And at the third attempt......

...we finally made it for our day booze cruise to France yesterday.  We first tried to go nearly three weeks ago, but were discouraged by the check-in clerk because of the risk of more disruption later in the day at the port of Calais by strikers burning tyres at the entrances to the ferry port.  (They were protesting at the forced divestiture of Eurotunnel's ferry company and probable consequent redundancies.)  We re-booked for one day last week, but at the end of the lengthy booking process, the woman at the call centre said the risk was still high.  She advised us to let the booking stand, and if need be re-book using the same reservation number once the smoke had cleared.  Martyn re-booked for yesterday - another lengthy and bug-ridden booking process.

On the depressingly frequent occasions when ferry workers, trawlermen, fishmongers' aunties or whoever are blockading the port of Calais, the build up of lorries on the M20 means that stretches have to be closed between two and five junctions, and other traffic diverted to the old A20, a process known as Operation Stack.  Having heard that it had been cleared by Monday, off we went.  The side of the motorway is still decorated at intervals with portable privies (though the intervals at which they are set suggest that they'll actually be used for one visit in a hundred at best).  Further towards Dover, trucks and cars were segregated into the left and right-hand lanes respectively, and for much of the hill down into Dover, the left lane was solid with stationary lorries.  We breezed past and straight into the port, did passport checks, and rolled up to the check-in.  'Ah yes', sez the clerk, 'I see there's an extra £130 to pay'.  'No there isn't!' and we explained the whole sorry tale of wasted journeys and ages spent on the telephone.  Closes window, calls supervisor.  'OK, nothing extra to pay'.  Good start, blood pressure up.  I then got us lost on the way to our designated lane, and had to do sundry loops and U-turns to get us back on course.

We were booked on the Pride of Burgundy, which we think is the oldest vessel in the P&O fleet, and it shows.  Grubby saloons, manky carpets, smelly lavvies.  Just like the old British Railways boats in the 1970s - nostalgic, really!  Still, at 28'000 tons, it's rather more comfortable than the 3-4'000 tonners of those days, and had we not seen the white caps (barely, through the filthy windows) we'd hardly have known we were on the water.  The grubby, crumbling window seals and flaking rusty metalwork on the outside window frames hardly inspired confidence, however, and on the way back, our tables and chairs were only notionally connected to the fabric of the vessel.  It got us there and in due course back, however.  School examinations over, there's an interval of a few weeks until end of term.  So what do they do with the sprogs?  Yep: day trips to France.  Enough said: the crossings were not restful.

The purpose of the trip was to get some fizz etc for a forthcoming event, and that part of it was fine.  We had a pretty decent and inexpensive lunch in a Crocodile restaurant next to the Auchan in Dunkirk, and the vast shed provided us with all we were looking for.  (I appear, however, in my haste to get out, to have picked up a 12-pack of pink, peach-flavoured beer.  Much ribaldry will doubtless ensue.)

Pleasant amble back on departmental roads via Gravelines and Grand-Fort-Philippe.  I'd only really associated Gravelines with the complex of six nuclear power plants on the coast, the largest such installation in western Europe - and with a moderately unsuccessful basketball team.  But the twin towns of Gravelines and GFP boast a rather fine Vauban fortress, and they appear to be vying for a ville fleurie award: the plantings are really rather good, even running to a scattering of deliberately sown wild flowers by the roadsides outside town.  It was low tide, so the estuary of the Aa was not at its most charming, but it's clearly a mecca for small boaters.

Well, after that nice interlude, we clanked back to Calais, topped up the tank with a modicum of diesel, and then ran the gauntlet of a double row of tall, razor wire-topped fences installed (at UK expense, I think) to cut the numbers of refugees etc getting to UK on lorries.  Rolled up to check-in.  'Ah yes', sez the clerk, 'I see there's an extra £130 to pay'.  'No there isn't!' and we explained, yet again.  Closes window, calls supervisor.  'OK, nothing extra to pay.  Would you like to leave on an earlier ferry?'  'Yes, please.'  'Oh, sorry: you're too late.'  Well, we sat in the queue for a good half hour watching said earlier ferry doing the square root of bugger-all, then in due course rumbled on to the bad old Pride of Burgundy for the sail back.  Once the sprogs had finished their copiously vinegared fish and chips and pushed off elsewhere, it was quite pleasant sitting looking out over the sharp end and wondering whether we'd be attempting to get through between two towering container ships, or swinging round a bit to pass behind the second.  Latter, alas!  The car, meanwhile, was out on deck at the blunt end, acquiring a layer of salt spray.

