The motorhome diaries: Bourgeois du Calais

Past the white cliffs of Dover, the ferry takes us across the channel and into Dunkirk.

Our unintended discarding of possessions continues; M-A and I both leave our jackets on the ferry, realizing only long after we’d driven off.

There are a few mundane realities to deal with before the good times can roll. We drive down to Calais, hoping to obtain the few, but crucial, items still on our list. In doing so, M-A discovers a number of phrases not taught in high-school French classes. These should perhaps be added to the curriculum:
‘Our regulator is for a German gas-bottle. Do you have one which will fit French bottles?’
‘Our cigarette lighter won’t power our sat-nav. Could it be the fuse?’
‘Do you have any rim-tape for bicycle wheels?’

We find a camper-stop by the entrance to the Calais port. In the summer it would cost, but those intrepid enough to travel in shoulder-seasons stay for free.

Nearby is the ‘Fritterie des Nations’, a small, greasy chippy selling the biggest chip-sandwiches I have ever seen; easily a foot-long, and six inches high and wide. Most of the people ordering them are also enormous. Perhaps this is coincidence, not causality; perhaps.

We walk out on the pier, and then along the soft-sand. We return to the van, where we have canned-fish –for me the third time today. At least it is washed down by some excellent beer: Bourgeois du Calais. A European-style blonde, it is strong: 7% alcohol. We become slightly inebriated as we finish the bottle overlooking the entrance to the port. The sun has barely set. The red-eye of the light-house is blinking in the distance; in the foreground is a crucifix-shaped monument. Our view is occasionally obscured by the passing of giant cruise-ships.

The morning brings my first experience of emptying the toilet. Not a task I’d been eagerly anticipating, but in the end not too bad. You open the cap and pour the blue water down the drain; easy.

We find a camping store, where a helpful (at least as helpful as someone who doesn’t speak English can be to us) employee shows us why our gas cooker wasn’t working: Turns out there was a cut-off tap located in the adjacent cupboard. I feel a little foolish. M-A asks him if he’d like to travel with us. It would probably be for the best.

Content that we can now at least heat our canned-fish, we depart Calais.

The motorhome diaries: Are we having fun yet?

My recommendation: Don’t leave your job, move out of your house, prepare to permanently relocate to the other side of the world, and set off for three months travelling around Europe in a van all within twenty-four hours. The plan made perfect sense written in a box on a calendar. Real life always has to spoil the party.

Major relocations always provide an opportunity for a possessions cull. ‘I might wear it again one day’ might be sufficient criteria to let something remain in a drawer. Having to haul it through Europe in a van and then on your back through airports across the globe raises the bar somewhat. Unfortunately, the speed of the cull ’09 meant not everything that was jettisoned was a conscious choice. My beloved mp3 player was one item I would prefer to not have left on the curb of Fortune Green Road.

But finally, as the sun begins to set on Saturday the 14/03/09, we depart.

The gravitational-pull of London ensures we don’t escape too quickly. After driving for an hour, I can just about still see our street in the rear-view mirror. We rely completely on the sat-nav for directions, but the route it chooses takes us right through London’s beating heart. Or maybe it’s lower-intestine. King’s Cross Station, Madame Tussaud’s, Victoria, the lights of Canary Wharf in the distance to the west. We should have painted the van red and charged admission.

After finally covering some ground, we pull over in Faversham. Cemetery to our right, football field to our left. Should be quiet enough. Our first-night facilities are limited: We haven’t obtained a gas bottle; no mains power; no water. We’re almost too timid to turn lights on for fear of draining the battery. But pissing on tombstones could be considered offensive by some, so I’m gonna coronate the WC. After filling the bowl, I turn the dial to open the trap-door and let the yellow river flow into the chemical-filled briefcase below. It won’t budge. Solving this problem is probably going to involve going outside and opening the compartment that contains the chemical toilet. But, outside is dark and cold, so the yellow dam can remain until the morning.

If only it had. Mopping my own urine from the floor with paper-towels will not make my life’s highlight reel. Then we dine on tinned tuna for breakfast. Are we having fun yet?