Frap

'Romorantin-Latheney to Périgeuex 191 miles. Périgeuex aire €6.00 

The A20 running south from Vierzon to Limoges then onwards to Brive la Galliard is a route we have taken often over the years on the way to the Dordogne. Not only is it direct, it is toll free, and if you are attempting to reach Spain quickly, then you need an boring dual carriageway to whisk you there.

The countryside between Romorantin-Latheney and Vierzon follows the valley of the Cher and the Canal du Berry that runs alongside the river. We passed some pleasant looking canal-side aires. Perhaps it's an area we might linger a bit longer in when we have time simply to wander in France rather than rushing through it en route elsewhere. Once on the A20 then it's back to trundling along with the trucks at 85kph for hours. It's only when you reach some hills to the north of Limoges that the scenery gets a little more varied. 

Here we turned off the motorway and cut southwest down the N21 towards Périgeuex. The city's aire had good reviews and seemed ideal for an overnight stay. Gill had only just uttered the words "The houses are beginning to look very Dordogneshire," when we passed a the sign marking the department boundary. Our arrival in Périgeuex coincided with the rush hour, luckily most people were heading out of the city as we headed in, still it was slow going. The aire is on the southern bank of the river l'Isle, down a narrow street overlooked by blocks of slightly grim looking flats. However, it's well signed. Finding the place may be easy, gaining access less so. The cost is €6.00 for 24hrs. You need to prepay with a credit card. The van in front took an age; when it was our turn Gill discovered why, the details of your number plate, and credit card need to be entered on a touchscreen which only displays two rows at a time with complicated instructions in French. The screen is so dim that in ordinary daylight it becomes almost unreadable. Finally Gill triumphed, the barrier opened, and we reversed into a space, because everyone else had. At 7 metres, Maisy squeezed in, a longer van would not have fitted. 

Before we ate, we took a short walk along the path by the river towards the town centre. The view was dominated by the domed outline of the Cathedral of St Front. The early Romanesque church is unusual in as much as its design is influenced by Eastern Christian architecture such as St Sophia in Constantinople or St Marks in Venice, or Moorish buildings in Spain. We did not have time to reach the centre of the city, but we have visited Périgeuex a number of times before, so we were happy to head back to the van dodging the after-work joggers and dog walkers. The aire takes over 40 motorhomes, it was half full when we arrived, and by the time we returned from from our stroll at least another half dozen vans had turned up. Initially this surprised us, but thinking about it, it was Friday night, and as we know from experience of staying in French budget hotels at the weekend, quite a few people go away for the weekend to have a meal at a good restaurant in a nearby place, so we speculated that motorhome owners may do the same.

Périgeuex's St Front Cathedral and the river l'Isle

The proximity of the public housing complex overlooking the aire is not an issue in terms of security, but we did experience a bit of noise from local youth playing French rap at considerable volume in the play park next to the aire. Frap as I call it is not my favourite musical genre, in fact it's bloody irritating after more than 30 seconds. The local frappers had only just gone home when the forecast thunderstorm arrived. Between the torrential rain beating on the roof, ever louder thunderclaps, the propensity of neighbours to rev their engines for no apparent reason and the 'close' airless atmosphere, neither of us slept well.

The aire at Périgeuex, OK. once you have mastered the 'advanced' entrance system.

I was a bit grumpy when I woke next morning, more so when I discovered that the roof light which l had left open on ventilation had leaked a bit, and we had a damp patch on the lounge seat. Our mood did not improve as we found the system for raising the barrier to exit the aire was even more arcane than on entering It involved bringing up your entry details and punching in a code on the machine beyond the barrier. Thankfully a helpful 'regular' came to give Gill a hand. Afterwards we speculated what you would do if you were a sole traveller when the exit code pad is on the far side of the barrier. Perhaps the aire is so full because it is half populated by marooned singletons still trying to figure out an escape plan. I think we were both slightly relieved to move on. Périgeuex is a nice old city, but unless you really want to see its famous monuments I think I would find somewhere a little more peaceful to stay, particular at the weekend.

e

Romorantin-Latheney - repeat after me..

