I left you at the Camping Saint Louis, just before going up to Gravelines for the Icelandic Festival; it’s a safe bolt-hole, with a good restaurant. Home made fish soup followed by baguette and chips, a little bit of pushing the boat out; I’m also very conscious of eating a nutritious diet these days. But it’s been a day or two since I last posted; some of the reasons will become evident.

I didn’t need to check in at the hotel until the afternoon, so time for a gentle meander up to Gravelines. Thinking of how to pass a little time, I remembered the reconstruction of the C17th warship, the Jean Bart, so put that in the satnav. Found myself driving around the leisure port area of the town, a little lost; past a group of a few dozen African-looking guys on one of the Quays, who were being loaded onto local buses: being taken, I’m told, to a transit camp somewhere near Calais. After a bit more circumnavigation, I found the shipyard. So far the framing has just about got up to the waterline level.

It’s an impressive piece of experimental archeology, very much like the castle of Guedelon. Both seemed to require vast quantities of native oak trees; with the rebuild of the roof of Notre Dame I’m surprised France isn’t deforested. Here, the builders aren’t averse to using some modern methods; adapted chainsaws to cut some of the larger profiles, and modern saw milling to create planks and the like. You just can’t get the labour to do pit sawing these days! The exhibits were well laid out in a small museum, and visitors were allowed to wander over the hold. Lunch was at the museum cafe/bar: local beer and Tagliatelle with smoked salmon, prepared over oak chips offcut from the construction. The building seemed to be made of offcuts too.

Then went to hotel, on the main square of the town; they were just packing up the Friday market, so had to find somewhere close to leave Willma for the evening. After the usual fight with the parking meter, but this time in French, managed to secure her. Free parking tomorrow. Then on to the first events: a lecture off the relationship of Man with the Sea, with special reference to Gravelines. It had its moments, but was rather a Death-By-Powerpoint moment, which would have benefitted by substantial editing. I gather it was a late moment fill-in, so it’s churlish to complain. Greeted some faces from last year: Sgaeir and Helène as organisers; Ragnar and the Icelandic delegation, and French Twinners. My artist friend, Michel Thierry, had prepared a watercolour picture of the Icelandic House to be presented to the present caretaker.

On to the opening of the Fête market, with the usual compilation of artisanal goods and foodstuffs; with the scent of smoked fish wafting across the field. Local choirs were singing French sea-shanties; a big parade of ceremonial giants, totemic figures representing fisherfolk, which I neglected to record. They seemed to have proliferated since last year. And various community organisations represented, like the old grannies in traditional costume, and fishermen dressed in ceremonial garb of their confrerie. France does this very well, and Gravelines is way up there.

The evening was the ‘potluck supper’ where each of the nations laid out a table of typical delicacies: the French was very quiche-oriented; the Germans served bratwurst, paté and gherkins; the British did canapés and smuggled cheese, and I’d brought a fruitcake; while the Icelanders brought a selection of preserved fish, including pickled shark, to be taken with schnapps – possibly the best vodka I’ve had. Yes, reader, I did; citing the adage that one should try everything in life except incest and morris dancing. A very pleasant evening, in a community hall pressed into service at late notice, which was too small for the throng; I found myself in conversation with the Icelandic ambassador, about their impending referendum to join the EU. Talk to anyone, me.

And that, dear friends, is how my visit came to a premature end. Having felt queasy, I managed to redecorate the toilet bowl. whether it was the shark; or any of the other interesting offerings; or whether it was a lack of hygiene in the van the previous few days, I’ll never know. It certainly seems to be gastro-enteritis. And after a recurrence the following morning, I decided to cut my losses and head for home, changing my booking at the port. Made it back home in time to see the England – Canada rugby final. And a winter to plan next year’s expeditions. I come back to a diary full of medical appointments: blood tests; exercise consultations; new medication to come to terms with; and Covid/flu jabs. I’ve probably forgotten something, as is often the case today, but so long as it’s in the diary I’ll be fine!