Awake at 2am, 4am and 5.30am. Eventually up at 6am, still slightly delirious and very, very cold.
But behold, the rain has stopped!
Realised whilst map reading yesterday that Hubs and I actually need to discuss exactly where it is we’re going before he thrusts the map book at me and sets off. Oh, the responsibility of map reading. Faced with 27 signposts in French, I just tend to panic and launch into whine mode (“I’m just a gurl, how am I supposed to know where we are?”).
Bought fresh croissants and bread at a local bolongerie, ate them overlooking the sea. On the way to Dieppe Hubs suddenly skidded the car to a halt and dashed into a shop to buy some more. “Why?” I asked, “I just had to do it” he replied.
Croissants, we lurve fresh French croissants.
I’m gonna get real fat.
Today, La Portel (just outside Boulogne) to Dieppe in a zig-zaggy kind of way. Passed loads of campsites along the way, but they’re like policemen, try finding one when you want one. Eventually spotted one in St Valery en Caux, but they were closed for lunch (midday to 3pm – they apparently didn’t bother opening at all yesterday, according to a British couple we met). Carried on to Vuelettes sur Mere and found a brilliant Municipal campsite for 9€ a night. Not only was it cheap, it was spectacularly beautiful with a proper toilet and shower block. After last night’s pitch, it was heaven on earth.
Lobbed up tent and, after two days hard slog, we chilled.
Went to the loos and washed my hands afterwards (as you do). As I was shaking my hands dry, a gold ring flew off my finger. It all happened in slow motion: “Oh my God, my ring’s come off, it’s Hubs’ ring, he’s gonna kill me, better catch it then!” The ring rattled around the sink like a roulette ball, my fingers chasing after it. And down the plughole it went. There was a brief moment of ‘Oh, not quite sure what to do now’, before I went outside to break the news to Hubs: “I’ve done something really stupid”.
As I could see the ring at the bottom of the plughole, we used a tent peg to try and fish it out, to no avail. Hubs then set off to find a wire coat hanger, somehow making himself understood to a French person by means of elaborate charades. The French camper rushed into the toilet block and removed the plastic thingy underneath the plughole, and behold, my gold ring!
I almost kissed him, but refrained, instead repeating ‘Merci! Merci!’
We were planning to have a bottle of wine in the sunshine tonight. “What time do you think it is?” I asked Hubs, yawning my face off.
“About 9 o’clock,” he said. He went to check. It was 7.20pm.
We went to bed anyway.
Where I again endured chills feverish nightmares (one where Obama was declaring that the American people should embrace Islam, no idea where that came from). Maybe I just need to acclimatise to outdoor living… or maybe I’m just a berluddy wimp.
Slept for 10 hours solid.
Time to put up tent: 45 mins (devoid of bickering, go us!)
Camping: 18€ (2 nights)
Provisions: 5€ (just bread and croissants!)
Miles covered: 140.
DAY 1 – Wednesday 26 May 2010
Aaaaand orf we jolly well go! Oh my God, so berluddy excited!
Set off at 7.45am because we just couldn’t contain ourselves a minute longer. Going passed London we saw a plane flying so low over the motorway that I pressed my face against the windscreen screaming ‘Oh my God! Its so low!’ It was United Airlines and I could actually see the passengers through the windows. Hopefully there was an airport on the other side of the motorway and the plane wasn’t just about to crash.
We booked a 2pm ferry crossing but actually got to the port for the midday ferry, which was well good. Raced around the boat having a nose at everything (and picking out the whisky in the duty free shop, which apparently doesn’t open for the first 20 minutes until we’re out of British waters or something similarly stoopid). Found a table, sat down, immediately fell asleep. The droning of the engines and the gentle rocking of the boat sent almost everyone on board into an instant coma, and it was only a two hour crossing.
I broke a fingernail (my best one!) and a pair of sunglasses. Tsk.
Finally, we could see France. Half an hour later, we could still see France. Well, the Calais bit of France anyway, we were actually docking at Dunkirk, which is about 140 miles inland (or so it seemed).
“Right!” I screamed, as we drove off the ferry into a foreign country, “Drive right!”
Hubs is actually very good at driving on the wrong side of the road. I’d be crap, I’d keep forgetting and have major meltdowns at every traffic island.
Driving in a foreign country is a bit like being dyslexic, you can’t read anything, can’t understand anything.
The weather wasn’t good, overcast and damp. Drove from Dunkirk to Calais, Marquid and Wimereux (A Wim A Way) looking for a campsite, of which there were none. Got horribly lost in Boulogne, going round in circles, but eventually we stumbled upon a campsite in La Portel and managed to make ourselves understood to the receptionist. She sent us and our tent to the top of a hill, marvellous view of the sea and town below and the concrete war bunkers all around us, but berluddy windy. The hill was drenched, and so were our feet… and our tent, and all our belongings.
Drove off in search of food, Hubs (now knackered) almost killing us by pulling out in front of a local, who screeched his brakes for endless seconds while we all stared at each other thinking ‘Is this it? Is this the end?’ Fortunately, it wasn’t.
Bought French cheese, French wine, French bread, French croissants in a bag (which are crap and nothing like the real thing). We also bought a tin of ‘cassolette’, which sounds quite nice doesn’t it, cassolette, kind of French-sounding and red wine-y. It wasn’t, it was massive harocott beans and some sort of fluffy sausage in a dreary, limp sauce; I’m surprised the French, reknown for their fine cuisine, could allow such a thing to be sold in their shops.
