…..
You gotta take your time 
You gotta say what you say 
Don’t let anybody get in your way …

I hope I’m a little more polite than Oasis, but the thought that you have to take whatever life sends, is a useful one. Especially if you’re waiting for an hour at Eurotunnel for boarding. At least they have had the courtesy of apologising, quite often, for their failure to live up to the standards they would like. I was also sent away, in my enthusiasm, for arriving too early. “Come back in 40 minutes, I’ll print you an exit card”: once more round the block. So plenty of time for a coffee. The waiting area was chockablock with motorhomes; I joked with a staff member that the snowbirds were flocking: all escaping the grandchildren, she said. The passport police, on both side of the border, were very efficient; but a long wait after customs for boarding.

Which meant I didn’t get to Camping St Louis until 19:30 French time, by which time Mme.Laurence, who seems to be doing too much, was in the middle of service, and too busy to check me in (I had messaged to say what time I expected to arrive, and that the Tunnel was embouteilée. I love that word, even if I’m unsure of the spelling. At least I had time for a beer before she scribbled a map and a pitch number on an order sheet, and told me where to find the electric point. After a little exploration of the electric post, to find several sockets weren’t connected to anything, and those that were, were reversed polarity, I got back to the rest of the beer and ordered a pizza from the lady doing FoH and bar, who had put my glass behind the counter pending a return.

As the camping is only a half-hour from Calais, quite a lot of British people, like me, using it as a first nighter. The couple at the neighbouring table were heading south, in a suitably unplanned manner; they’d done a long trip earlier, taking in Germany, Switzerland, Italy, and got as far as Mostar in Bosnia. Croatia they loved. They had the tans to show it too. It turns out their son, having been a stage manager, is now running Events; the dad, in construction, helped on the rebuild of LAMDA. Small world. Another chap who I met at the sinks, was off to Bruges and Delft. As they used to say on the telly, “There are eight million stories in the naked city. This has been one of them.”

The road to Vaals, near Aachen, took me through Belgium, on some of their busiest motorways, so very much like those near the big conurbations in the UK, quite heavy traffic. I’d somehow forgotten they spoke Dutch; at the filling station, and at the services where I had lunch. Eating a Portuguese pastel de nateis at a Costa, and ordering in a mix of Dutch and English, while all the food was labelled in three languages was interesting. Camping Hoeve de Gastmolen is my first campsite: the shower block is done out beautifully, quality stone tiles, wall-suspended loos, and separately designated male/ female, but not enough to stop Mafrau having a conversation with Menheer across the divides. I’m pitched under oak trees, with a view across to a farm, with white Limousin or Charolais cattle gently grazing. I heard the screech of a bird over their, and looked up to see three buzzards wheeling around.

The Dutch are such friendly campers. As I pulled up, a couple of VW owners strolled over to chat, and inspect this strange British modification. Theirs was a Cali, which they bought from the factory after a tour. Others are equally friendly, everyone give a cheery wave as they pass. I need to look up the Dutch for, “I’m sorry, I’m English”. I think I’m the only one. Reception, which doesn’t accept credit cards (debit, cash, or bank transfer which doesn’t work with my bank!) were otherwise very helpful, answering my questions about bus routes with the help of ChatGPT.

As usual, I had been anxious before setting off. Trepidation is a good word, and probably right. This was complicated by the day before being Rosie’s and my wedding anniversary. Every year while she was alive I’d brought her a red rose, as I’d done on our wedding day. Last year it had had to be a silk flower; real ones weren’t allowed in hospital. And a few years ago, for a Christmas present, I’d bought an aromatic City of York rose, like one we’d seen in Provence. As it was in full flower, I cut a stem and put it by her picture, another piece of sentimentality to mark the day. Rather than throw it away, I took it and others down to Dungeness, to the shore where I scattered her, and made my tribute.

But tomorrow is another day; Liam and Noel will be glad I rolled with it, I’m sure. I think I’ll go to Aachen, where modern Europe was invented, and see Charlemagne’s cathedral.