Uneventful ride home, thank goodness, although by then, the lorry queue stretched back from Dover to the Channel tunnel entrance, some twelve miles distant.  The stretch of motorway before the segregated section was chaos.  Glad we were pointing west.  Well, what do we learn?  Forget the ferries, or certainly the older P&O ferries.  The tunnel experience is gravely boring, but you can at least read a book or take a nap, and it's over quickly.  The ferries are a fine example of Sartre's much-misinterpreted line, l'enfer, c'est les autres, and they take too long.  The Channel tunnel process is pretty slick and rapid, whereas the port of Dover is incredibly complicated, and is forever being tinkered with to adapt to the ever-changing passport and security regulations.  There must be people in the port administration who'd like to dynamite the lot and start again.  Same's probably true of Heathrow, come to think of it, but in the interests of getting this published this year, I'll park that thought pro tem.

It's only money...

It's the time of year when the car sets one back a bit.  The annual inspection follows hard on the insurance renewal.  The good news is that the former is typically discounted by companies that want to sell you tyres etc, and that the insurance market seems to have become very competitive.  It didn't help that I decided to replace the last of the original tyres today, but there again, the price hasn't increased since the last two I did a few years ago, and today's had done nearly 47'000 miles!  Nervous moment on the way home, when the tyre pressure warning light came on.  Pulled over, slapped on the hazard warning lights, kicked tyres (they did not flinch), got back in, reset warning, drove home without recurrence.  Yet.  We had a similar false alarm last year in torrential rain between Paris and Orléans, and assumed then that the surface water had interfered with the sensors.  The tyre fitting involved a large amount of glop on the rims, so maybe some has found its way to the sensors.  We'll see.

The trouble with booking a car-fettling appointment in the industrial estate is that there's damn-all to do other than visit the big retail sheds.  So we came home with a fettled car, groceries from M&S, kitchen gadgets from a purveyor thereof and eight new dinner plates.

JP1

Martyn mentioned just now that he'd never seen so many blooms on one rose bush.  I'm inclined to agree: this is the Justice of the Peace rose we bought from the hobby club, which had commissioned it from Fryers' Roses, in time for 2011, the 650th anniversary of the Magistracy.  It has been a prolific bloomer since its first year.  We bought another a couple of years ago, with a view to giving one to a former colleague who takes part in the National Gardens Scheme.  I don't know how hers is doing, but ours is coming along nicely:

JP2

I can't image that the epithet of choice of my clients as they leave is 'blooming JP', but it would be nice to imagine that it isn't too far away.

How to waste a Friday

We were off at a sensible hour to Dover this morning to deliver some of Martyn's old textbooks to the Books to Africa operation.  It consists of a row of shipping containers in the port zone up at Whitfield, whence the occasional shipment goes out to schools and colleges in Africa.  The books have been cluttering up shelves, car boots and garages for some time now, since it's a 130 mile round-trip.  Applying the principle, given the price of diesel, that we make any journey by car do at least two jobs, we hung back until we were ready to make a quick booze cruise to the neighbouring continent (provided it wasn't cut off by fog, of course).

With some entertaining in prospect, we'd planned to go and raid the Dunkirk Auchan for the necessary provisions.  On arrival at the check-in in the Dover docks, the fellow told as that, in view of further disruption of services from Calais, it would be wise not to travel, and rebook for another day.  The prospect of being stuck in the somewhat unlovely (and, frankly, dangerous) Calais persuaded us to take the company's advice.  I now read that there has been no such disruption, so our burning of some 15 litres of diesel was a at least partly wasted, given that we'll have to do the whole damn' thing again.

On a whim, we dropped in at Samphire Hoe.  I read later that the 30 hectare country park was created out of 4.9 million cubic metres of chalk marl, spoil from the boring of the Channel Tunnels dumped at the foot of the Shakespeare cliffs.  Last time I visited, there was a biting wind and stinging rain.  Today, which was Martyn's first time there, it was still and balmy, with hazy views of the French coast and shipping out in the channel.  It was a hay fever sufferer's nightmare, however, and I've been coughing and sneezing for the remainder of the day, having also from time to time to clean the glasses of the spots of salt spray from my watery eyes.  But we were serenaded by a couple of larks, and got quite close to a beautiful adder, bronze with the characteristic lozenge markings along its back.  It didn't seem at all alarmed by our presence, but the clear advice from the administrators is to stick to the paths and keep dogs on leads!

