Running Blog 23rd July - ended in A&E

I’m sure you’ve heard the same wise voices as I have, sharing their miserable theories that running is bad for your health and we’d be far better off sitting in an armchair eating olives and attempting 3-across on the Times Crossword?

After this morning’s ‘Recovery Run’ I can feel their supercilious smiles and ‘told you so’ eyes sparkling away. I should explain.

The day started so well. I woke up at 5 to a very still and bright morning. Running kit on. Fitbit watch strapped to my left wrist. Satsuma for afters. Water and towel. Car keys. Ready to go. The drive across the deserted Downs and down through Hotwells to my usual parking slot at Cumberland Basin was uneventful and calm; I was lost in my early morning thoughts.

Setting off in the sunshine, I decided to take the clockwise route around the Harbour perimeter. One or two dog-walkers were up but, otherwise, no-one else was around. From the sky I could hear loud whooshes from a hot-air balloon and all was well.

A mile or so from the start and I am running on a straight path with no obvious obstacles, no steps up or down. Sunglasses are reducing the glare from the dawn sun low on the horizon, then Bang! I tripped over something, maybe a loose paving slab, I don’t know, and I’m falling. In less than the second it took to hit the deck I remember thinking ‘O no this is going to hurt!’ not due to falling but having to break the fall with my left arm which is currently troubled by serious bursitis in the shoulder. The last time I had to extend my left arm to grab a handrail I was on the floor in extreme pain. Maybe therefore I didn’t extend the arm, or couldn’t, but before I knew what was happening, I’d cracked my forehead on the pavement and was rolling around feeling rather sore.

Recovering, and leaking blood from my head wound with drops of blood falling on the path, I tried to stem the flow with my nice blue t-shirt…and, yes, I can confirm red + blue still = purple!

Somewhat shocked I got to my feet and walked and ran past the few others up early with ‘You should see the other guy’ comments ready should anyone ask. But we’re British, and no-one noticed, or, if they did, they didn’t enquire.

An hour or so later and after calling 111, I ended up in Southmead hospital A&E. The NHS nurses were professional, attentive, listened patiently to my ridiculous story, and – thankfully – used a local anaesthetic (thank you!) before cleaning out the various cuts and abrasions and the mess above my left eye and wielding needle and thread.

Will I take to olives and newspaper crosswords? Watch this space.

So far, my prep for Paris 2024 is yet to be as boring and methodical as perhaps I’d prefer - far too much drama.

Running Blog 21st July 2022

When I’m Sixty-Four

It seems starting a running blog at the age of 64 is faintly amusing. In fact starting anything at 64 is likely to produce wry smiles from those of insufficient years to understand that underneath this 64-year-old exterior lies a 17-year-old lad who plays rugby one day, kayaks the next, has a full round of gold plus a hot curry, gets up the following morning, and sets out on a leisurely 10 mile run in the sun, with his shirt off, just to increase his sun-tan.

The exterior reality is, shall we say, different.

Difference number one: be careful how you put your running shoes on. Leaning over and pulling on the laces might put your back out – again. Number two: yes, make sure you’ve done a number two before heading out, especially for a longer run. Number three: remember, nerve damage in toe on left foot limits the run to 10K. Number 4: you’ve just recovered from Covid, before that a bad back after sneezing put it out, and before that a muscle tear in the right calf…so maybe a very slow 5K.

And off I go. An hour later.

I don’t think I look too embarrassing. The shorts, black, are appropriately long without looking trendy and my shirt, black breathable fabric, is modest but not from the 1970s unlike my 17-year-old inner man. I’ve learnt not to pull up my short socks, somehow that would look silly, and does. But I do have outrageous orange shoes and I’m proud of the fact that the link to a more rebellious past isn’t completely broken.

Early morning - quiet

It's 6 a.m. and I’ve driven up to the scorched and tanned Clifton Downs and parked in the shade. It’s 6 a.m. because, despite retirement, my body seems to have a secret alarm that goes off at 5 or 4 but rarely 7 or 8. The advantage to me is that I can run without having to trip over other groups of athletic younger things and their training camp exercises, or battle through the earnest Nordic walking crowd with their ridiculous ski poles, struggling along on level ground (Yes, I know. I can hear you whispering…'with your bad back and feet maybe you should be stop running and start Nordicking?’ Over my dead body...is my presumptuous reply).

Freedom is leaving your poles by the nearest tree

The sun is up. I do my stretches. Careful! Manage to survive those and set off. It’s warm already, and quiet, just the swish of impressively fast bikers on expensive racing bikes and padded lycra. The early morning sun means I’m running into my long shadow and I wonder if the Nordic walkers will overtake me chattering away about health and wisdom, I’m running very slowly.

