MONDAY, 28th August 2006 – Revin to, well, home

You thought you had one day left.

The weather had turned decidedly cold overnight (yes, I know it was probably still well into the teens centigrade, but it felt cold), and we woke to the pitter-patter of raindrops on our roof and awning. We packed up, and waited patiently for the campsite lady to turn up at 9 o’clock. We waited pateiently a bit longer, then we waited some more – impatiently. We might have just left, except the barrier was down. Just our luck.

Eventually she turned up at 9.20, rushing in, muttering desolee under her breath. We were a bit desolee to have to have waited, but never mind. I paid, and we chugged out, in the rain and mist. The countryside around that area (The Ardennes) is wild and rugged, and would have been beautiful if we’d been able to see it properly. We looked for a boulanger, and failed. Tiny hamlets strung out along a main road, juggernauts and British motorhomes flying by a few centimetres away. Not my idea of France.

It rained, and then it rained some more. Then it threw it down, and off in the distance, lightning repeatedly pierced the angry black sky like a mad knife murderer, and we decided to go home. There was no point in staying overnight somewhere close to the channel port, the van getting wet and us getting cold. Annie prodded Catherine out of her slumbers (she was bored anyway), and we turned northwards, through squally showers and torrential bounce-off-the-road rain.

We arrived at Calais at around 3.30pm, and approached the check-in desk. We were told we could get on the 6.30pm sailing, as long as we spent some of our remaining Euros for the privilege. We were happy so to do.

We waited, just for a change, but at least we were accompanied by some English radio, although we had the traditional fight over Radio 4 and, well, practically anything else. We watched a pair of motorcyclists plead with a loading hand to get on the earlier boat that we watched being loaded. One guy said “oui”, and the motorcyclists eagerly donned their helmets. Then the gaffer said “non”, and that was it. They boarded with us.

Despite the foul weather we’d seen in France, the crossing was smoother than the winner in the “Millpond of the Year” competition – a keenly-fought event in the wilds of Wiltshire, I understand. Or was it Sussex? Even the fish and chips were tasty, and set us up for the evening drive home. We arrived chez nous at about 9pm.