From there we ambled along the coast to Dungeness for fish and chips in the dingy Pilot Inn.  (There is a better lit area with views out to sea, but whenever we have been there the tables have all been pre-booked.  It's a favourite coach outing for geriatric delinquents, it seems.)  I couldn't finish my rather bony haddock and chips, and have spent the afternoon wishing I'd eaten less.  But it was good: cooked just long enough in perfect crisp batter.  Next time we go, I'll remember to order the senior mini-portion and one serving of chips between two.  Oh, and forget the mushy peas as well.  The Romney Marsh roadsides are a wonderful display of tall blue flowers: viper's bugloss or adderwort: echium vulgare, I later read.  A pleasant amble home through the Weald, made more pleasant by Martyn's driving it.  Until, of course, we reached the limits of Disgustedville, which is in the grips of numerous road improvement schemes, temporary traffic lights and cones by the thousand.  Modern times, I guess.

By the way, Kate's latest, Magna Carta, has been booked for some further performances: check the Historia home page for details.

Garden

These are all plants we bought last year, and they seem to be liking their surroundings, though the heavy rain on Monday took its toll.

Pat Austin

Birthday Girl

And and old 'un: Danse de Feu

In the edible department, we lifted some Charlotte potatoes at the weekend, and they are delicious, with rather more flavour than the first ones cropped, Rocket.  There is some sign of life from the beans, and a few carrots appear to be germinating.  The onions are coming along, and we have a good supply of herbs, though the rosemary is looking rather tired.

Meanwhile, we are creaking slowly forward with the planned rebuild of the kitchen.  The new sinks are in a box in one garage, the new wall tiles are in the other one and we received a final estimate from the plumber/project manager today.  The work surface has been ordered, and we've agreed a layout that will avoid big joints.  The sparkies came round on Tuesday, and the tiler today.  We've paid the deposit, so are working towards a start in early September. 

A neighbour thinks our plan to decamp during the work is madness, and I have to say I start to have my doubts. D'une part, it would be nice to be spared the daily anguish of dirt, noise, chaos, fish and chips and inferior pizzas, and we've survived owner-absent work often enough both at Forges-l'Evêque and in Another Place.  I turn into a one-man hissy fit when forced to live in a building site (see under Smith Towers kitchen refit and the building of the sitooterie at Forges-l'Evêque).    D'autre part, my control-freak nature and tendency to fret would suggest that being present might be a good idea.  We have between now and September to ruminate on the subject.

There are signs that the laptop is tiring.  Having a cup of tea emptied into it didn't help matters, one must allow.  Who knows how much longer one is going to live?  Intimations of mortality abound: a friend 14 years my junior reports having had a heart attack some months ag, for example.  After surviving 10 minutes of Hewlett Packard music on hold yesterday, only to learn that they refuse to supply a laptop with a proper Swiss keyboard in the UK, I think we're Geneva bound on the way south next month, and to hell with the expense.

Continuous improvement

The more questions we ask about the forthcoming kitchen refit, the more changes we make.  Still, things are moving forward: we've ordered the working surface (quartz), wall tiles (less glossy than the current lot), sink and, we thought, floor tiles.  We're hanging on to the recently laid floor tiles since the footprint of the kitchen furniture won't change much, and had hoped to order just a few to fill in for any alterations.  Two days after order, I get an email 'Hi, David' from some complete stranger announcing that the tiles are discontinued, though not before he'd debited the Gaga card.  Snarl: we only have a couple of the originals left over.  Anyway, things are moving forward, though it looks like an autumn rather than summer job, assuming the final estimate is acceptable.

In consequence, we're looking at trips out from Another Place in September.  Flights are to be had from the Préfecture city to Porto, and trains from one of the sous-Préfectures to Madrid, so we might treat ourselves to a holiday within a holiday.  At least we ought not to have to spend the next visits Pierre-chasing: he seems to have finished the rendering now, and has been paid on the basis of a few photographs.

The oriental poppies are just about over now, as are the iris sibirica.  Fortunately, the roses are getting into their stride (as too, of course, are the greenfly).  The grass is not looking too bad, and it's such a pleasure to be able to walk on it again without waders.  I gave it a cut yesterday, and the fettlers will be here on Friday to weed and feed.  Good value: when I tried a DIY approach, we finished up with a bigger hole in the housekeeping account and a zebra-striped lawn.

We cropped the first pot of first early spuds a few days ago - a variety called Rocket, the growth whereof lived up to the name.  The flavour is nothing special, however.  The others are ready to crop as well, but we'll just draw on them as required.  Martyn's carrot sowings are starting to show leaf, but the beans continue to sulk (though the dwarf French ditto are starting to flower).  The onions seem to be doing OK.