At the top of the first small rise, I can feel my heart rate and breathing are different to when I’m slouched at home writing a blog. Press on, down to the lookout point where you can peer down on Clifton Suspension bridge to your left and along the Avon to Shire, Pill, and beyond to Avonmouth...and buy ice cream later. I don’t stop. Before long I’m running back up Ladies’ Mile Road, past the Water Tower, and around to the long slightly downhill stretch to the small crossroad where all the camper vans are parked with their two fingers raised at the parking restrictions, and I’m back at the car. It’s a 5K route.

I am so very happy to have finally gone out for a run. I don’t care a hoot that I could have been overtaken by unidexters, frightened slugs, or slowworms. I have completed a 5K in glorious early morning sunshine, my back’s OK, my legs can still operate the accelerator and brake, and I didn’t stop.

Right at the end of my jog, just along from where I parked the car is a tree stump, the council having felled the diseased tree before it took out a whole set of Nordic Walkers or pedigree dog-walkers. From this stump I can now see a small branch sprouting a bunch of very healthy looking green leaves. It makes me think of all those of us whose lives are curtailed and restricted in some ways, even nations that decline and lose territory and identity…but not completely, and seemingly from nothing, from the apparent end, against all the odds, recover and the first shoots of recovery are seen.

In a very small way, that’s how I feel after so many weeks of looking plaintively at my orange trainers lying by the front door, and the shorts and shirts redundant in the drawer, simply to have jogged very slowly round the Downs.

On a larger scale of course, if one knows a few bible passages, is this from Isaiah 11: ‘A shoot will come up from the stump of Jesse; from his roots a Branch will bear fruit’ a passage that weaves together history and Messianic prophecy. Just for the moment, though, I’m going to drink in the hope, that this 5K is like a new shoot.

From the stump of Jesse…

Paris 2024 isn’t far off, I better get training.

Cubicle 2…or Navigating the 21st Century WC

For those born after 1980, WC is an acronym for Water Closet, itself a rather underused term these days and for many decades known as a loo, a toilet, the little room, rest-room, a Khasi, bog, a…well, you know.

Water Closet

I’m assuming for the sake of this post that you are male and in need of making full use of the facilities. I’ve only once used ‘the ladies’ and that was by mistake – the blobby ‘male’ ‘female’ cartoon outside the WC didn’t work for me. I escaped unscathed, wasn’t arrested, and curiously pleased that my stay hadn’t required me to read low-quality graffiti, and it smelt…different.

Back to the male urinals and cubicles.

First it seems more likely these days to have to join a queue awaiting your turn. Add to that the average length of use – which has similarly, and mysteriously, been extended – and there is a nervousness amongst the duly assembled. No-one speaks. Of course.

Time passes slowly and, finally, you’re the next one to find an open door. You hear the flushing and the shuffling inside cubicle 2 and, if you weren’t desperate before, your body seems to have taken over urging you onwards. The fella appearing from Cubicle 2 looks close to death, so you’re now very wary of Cubicle 2, but all is well.

Inside you long for a hook that isn’t hanging by one long screw so you can put you rucksack somewhere other than the floor or your lap.

And now your trouble begins.

There should be a law that demands of all citizens to leave at least a few leaves of the loo roll hanging for the next customer. Alas, things have ‘improved’ since the days when one could reach for a non-existent roll, the former resident presumably having taken it home for private use, or to throw on the football pitch, or whatever. Yes, things have improved. The rolls these days last about a millennium. So far so good. And they are security bolted into position. Only the ‘attendant’ (a term that doesn’t mean what it says – thankfully) has the on-line security code implanted on their DNA or held on a sub-cutaneous chip. However, can you find the beginning or the end of the roll? No. It’s worse than the cheapest sellotape.

No need to add anything?

This is why the average wait time for Cubicle 2 has risen to an astonishing 25 minutes. Occupants are reduced to twirling the massive inner roll clockwise then anti-clockwise several times before locating an end, but then it disappears once more. In exasperation, you consider tearing the roll and dealing with the consequences. Either way, if you’re a before and after gentleman, it all takes too much time. By the time you are ‘ready’, and lower yourself on the seat warmed by the previous occupant, your blood pressure now matches that of your treason to be there in the first place.

The minutes spent reducing the inner pressure are, as every fella knows, holy. You can commune with your Maker undisturbed. An oasis of privacy. Those are the precious 5 minutes of legitimate skiving in the working day, or savoured, away from family mayhem at home. It is a holy place to which we all retreat in times of need.

