As I approached Le Havre, doubts as to its quality as the final high-point of my trip started to emerge. It seemed very industrial, and was built by Francis or some king or other to be a huge harbour town, after all. What were my other options? Jane showed me that Fecamp, a town I remember from my youth with great affection (it was there that I discovered Benedictine, my favourite liqueur), was only an extra 30 minutes further up the coast. I resolved to divert, but stopped first at an out-of-town Aldi for some shopping. Now, it is well-known that the hypermarches outside of the port towns are reasonably-priced, but the French have cottoned on to our love of, well, binge drinking and booze cruises (“for me own personal use, like, guvnor”). The prices at these massive outlets have been increasing steadily over the last few years. My thinking was this: Aldi is renowned for finding alternative products at great prices. Surely, an out-of-town Aldi in France must provide the best value in the whole of Europe [mad cackle]?! The French were certainly stocking up, and I’m pretty sure I saw a German woman doing the rounds. She was smartly dressed, and selected a huge box of jars, each filled to the brim with some herby, wuetzel mix which she clearly intended to sprinkle liberally over every dish she cooked in the next decade.
My own selections tended to centre around the red wine section, diverting from time to time back to the dried sausages (so much more reasonable abroad) and the cheeses, from which I selected a wonderfully pongy Pont l’Eveque. I also purchased some decidedly French products: vacuum packed crepe (“what a load of crepe”, I didn’t hear another man remark). Desiring to be bagless, I followed my father’s example and picked up some boxes along with my shopping, which I filled briskly, in turn filling the rear portion of the car. Off I went, Jane barking instructions like a beleaguered army seargeant on the Normandy beaches.
With a renewed vigour, I hurtled over the huge Pont de Normandie Cable-Stayed Bridge, coughed up my 5€ for the privilege and then got completely lost.
It’s the first time I’ve really got lost. It shouldn’t be possible to lose one’s way with a satnav of course, but the issue is a human one: tiredness. The time was approximately 1800 and I had started driving at 0800 or so that morning. Bar a break at 1130 for a croque, one at 1500 or so and a 1630 wander around the Lisieux Basilica, I had driven solidly. Now, you could argue that this was all my own fault: if I had spent 30€ on tolls rather than 12€, and if I had missed out the most interesting driving and beautiful sights, I would have been hours ahead of schedule. I would also have been bored and fidgety (I see some of you nodding in agreement). No, I’ve had the holiday I want! But when the satnav is slow to show your position on a roundabout, you are liable to turn off too early. I found myself in the Grande Harvre, the industrial area of Le Havre, filled with outlets, petrol stations, warehouses – in short, a materialist hell. I topped up the tank from half full (worth it when half a tank is still 40 litres!) at a very good price and pressed on to Fecamp.
Fecamp was just as I had remembered it. It is an attractive town with a leisure harbour in the middle of it. That and the front looked most beautiful in the low sunlight. I parked at first at the front, where I was able to get myself a coffee, wander down to the water’s edge and take some pictures. I also went back to the car and ate some of what I’d brought from Le Havre, which reminded me of how hungry I was.
It seemed prudent to move the car to a quiter location, and I found suitable parking for the night – not perfect – rather bright and somewhat overlooked, but I was far from bothered at this stage. I parked up, wandered down to the front, got myself a beer and took some photos, thinking about the day. A Benedictine followed, of course, and I headed back to the car: I was too tired to talk to anyone: dead on my feet. But it had been another good day. I put my head on my pillow and slept like a bladdered teenager.
The morning was cold. I shelved my economic principles and started the engine to clear the windows, run the inverter and heat the car up a little. I was presented with two choices: leave Fecamp immediately, find the municipal swimming pool in Dieppe, hope it was open and go for a swim and a wash. I could then investigate the town (which apparently is worth it for a morning). Alternatively… I could test the sustainability of my car-dwelling methods a little further. I was resolved. I would wash in the sea. It was only a couple of minutes later that I emerged from the vehicle, swimming trunks on, towel in hand and bag of toiletries in the other. I sported the shirt I had slept in, but, owing to the frigid conditions, I had opted to don my GoreTex walking coat. Glasses stowed, and goggles on, I waddled towards the front in the flip-flops that were stashed in the hitherto untouched shoe bag.
The greatest difficulties a man encounters in his life are those he creates in his head. When I had got over the enormity of what I proposed, the next step, (to discourage any temptation towards regression) was to lather my hair in Head & Shoulders – now I was committed! Barefoot, and just within site of a distant runner and a dog-walker (enjoying the morning in these more usual ways), I stepped forward and my feet turned to ice, simultaneously sapped of heat, but also crushed by my weight on the large pebbles. I should have waited until the sun was nearing its zenith, so that the shallow water and stones might have had a chance rise in temperature by a few degrees. Stepping back because of the pain, I replaced my flip-flops and marched back in. Breath-taking – I felt alive! I quickly splashed water all over myself, being sure to wash properly. I lathered the shampoo and rinsed off thoroughly. I gasped and giggled like a lottery-winning emphasemic throughout the process, but genuinely felt clean by the end of it. The experience can’t have lasted more than three minutes but it felt like ten. Grinning more and more, I quickly wrapped myself in the towel before donning the coat again. As I walked back along the wakening promenade, the drivers passing me looked in amazement (well, it seemed like amazement!) and I espied a couple, possibly British, having breakfast quaintly framed in the window of the expensive hotel with the sea views. They smiled at me and I grinned back. I was on holiday, people!