Goldfinches in the garden this morning: they seem finally to have cottoned on to the fact that there are nijer seeds to be had, and so favoured us with a brief visit - three of them.  I haven't heard the cuckoo for a few days, perhaps because of slightly better sleep quality.  Much as we dislike the magpies, their juveniles are quite entertaining, and are pecking at the gutters, or at whatever lurks in them.

The last few days have been good enough for us to get a bit of gardening done, and to sit outside for a while.  Not a wholly unalloyed pleasure: sneeze, sniffle.  Oh well.

Lunch with the cousins

Routley descendants and spouses à table

Every bit as enjoyable as we'd hoped, and a bonus was that our 'new' cousin Gill and her husband Chris could come from Suffolk to join the party.  I hadn't met cousin Liz before, and hadn't seen Susan or Helen for upwards of 30 years.  Utterly sickening that Susan has not aged in the interval, and that Helen looks a good 20 years younger than her age.  Good genes, Susan reckons.  Our common ancestors are Routleys from Bristol and South Wales.  As we hadn't managed to get the private dining room we'd hoped for, conversation was a bit difficult, but we had a fun time filling in gaps in family trees.  Tuttons in Covent Garden provided a pleasant environment, background racket notwithstanding, and the meal was fit to eat if unspectacular.

Photo by Susan (second from left in upper photo)

We walked the Canadian visitors down to Charing Cross after lunch so that they could see a little of Covent Garden and its surroundings, plus the Eleanor monument (one of many) at the station: it marks the point from which distances from London are measured.  They were heading for Paddington, thence to Helen's home in Windsor to prepare for an evening at the Theatre Royal.

While we're on culture, we were a little early in arriving at Covent Garden, so paused for a few minutes to watch and listen to a string quartet not only playing pop pieces, but acting them out.  Now, which of you has given a competent performance on the violin, viola or cello while dancing a cancan?  Impressive, and huge fun.  I treated myself to their CD, and listened to it on the way to the hobby this morning, arriving, thus fortified, in a good mood for once.  [Just as well.]

We ambled back on a supposedly fast train, and treated ourselves to a taxi home.  Disgustedville-London return: £9 per man.  Disgustedville station to Forges-l'Evêque: £10 inc modest tip.  Oh well, it's only money.

A propos, having had some debts repaid recently, we're better placed to embark on the kitchen rebuild, and have almost finalised our bid evaluation.  Decisions and starting gun next week, and the plan is to get the work done while we're in Another Place in July/August.  I quail at the task of clearing out the kitchen, the cupboard under the stairs and the slot in the garage whither the washing machine is to be exiled.  Be prepared for my usual transformation into a quivering, whining wreck as the process moves forward.

Entertainment, misc

Amusing evening the weekend before last.  A colleague had organised a murder mystery evening, so a bunch of us signed up and went along.  We and the usual quiz team formed a table of six, of which I think there were eight in all.  A number of colleagues had also produced a very fine buffet supper, and the clanking of bottles as the steady stream of fellow hobbyists arrived would have done credit to a rugby club curry night.  The action was done by three professional actors, with members of the audience playing a number of the bit parts: Dawn gave a fine performance of a somewhat Margot Leadbetter rôle for our table, and some surprising talent emerged from the others!  At the end, we were told that we would have to perform our solution to the mystery, and your obedient servant was greatly affronted that his nicely turned limerick didn't win the prize.  Oh well, that's show business, I suppose. 

Staying with matters theatrical, we went up to London on Friday for a most enjoyable performance of Kate's new play, Magna Carta, which was performed as a dramatised reading in the church of St Mary le Bow in Cheapside.  That was the second performance, the first having been given the night before at All Hallows by the Tower.  We're hoping for more dates soon: see the Historia web site, which also has links to the main 800th anniversary web site.

The Friday night travelling experience is unedifying, however.  On the way up, a woman in the next bay spilled a glass of vodka down her shirt.  And that was on the way to a girly night out.  On the way back, a young man behind us hiccoughed noisily all the way from Orpington to Hildenborough, where he staggered off the train, presumably to park his evening's intake over the fence.  Driving home from Tonbridge, we followed someone in a Ford Fiesta that nearly hit us as we joined the A26 by cutting in far too sharply.  From there to the Common, said Fiesta was all over the road, coming close to hitting kerbs and bollards on several occasions. 

Off to London again in an hour or so to meet Canadian cousins for lunch.  Two I haven't seen since the 1980s and the other I haven't met before.  Should be fun!  Report anon.