Shhhh…peace and quiet

In my house I cater for guests who need to fill those minutes with works of literature. A range of books from ‘What to do with Poo’ or Peter Cooke’s ‘Tragically I was born an Only Twin’ to Bill Bryson’s excellent book on Shakespeare is on a shelf just within reaching distance. Some have been known to occupy the bathroom for days on end. Washing-up can be avoided, chores postponed, and instead of the unmentionable noises, peels of laughter can be heard all the way to the end of the garden; I don’t know what the neighbours must think but there’s a limit to how much one can care.

Care, too, has to be taken not to lean back when one is in the sitting position. Not in my loo, I hasten to add but a 21st Century WC. Behind you is likely to be one or two black circles, buttons, recessed into the wall. If one or both are depressed whilst you are resting a noise, somewhat like a hovercraft or helicopter, builds to a crescendo as all the ‘contents’ in the loo are suddenly vacuum-pumped away. It’s best not to jump.

Your time now ended, rucksack retrieved, belt and zips checked you leave Cubicle 2 and advance to the wash basins or troughs or sinks. And now you are presented with an IQ test. Various unspoken questions arise, choking any sense of feeling at one with the civilisation you have already spent several decades trying to master. Simple questions like ‘Which is the tap?’ Or ‘Do I press this knob, or ‘twist that handle’ or just ‘stand still and wait for a miracle’? Actually, the final option can prove successful. Having blunted one’s wrist pressing the non-tap tap, a violet glow hits your open palm and, once a human hand is detected, a ration of liquid soap is dispensed onto your hand if you weren’t shocked by the light and withdrew your hand. Then water appears from another pipe and away you go. Your hands are now covered in soap and the water has stopped. Once resolved your hands are cleaned and on you go to battle with paper-towels, pull-down towelling, air-blades, up-turned air-funnels and the like. Arguments for and against the efficacy of each method to re-distribute pathogen microbes into the air cloud your mind until your hands, semi-dried, are withdrawn and you walk away, hoping that by the time you have to shake hands with someone they are reasonably dry.

How does that tap work?

The ordeal over, you move on to the nearest café to collect your thoughts and collapse behind a flat white and an almond slice.

At the café, you have time to reminisce and long for the average 1970s loo with all its imperfections but lack of mental strife.

All that was needed back in the day was the nous to nick some loo roll from Cubicle A before entering Cubicle B, to suspend your sense of smell for the foreseeable, ability to hover above the non-existent seat, and be fairly philosophical about the chances of finding a functioning flush. Any holes burnt into the side walls with cigarette lighters or pen-knives were no trouble, after all, there are various uses for toilet tissues beyond the normal. And one’s foot can be employed to keep the door closed if you’re embarrassed about being interrupted, the locks having been loosened maybe years before. The water in the sink, cold, was left on by previous occupants, occasionally flooding the floor, and soap hadn’t been invented.

Immune systems of the average 1970’s homo sapien was robust.

Five Day Trip to Calais

Day Five, Monday

The very acceptable evening meal at Le Hovercraft was, of course, digested on top of the uncooked burgers from Dunkirk…spelt more correctly as Dunkerque by Sir Gaffa in his comment. His comment using a more Anglo-Saxon term referring to his post-burger fear ‘Will I, won’t I puke?’ needs to be honoured in this final Calais chapter.

But all was well. Our robust British digestive systems had seen off any threat from le continent.

I woke up to gentle Restaurant-disapproving-rumbles coming from the other side of the room quite early, maybe 5am, and eventually took myself off for a wander along the sea-front esplanade. It was a gloriously sunny and warm start to the day, quiet, still, and deserted.

Beach huts on Calais beach

Not that I was wearing my Panama but the walk gave me time to be filled with a ‘hats off to Calais’ feeling. Whoever pushed through the redevelopment of the seafront, the town square, and general ethos has lifted Calais from its image of a pre-Christmas cheap beer and booze-infested English supermarket. Or simply a town that one passes through, and he/she deserves the Gold medal that its neighbour just up the road has forsaken.

Again, it impressed me that the whole esplanade is graffiti-free. Not one black marker pen streak, or gang postcodes, no ‘I woz here’, no hearts with arrows, no swear words with letters missing…just clean surfaces that all ages enjoy. I ambled along the whole length recording different sounds and images mainly on sub-standard videos rather than photos…well no-one was around to worry over some old codger talking to his mobile phone.

Turning around at the end the whole scene changed. Looming up behind me was a huge invading black cloud. It made for a contrasting image, the yellow sand illuminated by the early morning sun, hence the stick-man-like shadows, set against the monstrous and ominous dark cloud.

