Five Day Trip to Calais

Day Four, Sunday

Dunkirk, up the coast, was billed as the main event of the day but more of that later.

Defensive lines facing each other

First was our morning coffee at Grooves and a further chess battle. My version of the twenty or so moves over the course of the next half-hour may not be a true reflection of what happened. In fact, saying ‘half-an-hour’ itself maybe entirely inaccurate, as time has a habit of standing still with minds engaged in tactical analysis, strategy, and middle-game theory (these are all terms Paul used – I’m just passing them on).

Here's my account. At the halfway stage the pieces are arranged in truly defensive Maginot lines and tension is mounting for the first of a series of exchanges. Exchanges, I must add, that I survive better than in our previous matches. I try not to look over into Paul’s right-hand corner. I have a Bishop and Queen attack and possible ‘mate’. On my right flank, things are not looking too good. But I’m only two moves from victory. I shed a bishop and, if I’m remembering correctly, a knight, but gain both of Paul’s bishops. I’m now one move from certain victory. But why isn’t Paul looking forlorn? Nor has he toppled his King as a Gentleman surely would. Bit like Boris, he continues on, defeat staring him in the face.

And then Bam. I’m checkmated. Just like that. No mercy. Defeat number three.

O dear

But to play chess with the windows down, warmth from the Sun replacing the rain of yesterday, and in a café on Calais beach is an idyllic way to kick start the day.

The sun visors holding firm we drove up the coast to Dunkirk full of images from the 2017 film and other histories filling our minds. Finding our way to the War Museum, we walked around the various rooms and watched a loop video re-telling the story of how the German army squeezed the French and British armies onto the beach at Dunkirk awaiting evacuation in the little boats and larger vessels in Operation Dynamo. It is impressive, simple, and arresting. Definitely worthwhile visiting.

Our relationship with France is so mixed. Dunkirk and then again in Normandy at the close of WWII showing, perhaps, that true entente cordial is a deeply human bond born from mutual suffering, not one that can be forged through political structures.

Walking from the museum and onto the famous beach via a beautiful pedestrian bridge curving up and over the sand dunes we met a long series of eateries pointing out onto the vast sands. Very unlike the wonderfully sparse and deserted beach at Le Chatelier,

Hungry now, we made the worst choice of our few days en France. The waitress was off-hand, plonked the menus down with a thump on our table, and walked off. Later she stood behind Paul, smoking and talking on her mobile. We ordered burgers. It took twenty-five minutes before they appeared – and they were undercooked. The waitress remained charmless and grumpy. One can only speculate why she works there. 1, maybe, out of 5. Such a contrast with yesterday’s experience in Calais.

Not only that but another restaurant boomed out incessant bass lines and drums that drowned out conversation and dominated the whole beach area.

So, how to sum up Dunkirk? Had I discovered the power socket feeding the mindlessly intrusive boom boom, and had the waitress taken the day off, Dunkirk sea-front could have received a Gold Award. On the day we were there…maybe a crumpled-tin-of-eternal-grating-medallion would have been more appropriate?

After lunch and worrying a little about food poisoning, we wandered over the sands on the beach. So beautiful. And clean. Many enjoying sunbathing, football, some in the water and so on. It’s impossible to imagine how utterly horrendous life on the beach would have been for the retreating armies between May 26th and June 4th 1940. Salutary moments.

Dunkirk - the beach in more peaceful times

The MG is not a silent and smooth drive but compared with the intrusive music (have I mentioned that before?) it was a haven of peace as we made our way back without the aid of dear Satnav…we’re officially locals now and know our way around. Mais oui!

Never before was a 4 o’clock cuppa tea more welcome…and a nap!

Five Day Trip to Calais

Day Three, Saturday (Part Two)

During many verbal jousts and much humour some serious subjects were juggled including meditation and wisdom. Paul, alias Sir Gaffa, left Secondary School with his brain intact – which is quite an achievement knowing the school he attended, and the ‘us and them’ ethos that paraded the corridors.

An evening of finding a restaurant, good food, and wisdom

Since graduating his education commenced in earnest. He is well-read and if the local library were to close he could open up his home to the simple folk of Whitstable and they would be enriched and entertained.

So we discussed meditation and wisdom:

Sir Gaffa: ‘I’ve been meditating on wisdom, Sir Seagull.’

Sir Seagull: eyebrow raised

Sir Gaffa: ‘The ant, Sir Seagull. It has no leader and yet…’

Sir Seagull: head tilted

Sir Gaffa: ‘You can learn a lot about wisdom from animals…’

Sir Seagull: ‘O?’

Sir Gaffa: ‘Take cows.’

Sir Seagull chokes on his tea and repeats ‘Cows, Sir Gaffa?’

Ants have no leader…

And so it continued. As most things do in the end, with or without the help of alcohol, things turned theological, but it was time to decamp into Calais town centre in search of food. The Airbnb host had recommended two restaurants. One, on the esplanade, received the thumbs down – the menu was quite limited and mostly fish.

By Sunday we were local yokels, but this evening we still used the car to drive into the centre and park. Employing Paul’s Google search, we trekked down this road, up that street, round that bend and found ourselves on the outskirts of the town centre, beyond the outskirts really, and staring at the Police Station. I asked an officer on his mobile outside the station where ‘X’ restaurant was, and he replied. Five minutes later we stood outside a rather beaten-up-looking establishment with one person sitting at a table.

My wisdom came into play at this point:

Sir Seagull: ‘Wise man once say if you can hear only cutlery clinking it is surely not wise to enter’

So back we went, past the policeman still on his mobile, round the bend, up the street etc and back to the town centre whereupon we entered a restaurant crowded with happy faces and conversation. Not a sound could be heard from the cutlery. We gave the various waiters and waitresses 5 stars. They were happy to struggle on in a unique French/English mix and made the whole evening enjoyable. The veal I had was exquisite.

And back to the flat to talk about the wisdom of cows and how they can communicate and cooperate, form friendships within the herd and so on.

We explored how cows and ants could teach the church a thing or two.

Plans for tomorrow’s visit to Dunkirk were mentioned as the dying embers of the day spluttered to a halt and healthy snoring took their place.

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.