One of the delights of retirement is having the freedom not to be preoccupied by stuff that has no personal significance to you whatsoever. Gone are the days of populating risk registers with imagined institutional threats, working towards SMART targets or dreaming-up areas for improvement as the absurdities of an annual performance review looms over the horizon. However, all this new found mental space does have its downsides too. At times my underpopulated mental territory becomes occupied by uninvited guests. In particular, I seem ever more prone to ear worms as a surprising variety of tunes, songs, advert jingles or memes become fixed in my head, resisting all attempts to dislodge them.

Some are innocuous, pleasurable even. For example, I was surprised to wake this morning with whole chunks of Moloko's 'The Time Is Now' ringing around my head, not the album version from 'Things to Make and Do' but the one from Glastonbury in 2000 complete with Roisin Murphy in a flowing sky-blue robe.

If only all my ear worms were so benign. Recently I was assailed unexpectedly by Gerry and the Pacemaker's ' How do you do what you do to me' and worse than this horror, was the moment a few months ago when I discovered myself humming 'Sun Arise' by Rolf Harris, complete with diggeridoo accompaniment. Where does this stuff come from? 

It's not just music, but odd snippets of verse, ancient jingles or random phrases can get stuck in my head and start repeating themselves like some mystic chant or exotic mantra. So today, the winsome Ms. Murphy became inexplicably dislodged by the name of the place we are staying in, 'Romorantin-Latheney' I began saying it to myself as we walked into town, rolling the syllables around the tongue as if savouring a fine wine. Maybe finally I am losing my marbles, or perhaps lots of people do this, but don't own up to it.

Anyway, 'Romorantin-Latheney,' aside from being my current ear worm, is a rather lovely small town on the river Sauldre, and here are some pictures of both the old bits and newer buildings.

The heart of the old town is on the banks of the river.

Timber framed houses

with original carved corbels and wooden columns

The usual grand Hotel de Ville next to the park

The town was full of people on tandems - some kind of rally.

The oldest part of the town is on an island - I suspect this was once an abbey church.

Up until the 1960s the place was famous for its textile mills - this one is being restored.

New investment too - not quite finished - but we suspected it was a large Palias de Congress.

In the afternoon we simply relaxed in the warm sunshine - not all autumn days will be like this.

The weather has been gorgeous, cloudless skies and temperatures nudging the high twenties. Great to stop and relax for a day. Onwards tomorrow to Périgeuex, Spain by Sunday.

e

Blue skies south of the Loire

Neufchatel en Bray to Romorantin - Lanthaney, 203 miles.

Another long drive. I feel exhausted tonight It's slow going using N roads to avoid tolls and the endless prairie-like wheatfields south of Chartres are very tedious. Eventually we reached the Loire and headed south for a few miles into La Sologne, a tract of forest and marsh near Romorantin-Lanthenay. The area is renowned as a haven for wildlife and signs of them abound, with warning triangles above cautioning motorists of collision hazards with small deer, big deer and marauding 'sanglier'.

Romorantin-Latheney - Camping Municipal, lovely evening after a dull day.

The municipal camping at Romorantin-Latheney typical, placed next to the municipal sports facilities on the edge of town. It's set in a pleasant wooded area next to the river Sauldre. Today has been mostly overcast and chilly, but towards evening the sky cleared and the air became warmer. We ate outside and watched the misty pink sunset slowly fade. Afterwards I wandered down to the river bank and stared at the evening light shimmering in the glassy water and photographed the upside down trees.