Calais beach

It was just before 7 when I returned. Not a car was moving. Not one. Does anyone go to work? Maybe the truth was that Sunday night which had been so pleasant, with everyone eating out, that the whole population had simply given a characteristic Gallic shrug ‘Work? It can wait’. Maybe we can learn a few things from our French neighbours.

Eventually, though, the chess set was packed along with all our belongings, and we were sitting in the queue at the port ready to embark on the ferry crossing back across the channel.

We ended as we had begun, tucking into cooked breakfasts, this time care of Irish Ferries, before indulging in one of our stranger habits walking round the decks of the ferry, I’m not sure how many times.

With the white cliffs of Dover approaching fast we re-entered the sanctuary of Dover Harbour and before long were driving to Canterbury and meandering through its familiar streets to take the road to Chestfield and, ultimately, Whitstable.

The White Cliffs of Dover

A quick pit stop and I was away on the return journey to Bristol feeling quite jolly; the gaffa tape still holding the visors in position.

Until the next time, it’s a wave from Sir Seagull, vowing to renew his interest in ants, cows, chess and much else thanks to Sir Gaffa.

God speed.

Five Day Trip to Calais

Day Four, Sunday Evening

Power-nap completed we re-entered the day wondering what would befall us in terms of the evening search for a restaurant in Calais town centre.

Paul, in his response to the last post mentioned the curious noises that, apparently, I make to express doubt when exploring menus or discerning how much cutlery noise would be heard in a restaurant. Strangely, I think Paul would agree, it has a striking resemblance to the cows-of-wisdom he mentioned earlier.

The acid test though is whether it works. In Dunkirk…no…less said about Dunkirk the better.

High Street, Calais

Being locals now, we sauntered along the wonderful esplanade veering inland and across the bridge dividing the harbour from the sea and into town. A few cattle noises later we arrived at the restaurant we had sampled on the first night: the glass cage in the sun. On this occasion we didn’t bother asking about the tables in the shade, entering the cage as confident returnees. But were met with a second baffling ‘Non!’ There were three waiters standing around doing…nothing actually…and many empty tables but the ‘Non!’ was firm and professional and we had to beat a retreat.

Let me just say a few words about the atmosphere in Calais. It’s good. It has that outdoor European feel. At 9pm and on. There are one or two bars you might like to avoid if you don’t own a Harley and sport a beard the Danes, or a Russian Orthodox priest would consider manly, but generally, it’s…pleasant.

Wandering down the high street with the colourful plastic strips above we ended up at Le Hovercraft. Not, you might think, the most French or the most inviting of venues. Paul, cocked his ear waiting for the usual indecipherable sound, but nothing emerged from my lips so we entered, sat down at a table, and were presented with a menu.

Le Hovercraft - Welsh?

From the photo you may begin to see why we were not far from losing it entirely once more; encore une fois.

Sir Seagull: ‘Tell me, Sir Gaffa, am I missing something?’

Sir Gaffa: eyebrows raised

Sir Seagull: ‘The Welsh. I’m not aware of their historical connection to hovercraft?’

Sir Gaffa: ‘I think you might be onto something, Seagull’

Sir Seagull: ‘And, if I’m not mistaken, the hovercraft service from Pegwell Bay to Calais…’

Sir Gaffa: ‘Ended in 1982, Sir Seagull’

Always a man of sharp attention to detail, Sir Gaffa.

And then to see the word Welsh placed conspicuously as the first word on so many of the dishes on the right-hand side of the menu was too much and some tittering followed.

The food and wine was excellent, though, and the waitress: a distinct improvement on the troubled lady of Dunkirk. Would we recommend Le Hovercraft? Oui.

Amongst all this tourist visiting Calais, Le Chatelet, Abbeville, and Dunkirk were some reminiscing of days we held in common at Swalecliffe Free Church (Baptist) during John Hosier’s tenure as Minister. Halcion days. So many came from far afield the evening services, and students from Kent University. Monthly Sunday lunches were well attended. Memorable summer trips to Dales and Downs Bible weeks. A sense of expectation during church services. We also discussed griefs over reversals in church and personal fortunes, and harder times in life. And looking ahead.

Well, looking ahead over the sea on our walk back from the town centre was remarkable. The photo may not really do it justice. The rusty post-sunset reds on the horizon contrasting with the vast dark clouds stretching from horizon to horizon was stunning. https://youtu.be/1mUUK-gfn1w

End of the final day in Calais. It’s up and away tomorrow morning.

Sunset across to Dover from Calais

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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.