Today's goal - cross the Channel and hit foreign shores at last.
Again, I wake up around 4.30AM and start thinking about getting up. One thing I am noticing is that although I am as dry as a bone in the tent, the condensation is intense and the inside of the flysheet is dripping wet. Still a long way to go in terms of establishing a morning routine, the shower block is still a long walk away and the grass outside is soaking from dew. Wet feet.
I get chatting to a guy who asked me if I was going to see the golf, which was a bit random and maybe because I was wearing my cycle cap which looks golf-ish I guess. I tell him my plans for getting to France and he tells me there is some new Covid development along the lines of French not accepting people from UK or vice versa. I decide to ignore him and get down to the port; it's only 20 minutes away and I’ve come this far so I may as well get down and see if I can get a ticket. Great view of Dover Castle as I zoom down the empty Sunday morning streets to the terminal.
Turns out there is no issue with the actual travel, but annoyingly I just went up to the first desk I saw, asked for the next ferry and bought my ticket. There was a four hour wait that I put down to it being a Sunday during a pandemic, which meant a reduced service. What I didn't clock is that each ferry operator had its own separate sales counter and I should have checked with the others before purchasing, and then I would have realised I could have taken an earlier ferry altogether.
The price was higher than I had expected for a foot passenger as well, but I was just happy to know I had successfully passed all the various passport and immigration controls and wouldn’t have to return home after only two nights away.
I sat outside the joyless Costa Coffee café and started chatting with a couple of leather clad motorcycle tourists from my home town of Leicester. I could tell they had a rich stream of travellers’ tales to tell me if I gave them half a chance but, unlike me, they had planned ahead and worked out how the ferry ticketing system worked and took off for an earlier ferry.
Still, the sun was out, my factor 50 cream liberally applied and the blinding white of the chalk hills of Dover looked rather magnificent set against the deep blue cloudless sky. Life was good, even if it were taking place in a ferry car park for the next 3 and a half hours.
As the magic hour to departure approached and after a lot of coffee and gallons of water (it was a really hot day), I stopped off for a final pre-embarkation loo stop. I noticed a guy looking lovingly at my loaded bike and asked if he would keep an eye out for a moment until I got back. His name was Ed and he was travelling with his very pregnant Nordic wife and super cute kid and it turns out that they were both seasoned cycle tourists. I mean hardcore, cycling all over Africa and South America - especially Columbia and always wild camping. He was genuinely happy when I told him this was my first ever trip and I chatted with him for pretty much the entire crossing, imparting his experience and expertise into my very willing ears.
One of my concerns was that I would not be able to get into some countries due to Covid, but he dismissed them pretty outright. He made me feel invincible, with so much good advice and encouragement that I was super pumped by the time we got to Calais. Upon reflection, I realise that he was the first person to cast a critical eye over my loaded bike and realise I had too much stuff with me, but to his credit he didn’t say anything as he knew that I would figure it all out in my own time.
As I cycled off the ferry into the maze of exit roads from the ferry terminal, I heard a horn honking from the cars that followed me and I knew it was Ed, giving me yet one more shot of optimism as I went on my merry way and thankful for my serendipitous failure to take that earlier crossing.
But I made it and here I am, in Calais France. I am on my way and it feels good!
I have decided to switch to KMs rather than miles now that I am on the continent, and I found a campsite about 16KM away. It took me a short while to get out of Calais which had that lost feeling you get at seaside towns, especially ports, on a Sunday afternoon. No one around and just a bit desolate even though it was sunny.
The campsite was quite expensive and I pitched up beside the biggest camper van I had ever seen hosting all generations of a Belgian family on a trip to the south coast. It definitely had stairs inside it and was the size of a small apartment. I laid out my sopping flysheet to dry out the condensation and for the first time, feel the pressure of an audience watching me set it up. In fact, there were very few tents but a lot of camper vans and mobile homes I’m not quite sure if they thought I was a bit mad or were impressed I was taking on a 5000 KM solo cycle trip, but I was pleased to get it all up and head down to the onsite bar and restaurant.
I had spent a fortune today but practically nothing over the previous couple of days, so I thought I would let someone else take the cooking strain. Couple of cool beers later, I received a text from my fab friend Vicky who was in St Tropez for a few days. I knew she'd love the idea of this trip and I was right. She's a soulmate, for sure.
Great sense of satisfaction and validation today. I slept well that night.
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