thought we would have to pay for the privilege; that was why she was there. But no. I have no idea why the booth was there or what she was there for!! As I say, Abbeville, undeniably, was strange.

The rain had re-started.

In the town square is a very pleasant fountain. Four jets of water shoot on and off fairly randomly. Could one judge when they died down sufficiently to walk through the middle without getting deluged? Only one way to find out!

The drive back to Calais, a nice cuppa tea, and sanity restored was immensely joyful not only for the prospect of a cuppa, but also due to the latest attempt to hold the visors in place with gaffa tape. It held.

Five Day Trip to Calais

Love Wreck