Pellucid!' The word popped into my head, but I could not decide if it was a real word, or one that I had imagined. I had to Google it later, and much to my relief it is a real word, and appropriate! One of the depressing aspects of the grey-haired brain is how you lose words, year by year you observe your vocabulary recede as inexorably as your hairline. So, I guess I should celebrate being able stare at a 'pellucid' stream at twilight, as someday soon I will end up staring at a river's reflections wordlessly, and soon after the river will remain but I won't. So, a toast to the here and now, because, in truth, that is all we have.

e

Planet France

Canterbury to Neufchatel en Bray 129 miles. 

Really we should be utterly blasé about crossing the channel. We have made the trip well over a hundred times and the last crossing was less than a month ago. Nevertheless, I still get a little frisson of excitement as we drive out of Calais docks or the tunnel terminal and head south. For us it signals freedom and a sense of entering a bigger world that perhaps we islanders feel more keenly than our continental neighbours. I know it's literally untrue that the sky is always blue, but it does seem so more often than not; today was no exception. And France, for all its familiarity, does seem foreign, sometimes more a different planet than a neighbouring country. 

Our plan, drive to Auchun, buy a few items for lunch, fill-up at the petrol station then head to the aire at Neufchatel en Bray about 100 miles southwest, near Dieppe. We executed the plan perfectly, apart from the lunch items bit. We did pick-up a few bits and pieces, but due to Auchun having an autumn wine sale, we also nabbed about 50 bottles of excellent wine on a bogof deal, so the visit which should have cost about €10 actually set us back €142. Still, it's all safely packed away in the rear garage to soften the blow of being in Buxton after Christmas, and the bottles which cost a little over €3 euros would be £8 pounds or more in Majestic wine back home. We had lunch in the van with a seriously un-romantic view of Boulogne Auchun which now features incomprehensible, but colourful murals running the length of one side. I don't think they improve the aspect, but full marks for the valiant effort.

The French go for jollification on an epic scale (with liberal use of ghastly green)

Vive l'Auchun! (Bogof wine deals...)

Planet France - garish 60s inspired seating)

Planet France - nightmarish roundabout duck...

It's less than a three hour drive to Neufchatel, less if you use the payage the whole way, but we saved a few euros by using the old N1 for a while. Even so we arrived at Neufchatel early enough to have a mooch around the town.

Planet France - empty roads..yay!

It's a pleasant place, with only one claim to fame. Neufchatel cheese is a camembert style product, but made with lait cru giving it a distinctive tang. It comes in heart shaped slabs and the town is very proud of it. The large cheese market was closed, but lots of other shops stock it. In case you are unsure about its origins, the town's main roundabout is resplendent with cow sculptures - not any old beast, but the brown and white patched variety which I assume is a breed of dairy cattle specific to this region. Even the local bakers have cashed in on cheese themed products producing a heart shaped cream meringue cake emulating the look and shape of Neufchatel's renowned fromage. We skipped the opportunity to sample this, opting to buy an apple tart instead, something else that is a Norman specialty.

Neufchatel celebrates the bovine

Normandy = timber framed buildings

A meringue pretending to be a cheese

We visited here last year and cycled part of the voie verte which follows the route of a disused railway. The track passes the entrance to the campsite and motorhome aire, so we took a short walk at dusk. The countryside hereabouts is very bucolic, little.river valleys and rolling hills dotted with half timbered farms. The days where people could pick up a French rural property for next to nothing are long past. However the area around the Pays de Bray is still quite inexpensive by British standards and given its proximity to the Dieppe ferry link I could see it being a tempting prospect if a slice of the French lifestyle was more important to you than. a 'place in the sun'.

Pete supports sustainable transport

Great aire - but not cheap at 12 euros for 24hr hours.

The motor home aire here is one of the best in France, apart from both times we have used it the credit card payment and exit system has failed and we have had to summon help from the campsite next door to raise the barrier. I am sure we will revisit here, both as a stopping place on the way to Spain, or somewhere on the nearby continent with an interesting cycle path - good for a short break.

e

The gremlins of departure.

Buxton to Canterbury, 233 miles.

Ready to go...

