Back to Blighty

I'd allowed 10 hours for the trip to Bristol - 2 from Paris to Calais, 2 to Dover, 2 to London, 2 to Bristol and 2 for odd delays. That meant that the 9am start should approximate a 7pm finish.

With no alarm it was always a bit of a gamble as to whether I would wake in time, but my eyes opened at 7.30am and I grabbed my pre-packed bags and went down to sign out and grab a coffee from the vending machine.

I hobbled the few hundred metres to the Gare de Lyon and found my way into the Metro. I didn't have a ticket, my two day pass not being valid for two days - 48 hours - but rather for the day of issue and up to midnight of the next. Which was annoying as I'd timed buying it to cover today's travel.

Still, I queued patiently in a line that fed two windows. To the left was the ticket window, to the right some kind of information window where a couple of travellers received words and left. I was next in line and not wanting information, waited. After thirty seconds or so an irate elderly Frenchman walked from the back and roundly berated me for not going to the information window, saying we were all in a hurry.

At the window I asked if he sold tickets. In that laconic way that the French have perfected over centuries of dealing with, particularly English, fools he replied: "It's what I do.."

Somehow the French have mastered the ability to talk down to you as if you were a simpleton, yet without directly insulting or patronising you. It's wonderful. It's masterful. It's impossible to counter. And it's embarrasing. I grabbed my ticket and scuttled into the bowels of the Metro.

At the Gare du Nord I surfaced and headed for a bank of chest-high machines that resembled ATMs. I'd purchased my ticket online for both the train to Calais and the ferry. To retrieve my train tickets, I simply had to enter a code into the machine, confirm my identity by swiping my credit card and the ticket would be printed out. It's a great way of reducing queues. Providing it works, which it didn't for me: my card refused to be read.

There were mercifully short queues for les billets and I was given a ticket and a troubled look as the lady pointed out the five minutes I had in which to change trains at the mid-point halt. Not to worry, they wouldn't schedule two trains without leaving adequate time to transfer.. would they?

They would and did. I missed the train and was stranded. The next train would leave some two hours hence, as would the ferry.

I tried to find a bus that would make the trip. I wandered around the station precincts trying to find an internet cafe so that I could alert the ferry company to my plight. Nothing. I just had to sit it out.


At Calais station, two hours and twenty minutes after the ferry had left, I saw a sign for buses to the ferry terminus. I followed the direction of the arrow and, some ten minutes later, found myself in town at the exact moment the tourist office was having it's lunch break. There had been no mention of buses to the ferries for some time. I asked a man getting into a 'GB' camper van.

"It's a long way, mind," he said after pointing me where I suspected I had to go. I had given up on the bus and asked about the ferries themselves. I shifted uncomfortably on my blistered feet and tried to look pitiful.

"Good luck," he said climbing into his van. Bugger, not pitiful enough.

I picked a bus stop near the station, waited for the first bus and climbed on. Asking for the ferry had the requiredresult: a shake of the head and a precise indication of where the correct bus stop lay. It was clear the sign writers in Calais had moonlighted from their job confusing tourists in Paris.

At the stop were a reassuring number of nervous backpackers anxious as to whether this was indeed the correct stop. And I wasn't the only one who had missed a connection. I relaxed a notch.

After half an hour the bus came and wound its way through the town and an increasingly complex system of roads that snaked through a buildingless landscape towards the port. I was glad I hadn't attempted the walk.

At the P&O counter I was all prepared to plead for mercy. I had the E15 ready in case I had to purchase a new ticket, but my main concern was room - could I get on the next ferry or would I have to wait? My fears were handled with a courtesy I hadn't expected. Not only could I get on the next boat, but they were used to people missing connections; there would be no need to pay again.

At immigration a Greek youth was having a problem: he had no passport.

"This is an identity card," the lady half-shouted, using the time-honoured English way of dealing with foreigners.

The other immigration chap told his client to pay attention.

"Nothing to do with you, is it?"

When I got through, I asked him about the Greek, starting by saying that after hours on the road a bit of entertainment was nice. He clearly wondered about my idea of entertainment, but engaged my question: why, if the UK was in the EU, were people not allowed freedom of movement? Without actually answering what I suspect could have been summed up by simply saying 'politics', he indicated the alternative.

"You should see what's hanging around 'ere at night. Scum of the earth, all trying to get in."

The Greek, obviously not scum, had got in. And personally I would rather be scum in the south of France than in Birmingham. I was tempted to say that the UK should open its doors and show people what they are getting into. That should cause a nett emigration.


On the ferry I looked at the duty free prices, wandered around, changed some money and finally went on deck. About a dozen ships could be seen at various points of the compass. I ate the last of my chocolate and a salad bought in Paris and went in. It was clouding over.

I have preternatural instincts when travelling. I can take a seat and sleep, waking at the merest of noises or bumps. I found a corner seat, put my bags safely around me, and closed my eyes..

"'Scuse me. Hello." A voice intruded dimly into my brain.

"Hello?" Again.

"Hello? Excuse me." Again, and unanswered. I opened my eyes.

A cleaning lady was leaning over me, smiling. The once crowded lounge was empty.

For all I was aware, I could have been robbed, stripped naked and painted blue without waking from my slumbers. I was going to have to hone my instincts again..

As we got off the ferry I felt the cold of a heavy downpour.

"Twenty years I've been away," I said to the steward at the gangplank, "and whenever I come back it's always 11 degrees and drizzle." I knew what I meant, even if it came out wrong. So many times I'd been away from these shores, and each time I returned it was cold and wet.

He looked at the downpour.

"Drizzle would be nice."