Five Day Trip to Calais

 Day Three, Saturday (Part One)

Calais to Le Chatelet

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.

Le Chatelet

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.

Abandoned truck, Le Chatelet

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.

Abbeville

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

Day Two - Whistable to Dover to Calais

A Five-Day trip to Calais

Day Two, Friday

An early exit was required to avoid the potential ignominy of missing the 11 o’clock Irish Ferries departure from Dover. Actually, avoiding ignominy was not our highest priority – finding a decent café serving a Full English was more on our minds and Sunrise Café overlooking the harbour did the trick.

But, like almost everything on this trip, the simple pleasure of a quiet breakfast with strong coffee and bacon on toast was transformed into a memorable few minutes of high drama as a young man, also enjoying breakfast, took it upon himself to explode in anger and turn the air a deep deep blue. He was a complete opposite of John Cleese. Short, wiry and lacking the strange finesse of a Cleese car-birching rant – this man’s every other word was an F-bomb.

A fitting start to the day which made a few days across the water in France seem all the more attractive.

On the journey from Whitstable to Dover it became apparent that the gaffa tape and small sections of Velcro I’d brought along were not keeping the sun visors in position. This became Paul’s (alias Sir Gaffa) mission to solve. Meanwhile, any sizeable bump in the road caused the visors to drop down in unison. My (alias Sir Seagull Scab) gaffa obsession was more with the unfortunate gap between the rear window and its housing knowing that the forecast for Saturday was rain, rain, and more rain.

Once in Calais after a very smooth crossing, we were directed about 500km around the outskirts before finally arriving at the block of flats that was to be home for the next few days.

And then into town to find a couple of refreshing beers.

It’s only when living in close quarters to someone that you learn about their likes and dislikes, hopes, dreams, fears…and unexpected commonalities. The apparent unrehearsed need to wear straw Panama hats is the first visual oddity a casual observer might notice. No-one else was. Where we differed was on ice creams and soft drinks. Sir Gaffa does like bright colours.

That left the evening meal.

Whilst Paul was seeking shade having forgotten his Panama, I was checking the level of wildlife aggression from the town square seagull population. We ended up corralled into a very pleasant glass-bounded outside area. There were tables in the shade but for some inexplicable reason, the waitress said ‘Non’ and Gaffa had to endure the warmth of the setting sun.

End of the first day. I tried not to fiddle with my itching scab whilst Paul was still muttering about his plans to solve the sun-visor problem on our journey south planned for the morrow.

I should close by acknowledging that in between the events of the day we began a series of thematic conversations: scales of measurements, the paucity of our French, football - specifically Leeds Utd and Portsmouth FC, chess, theology, double doors, poetry, counselling and philosophy, all things Welsh, physical decay and far more.

Sleep came quickly.

Five Day Trip to Calais

Not the traditional start of an expedition to France

Day One, Thursday

 I don’t know anyone who has slipped across to Calais from Dover on the ferry to actually stay in Calais.

 It appears that opinion is divided on the usual purpose for a Dover-Calais crossing three ways (1) Pre-Christmas cheap booze from the local Hypermarché (2) Driving to somewhere more interesting (3) embarked on the ferry by mistake.

 Think again!

 Here’s how the adventure started…

 Leaving Bristol for Whitstable

 There was a dual reason for stopping in Whitstable. My grandparents’ grave is at St John’s, Swalecliffe, and I fancied going to inspect the grave and maybe sit there and commune with God in the late afternoon sun.

 Before setting off I discovered that the passenger side front tyre had a a slow leak – approximately 2 lbs per square inch (a wonderful scale) per day. So, the first decision of the day was to take the racing green MG (F) 1993 to the Ron Costello’s.

 The photo tells you everything you need to know.

 Tyre fixed for a paltry £15.00 I motored up the M32 and along the M4/M25/M26/M20 and M20 before entering the feared Thanet Way and descending via Tesco’s to purchase flowers, and strawberries and cream, to Paul and Ruth’s.

 Climbing in and out of the MG is never easy but when one has a bad back and severe bursitis in both shoulders it is imperative not to laugh as this will only inflame one or both conditions…but the exit/entrance is not as swift as it could be.

 A cuppa tea with Paul and Ruth and daughter Stacey, the first of three defeats on the chess board with Paul, and a fine shepherd’s pie, I drove down to sleepy St John’s, Swalecliffe not far from the sea. Whilst walking through the graveyard to find my grandparents’ grave I was attacked by three large seagulls swooping and screeching just above my head. On the final bombing raid, one of these ecclesiastical creatures thumped into my head, knocking my sunglasses off and digging its claws into my scalp, leaving me with cuts and bruises and a lumpy scab!

The vicious seagull graveyard guard, St John’s Swalecliffe

I pressed on past the killing zone to the grave but couldn’t really settle with the close attention of the birds making their feelings known: I was an invader that needed to be repelled.

 As communing with God really was not possible, I made my way back to Paul and Ruth’s for tea and sympathy.

 And sleep. It’s up early tomorrow and off to Dover.