On the whole life hums along at home without incident in its own mundane fashion enlivened only by more frequent visits to Morrison's than can ever be good for our equanimity and mental well-being. Equally, when we travel, though our life may be more varied and interesting, we do like peace and quiet and live happily day to day, carefully avoiding the stresses of any untoward moments. 

The tricky part is the bit in-between, the transition between home life and our itinerant existence. This always seems far more complicated than it should be. With Gill's elderly father living near South Shields and our kids in London and Oxford then pre-trip family visits involve tearing about 800 miles in less than a week from one end of the country to the other. This year's escape shenanigans were further complicated by convoluted negotiations with a local roofing contractor about a repair to the house gable. I had been phoning a few times every week since mid July to enquire when the work would commence, impressing urgency upon the locally renowned roofer because on the 26th September we would be disappearing off to Spain for two months. Each of my phone calls was met by one of two responses, either his lads would appear tomorrow, or they were on their way right now and he would phone them to find out where they had got to. This went on repeatedly for six weeks until two days ago, as my frustration reached steam-out-of-the-ears levels, the 'lads' magically appeared with truck and cat ladders and fixed the gable in less than half a day. I should have been furious over the delay, but my spirit had been broken; instead I was overwhelmed by relief and gratitude and became positively effusive in my praise of their skill and craftsmanship. Pathetic. 

Another feature of the transition between home life and autumn escape are the rituals of re-entry surrounding our youngest's return to university. This involves an expensive trip to IKEA, a clothes shopping spree at the Trafford Centre, and moral support in a CEX technology pawn shop in Leamington Spa as she brokered an awesome trade-in deal swapping her iPad for a Play Station 4. The deal done, Laura's final few days at home were accompanied by a post-apocalyptic soundtrack as she connected the snazzy new games module, to the hi-fi and proceeded to blast revenants, zombies and all other sundry undead assailants at ear-splitting volume through our long suffering vintage Wharfedales.

All of this of course can be regarded as perfectly normal pre-trip aggravation. However, malevolent interventions by the gremlins of departure conspired over the final couple of days to raise stress levels to the blown gasket stage.

1. The gremlin of unforeseen crises. 

Two days ago Gill's sister rang to say that her partner's routine cardiac procedure had been cancelled as the specialist had decided that Edmond was at imminent risk of having a major heart attack and had been admitted to the regional cardiac unit for a bypass operation early next week. Being wholly rational about this, Edmond is fit, and otherwise in good health, the problem has been picked up prior to a heart attack and by-pass surgery, though a major op. is routine these days and low risk. However, it's the kind of unforeseen health crisis that is quite difficult to be entirely rational about, so there is much finger crossing and mutual buoying-up happening right now, and nobody is going to be really OK until after the op and Edmond is on the road to recovery. 

2. The gremlins of maladministration

In July Laura agreed with the university that she could resit a second year module along side her final year course changing it from 3D Animation to Screenwriting. In late August the university admin sent a number of contradictory letters listing her programme as a whole range of differing options, none of which resembled the arrangement that Laura had agreed. Of course numerous phone calls to differing departments resulted in more confusion and as it stands she has returned to Greenwich with no idea what her timetable will look like and is unable to register, which is critical to drawing down her student loan. Upset offspring = anxious parents; I know we should be more laid back about it, but we're parents - worry is what parents do. 

3. The gremlins of minor buggeration.

The thing is about gremlins is they hunt in packs. They are like school bullies, the big nasty ones have an entourage of gremlin wannabes who are merely mischievous hangers-on, and they had a field day this morning as we attempted to make an early getaway. They mounted a two-pronged attack, Gill being assailed outside the Post Office while posting Edmond's get-well card by the gremlins of Italianate parking, and I spent the entire morning pursued by gremlins of impromptu farce who gifted me a series of Mr Bean moments by stealing the moho keys and hiding them in ridiculous places. The cunning little bastards must be telepathic because later they ganged-up against both of us. 