Now, how to spend the rest of the morning? I chose to ascend the hill to the Cap, the chapel and the Semaphore. So much to write, but I’m not going to – life goes on. I walked for a while, inspected the wind turbines, cleaned my teeth at the same time as another man who was clearly living out of his car (an old Clio) out of need rather than desire and took photos of the bunkers and wildlife. I returned to the town to taste the Benedictine and buy another bottle, and to plan my trip to Dieppe. The port was a mere hour and a half away by the motorway, but I had other plans…
My return to Dieppe involved some of the most challenging driving of the trip. Asking Jane to route me by the coast as much as possible, I encountered tight bends on inclines and declines, complex observation senarios and hidden obstacles, a wide variety of road surfaces and the odd navigational anomaly. I had expected to be doing fewer miles at a lower speed, but I hadn’t bargained on it being that slow, and after another dead end, I decided to get back on a main road, which by that point was still a very direct and pleasant route in enjoyable sunshine. I saw some little places which were havens nestled in amongst the fields, where children played out of harm’s way and the locals would stop to chat. I slipped quietly by in the diesel-powered observation bubble, loving life and feeling careless.
I arrived into the bustle of Dieppe to be routed round the port area oddly: one of the bridges across the harbour was being maintained. I took note of this, and used my techniques to locate handy free parking in a narrow street. Around the corner was a great little restaurant, no tourists to be seen despite the imminent ferry launch. How odd to be so near to home (physically, but also in respect of the communications: I was in the port) and yet not come across Brits? I ate well (see pics) and, with ample time, but rather less than the stipulated boarding time, I returned to the car and set off in confidence: I had asked the man the name of the problem bridge, and it was easy to inform Jane of what part to cut out of my route! She took me around the whole dock area and deposited me by the passport gate. Which was where I realised that I hadn’t touched my passport since arriving and that it could be anywhere in the car! A minute’s frantic searching solved that temporary problem and I was in.
Maybe the fact that I tend to smile at everyone made me a target for the French customs and excise authority… The Douane officers made a point of picking through the vehicle when I greeted them warmly, presented my ID as requested and offered that they might take a look! They clearly thought I was a nut, so poked around ineffectively rather than thoroughly. I understood later that other people had had their camper vans nearly dismantled, and a drugs dog added to the mix, so I came out pretty unscathed. I clearly don’t fit the profile of a mule or for that matter, a publican looking to save some duty on his wine.
Boarding was a fascinating experience. It seemed that one lady had been put in charge of loading both freight and passenger vehicles. She delighted, to the amusement of freighters and holiday-makers, in waving several lorry forward, only to force them with frantic clipboard semaphore moments later to attempt frightening reversing manoeuvres – a sort of vehicular ballet, if you will. We all made it on board in the end.
After making a note of my location (I’ve lost cars on ferries before, you see, and the old “wait and see what’s left” trick only works if you’re not near the front…), I headed into the bar area and scouted out a socket for my laptop. There were two in the room, and both places were occupied by faster-moving travellers. Thankfully, one couple asked me to watch their bags when they went on deck, and I took the opportunity to move to their handily located table – the better to watch, but also much nearer the socket!
In the course of these shenanigans, a young woman with a cultured, Eastern European accent asked me… you guessed it – where the sockets were – she wanted to charge her laptop, too. I was able to oblige and we got talking. Mihaela, a Romanian pharmacy student, was staying in Rouen, having won a scholarship to study there from the “Iulio Hatieganu” University of Medicine and Pharmacy, Cluj where she was completing her course. She had decided to find time during her six-month stay to visit England for a long weekend. We chatted for a while on subjects as diverse as the relative merits of Linux against Windows, the Acer Aspire One netbook she was using, and the variety of films she had lined up to watch on the crossing. As time passed, she explained that she had never been to England before, and was trying to get to a friend of hers in Kings Cross. I magnanimously offered to drop her at Newhaven station, for which she was grateful, but as there was still much to discuss as we approached the port, we agreed that I would run her to Slough, hugely cutting down her rail travel and avoiding the risk of missing a key connection. She was delighted, and it suited me fine – I was tired, and was glad of some chat to keep me alert on the M25, and I was passing within five minutes of Slough on my way along the M4. Prudently, Mihaela checked with the information desk that arriving on foot to the ferry and leaving by car would be fine. She also texted her friend so that she could expect her – sensible behaviour when asking for a life from a strange man!
And so, once again, I boarded the ferry alone and ended up driving someone else off it. The hour-and-a-half to Slough was spent discussing the curiosities of England and old London town: driving on the left (I was grateful of the reminder!), our extensive cuisine (ahem), imperialism, how not to offend the British, what to see, what Kings Cross is like (better than it was). Being grilled about one’s own people on the way home from a trip abroad reminded me that I was pleased to be British, and even happier to have some experience of other cultures. By the time I had sent Mihaela into the bowels of Slough station (with the correct ticket), I knew I was home and ready for the next chapter of my life.
THE END.