Ate, went to bed, huddled together for warmth.
Unfortunately, because we were damp and cold and the wind and the rain lashed the tent on top of the hill, we couldn’t sleep. I’d actually caught a chill and was feverish, could not get warm, and because we’d eaten a load of cheese and some awful cassolette before leaping into the sleeping bag, my stomach churned and I was delirious for most of the night.
Here’s what I scribbled down the following morning, bleary eyed and still freezing cold:
“Camping at Boulogne. On top of a hill. In a wet, muddy field overlooking the grey English Channel. Exposed to the elements. The wind. And the rain. Perpetually wet feet. Toilet facilities one up from a hole in the ground, water dripping from the ceiling. Oh, and the airbed on a slope, at a 45 degree angle, so we kept waking up in the night to haul ourselves back up again. And the thought does occur, ‘Hmm, maybe this camping lark isn’t such a good idea after all’ as you lie in your crooked bed, freezing cold, listening to the rain lashing against the tent. And behind the field, a lighthouse. Of course there is, blasting light into the tent at regular intervals.
Not a terribly good first night’s camping on the whole.
And for this, 14E.”
As the Labour party once said, ‘Things can only get better’.
We shall see.
Aaaaand orf we jolly well go! Oh my God, so berluddy excited!
Set off at 7.45am because we just couldn’t contain ourselves a minute longer. Going passed London we saw a plane flying so low over the motorway that I pressed my face against the windscreen screaming ‘Oh my God! Its so low!’ It was United Airlines and I could actually see the passengers through the windows. Hopefully there was an airport on the other side of the motorway and the plane wasn’t just about to crash.
We booked a 2pm ferry crossing but actually got to the port for the midday ferry, which was well good. Raced around the boat having a nose at everything (and picking out the whisky in the duty free shop, which apparently doesn’t open for the first 20 minutes until we’re out of British waters or something similarly stoopid). Found a table, sat down, immediately fell asleep. The droning of the engines and the gentle rocking of the boat sent almost everyone on board into an instant coma, and it was only a two hour crossing.
I broke a fingernail (my best one!) and a pair of sunglasses. Tsk.
Finally, we could see France. Half an hour later, we could still see France. Well, the Calais bit of France anyway, we were actually docking at Dunkirk, which is about 140 miles inland (or so it seemed).
“Right!” I screamed, as we drove off the ferry into a foreign country, “Drive right!”
Hubs is actually very good at driving on the wrong side of the road. I’d be crap, I’d keep forgetting and have major meltdowns at every traffic island.
Driving in a foreign country is a bit like being dyslexic, you can’t read anything, can’t understand anything.
The weather wasn’t good, overcast and damp. Drove from Dunkirk to Calais, Marquid and Wimereux (A Wim A Way) looking for a campsite, of which there were none. Got horribly lost in Boulogne, going round in circles, but eventually we stumbled upon a campsite in La Portel and managed to make ourselves understood to the receptionist. She sent us and our tent to the top of a hill, marvellous view of the sea and town below and the concrete war bunkers all around us, but berluddy windy. The hill was drenched, and so were our feet… and our tent, and all our belongings.
Drove off in search of food, Hubs (now knackered) almost killing us by pulling out in front of a local, who screeched his brakes for endless seconds while we all stared at each other thinking ‘Is this it? Is this the end?’ Fortunately, it wasn’t.
Bought French cheese, French wine, French bread, French croissants in a bag (which are crap and nothing like the real thing). We also bought a tin of ‘cassolette’, which sounds quite nice doesn’t it, cassolette, kind of French-sounding and red wine-y. It wasn’t, it was massive harocott beans and some sort of fluffy sausage in a dreary, limp sauce; I’m surprised the French, reknown for their fine cuisine, could allow such a thing to be sold in their shops.
Ate, went to bed, huddled together for warmth.
Unfortunately, because we were damp and cold and the wind and the rain lashed the tent on top of the hill, we couldn’t sleep. I’d actually caught a chill and was feverish, could not get warm, and because we’d eaten a load of cheese and some awful cassolette before leaping into the sleeping bag, my stomach churned and I was delirious for most of the night.
Here’s what I scribbled down the following morning, bleary eyed and still freezing cold:
“Camping at Boulogne. On top of a hill. In a wet, muddy field overlooking the grey English Channel. Exposed to the elements. The wind. And the rain. Perpetually wet feet. Toilet facilities one up from a hole in the ground, water dripping from the ceiling. Oh, and the airbed on a slope, at a 45 degree angle, so we kept waking up in the night to haul ourselves back up again. And the thought does occur, ‘Hmm, maybe this camping lark isn’t such a good idea after all’ as you lie in your crooked bed, freezing cold, listening to the rain lashing against the tent. And behind the field, a lighthouse. Of course there is, blasting light into the tent at regular intervals.
Not a terribly good first night’s camping on the whole.
And for this, 14E.”
As the Labour party once said, ‘Things can only get better’.
We shall see.
Time to put up tent: 1 hr (minimal bickering).
Camping: 14€
Provisions: 12€
Miles covered: 273.
Camping: 14€
Provisions: 12€
Miles covered: 273.