As soon as I stepped into the shower the home phone downstairs rang. These days the time you have to answer it entirely depends on the callers' DOB. If they are over 50s then you will have plenty of time, because their mental image of a telephone is of something attached to the wall by a wire, so grey haired callers allow plenty of time for recipients to pick-up, concious that they may be making a souffle, dressing the baby, painting a ceiling or even having a shower. 

Millennials, conversely, think of phones as small rectangular things never out of arms reach day or night. Consequently, on the rare occasions that they ring a domestic landline they seldom wait more than 15 seconds before ringing-off. To have any chance of catching a call from your kids on the home phone requires the acceleration of Usain Bolt to reach the device before they hang-up. So while the first 'bwing' was still echoing around the hallway I had leapt out of the shower, seized a towel from the rail, flung open the bathroom door and streaked downstairs and grabbed the phone. 

"Hi Pete," Gill said, "I'm in a bit of trouble here." 

I wriggled a bit in an attempt to wrap, one-handed, the towel around my waist, while making what I hoped were suitably sympathetic remarks as Gill explained her predicament. The on-street parking spaces near the Post Office are always in high demand, and her attempt to squeeze a Ford Focus Estate into a Mini-length space had resulted not exactly in a bump, but such a near miss that our car's tow bar had lodged itself beneath the front bumper of the vehicle behind. A real 'Oh shit, what do I do now?' moment.

"Don't worry," I said brightly, "I'll stick my clothes on and be there in five minutes." 

As I yanked tee shirt over damp torso the thought did strike me as to why I had been so fastidious about the towel loin cloth - why the need for decency in an empty house talking on the phone to my nearest and dearest of 38 years vintage? I mused over the peculiar long term effects of a Presbyterian upbringing on this self proclaimed ageing hippy. Now fully dressed, but slightly damp, mere seconds before I exited the house at speed on my rescue mission, the phone rang again. 

"No problem now," Gill said brightly, "A really helpful women passing by offered to sit in the back seat, it lowered the suspension just enough to get the tow bar free without causing any damage."

"That's great," I said, "People are nice."

"Yes,' Gill agreed, "she was great (a momentary silence) and quite... chunky."

Crisis averted, soon we were packed, rituals of house-locking performed and off we went about two hours later than planned. Facebook celebrated the moment, 79 'bon voyages' from the Motorhome Adventures group, 20 or more virtual friends hankie-waving from the main site. 

Drizzle alternated with more steady downpours as we headed south. By early afternoon we had only reached Leicester and pulled into the magnificence which is Leicester Forest East Services for a late lunch. No need to pay-up for the crap fast food on offer, Gill rustled-up some sandwiches and I brewed up a filter coffee. It must be said that English 'vintage' motorway services have to be amongst the most demoralising architecture ever devised.

Gill braves the downpour

It's important to mention that I don't share the general distaste for mid- twentieth century British architecture. In fact I quite like the utopian intent of high-rise and 60s shopping malls so often dismissed as concrete 'carbuncles'. However, I don't see the even most ardent enthusiasts for Brutalism, such as Owen Hathersley or Jonathan Meade leaping to the defence Leicester Forest East. It's not so much a celebration of raw concrete as a crumbling remnant of a portacabin-plus style of 60s building much loved by the architects of new town primary schools, Post Office sorting offices and yes, bright shiny new motorway services. In the latter case the 'piece de resistance' is to raise an elongated section of the prefab on stilts, like the innards of a giant Jacob's cracker packet, over the motorway to form a bridge. I don't know which is worse, the original crumbling structure or latter-day efforts to jolly the thing up with garish attempts at refurbishment. I think it is astonishing the place is still standing after half a century, and though it may not appeal to my liking for architecture of the 60s and 70s it does strike a chord with me as an aficionado of the naff, in the same way you might develop a ghastly fascination with 'The Bachelors' or 'Herman's Hermits' or regard Paisley kipper ties or beehive hairdos with a mushy, ill-founded nostalgia.

The magnificence of Leicester Forest East (southbound) services in the rain.

And no, jollification with flowers and a waving Pugsy does not improve things...

nor does a splash of lime green brighten things up, it merely creates a bilious pallor

Before we leave the question of Leicester Forest East a short apology to the startled souls exiting the toilets are around 2.12pm on the 26th September 2016. The grey haired git who inadvertently took your photo was not being weird in a creepy way, but simply delighted by the bilious light effect created by the new luminous lime green paintwork. Weird, maybe, but not creepy.

South of here road works stretch for miles, new junctions are being created and smart signage with variable speed limit installed. I hope it all helps, because right now the density of traffic, particularly the nose to tail trucks render the M1 and M25 almost unusable. The average speed of our journey from Buxton to Canterbury was 31.7mph., no major hold-ups, but stop/start for 240 miles.

Seven hours later...Canterbury's New Dover Road Park and Ride.

One very grumpy driver arrived at New Dover Road Park and Ride motorhome aire, thankfully it was not busy and we settled in for the night. A quick phone call with Laura ascertained that she was no further forward in resolving the admin tangle with the university. Even worse, she lost her debit card. Now that is really tricky, because Santander insist on sending it to her home address, and of course we will not be there to forward it. A quick phone call to our neighbours who hold a spare key resulted in crackling static, a fault on the line... The gremlins of departure are not yet done with us, when will we escape their malign clutches?

e

Nice Bergues

One of the biggest differences between France and the UK is the question of centralised planning. Ever since the halycon days of the Blessed Margaret, for three decades we have embraced 'de-regularisation' and now Britain is so quangoed and privatised that recent calls from people who 'want their country back' seems to have failed to realise, that actually we don't own very much of it at all these days. France is quite different. France still embraces big government and things happen by decree to an extent we would find intolerable. For example, today is September 1st. As we drove through Albert a few minutes before noon the local town police were out in force decked out in high- res and clutching traffic directing sticks that looked like giant lollipops. A considerable crowd had gathered outside of the L'école maternelle. There was an air of excitement, people spilled off the pavement only to be coralled back into some order by the local constabulary. The occasion, la rentrée scolaires; this year on September 1st every kindergarten in France commenced its new school year, and to make sure that the big citizens if La Republic picked-up the small citizens of La Republic for lunch at exactly noon, the local police were on duty to ensure the safety of all concerned.

It's not quite such a big deal over here, you may get some 'Back to School' offers in Tesco for stationery, black socks or grey pleated skirts might be available at a discount at Marks and Sparks, In France la rentrée scolaires is a much bigger affair, fuelled partly by mandatory lists of books and equipment required for the new year sent out to every family with kids in school. Because every child in every school in every town in France all 're-enter' at exactly the same time, then the moment becomes, like Bastille Day or Toussante, one of France's notable dates. It was the first time we had witnessed the shenanigans, in previous years we had our own 'rentrées' to organise, albeit more informal and haphazard ones with no state regulated template to follow.

Thankfully we escaped just before noon struck, narrowly missing the moment of mass escape by the petites scolaires which I presume would have gridlocked the whole town. In order to avoid motorway tolls we ignored the route plotted by the sat-nav and headed northwest on the D938 towards Doulans. It was quite slow going with roundabouts every few kilometres. The countryside is pleasant rather than beautiful with rolling cornfields and clumps of trees. "It's a bit like Northamptonshire," I commented somewhat fatuously. As we slowed at a roundabout a women, perhaps in her late 50s, paused by the roadside. Holding her hand was a small child, perhaps four years of age. The tot seemed dwarfed by a large, clearly brand new, candy pink backpack. It seemed the task of collecting 'le rentrée scolaire' had been delegated to grand-mere. It's odd the way as you drive along snippets of ordinariness stay in the mind and travel becomes a collage of others people's moments. These random, vivid snapshots can give days, or at least parts of days, an ethereal dreamlike quality. 

We stopped at Intermarche in Saint-Pol-sur-Ternoise to buy breadfor a late lunch, then ate it in the van while staring at a seriously unpicturesque view of a big factory with three gigantic stainless steel storage tanks. Boredom led to me google to see what manner of manufactory it was. It belonged to Igredia described as 'a French dairy company which develops and manufactures dairy powders, and functional & nutritional milk proteins'. No slow food here then! Our attention was then drawn the growing queue at the mobile friterie parked nearby. We had noticed as we wandered about Intermarche gaggles of teenagers mooching around the store. Just as we witnessed the start of the school lunch break in Albert, we had become embroiled in the latter stages of it, some one and half hours later in Saint-Pol. The gaggles in the shop had now exited and were queueing-up at the chip van. The scene does make you smile to recall Jamie Oliver's campaign about unhealthy school lunches in England where he extolled the virtues of French school meals which allegedly serve-up minor classics of Gallic cuisine relished by avid children all in the process of acquiring a discerning palette. I recall at the time asking our French nephew and niece about this. "Oh no, we go to Macdonalds around the corner," they informed us.

It was late afternoon when we arrived at the aire in Bergues. We had an hour or two to have a look around the town which proved to be unexpectedly pretty. It also has an excellent cheese shop and some attractive looking small restaurants. Any time we are heading towards Germany, Switzerland or Northern Italy, then the Dunkirk crossing linked to a stop at this aire makes a lot of sense. One useful tip for anyone doing this - the town's Leclerc hypermarket car-park has height barriers. There is an unrestricted way into the car-park down a side road past some houses. Follow the 'Livraisons' sign, ignore the car-park for Leclerc's fleet of delivery vans, drive to the back of the store, and there is a narrow road which allows high vehicles to access the car park. 

Back to Bergues

Cow statues - that's what we need, more cows...

The Campanile was rebuilt after WW2 after the original was blown-up in 1944

Hotel de Ville

Flanders is famous for giant figures - they are used in carnivals and processions

Slightly scary close-up

Bergues has - attractive old streets...

the ruins of an ancient abbey with a witches-hat spire

well maintained low-rise public housing among the Vauban fort ramparts and old canals

next to pleasant private housing - a healthy approach to planning - mixing old and new, public and private..

Ville fleurie.

It's surprising to find somewhere so lovely a few kilometres from Dunkirk's industrial sprawl.

Celebrating the pinnacle of local cuisine - the chip.

A split second later Gill was abducted by aliens...

Pouf! see she's gone..

Although Gill reappeared seconds later claiming she had simply hopped around the corner, I am convinced she is holding back the details of her inter-planetary adventures. I know this because it is not the first time this has happened. She believes that she is the only person who knows about the cosmic portal which exists beside the tinned tomato shelves in our local Morrisons. How else can you explain her regular disappearances as I scour the aisles like a lost soul, clutching my pot of Greek-style yogurt and a cucumber thinking - she's gone...again. Five minutes later she's back, all innocent smiles, claiming that she was at the fish counter all the time. She must think I am naive, mysterious fluctuations in space/time to which Gill is uniquely attuned can be the only explanation.

An uncivilised hour, but a pretty sunrise.

Anyway, back on planet Earth we had a ferry to catch at 8.00am the following morning. Again DFDS emailed us requesting that we arrived 90 minutes before departure. Grumbling we set our alarms for 5.45am. This time there was some evidence of enhanced security, a pleasant young man in a hi-res hopped aboard and had a quick look for stowaways. That took all of ten minutes extra, so we still sat for hours at the dock as the sun rose over the cranes and gantries of Dunkirk docks. The boat was surprisingly busy, but as we are in the final week of the school holiday, rentrée Britanique is about to commence I guess. Breakfast - I suppose we should give credit to DFDS's catering staff for consistency - the food they served at breakfast was just as bad as the fare we received for dinner on the outward trip. How can you make utterly unappetising beans on toast? How is that possible?  England next. London here we come.

e