Departure should have been easy. I only had a couple of things to do for work on Friday, putting final touches to documents. Unfortunately, as so often seems to happen, a "bush fire" caught light and damping it down soaked up the whole day. It's OK - I'd just do the documents on Saturday or Sunday. I also had those two whole days to pack, so no problem at all.
Cut to Sunday night, when Olympic-class idleness sees me no further forward, but turning the light on every five minutes into the wee small hours to add another item to the list of things I should have packed by now. Hence Monday is a mad race to find and bag everything, finishing in a long, hot, sweaty and fruitless search for the paper part of my driving licence. Damn!
In the midst of this, I still haven't done those bloody documents. I throw myself on the mercy of colleague Ray who, phlegmatic as usual, resignedly takes over my burdens. It'll be beer o'clock when I get back.
Travelling companions Keith and sister Sarah finally arrive late-afternoon to pick me up. Even then, they have to sit and wait (with creditable patience) while I earn my gold medal in last-minute faffing.
Keith's "bus" is a huge Toyota Landcruiser in bright white with a 4.2 litre diesel engine under a bonnet longer than my whole car. As part of my sole weekend achievement in booking our 11pm Monday Dover-Calais ferry crossing for the princely sum of £37 (including £0 high vehicle supplement), I learned that she is exactly 2M high and 5.5M long. Despite these impressive proportions, she isn't very wide, and sitting three-abreast up front proves "snug". Of which, I feel sure, more later.
To get the hang of driving the bus, I'm in charge from home to supermarket and thence Dover. The driving position is very unfamiliar, sitting very upright and looking down at Range Rover drivers. The blind spots are HUGE, and I find myself staring for far too long after each overtake at tiny stick-on convex wedges that Keith has added to the door mirrors, waiting for headlights to recede. Heaven help us if one drops off!
At the port in good time, we're moved to the earlier sailing. I order a burger while Keith has a smoke. As they bring the shutters down, I try to find him but fail. Keith is stuck with an "all day" (all night) breakfast on board for nearly three times the price. Apart fom lorries, the boat is nearly deserted.
Keith's satnav leads us to the Campanile Hotel, Calais, where he's booked us in for the rest of the night. After some juggling, we fit the bus neatly into the last space in the car park, backed into the twigs and leaves of a tree in which we then have to stand to unload.
The button of the night bell sticks, and I struggle to spring it back out. Twenty minutes later it can stay stuck in for all I care - there seems to be nobody listening anyway. Keith specifically checked 24 hour opening and booked guaranteed late arrival. The emergency phone number goes to voicemail.
At least we've learned to pull the bus forward out of the tree before we re-load.
We see an Ibis Hotel across the road, and get within yards of it when a one-way system suddenly makes it a mile away. They have rooms. Ibis - dull and plain, but reliable.
Keith and Sarah come to my room for a night-cap. Tomorrow we'll decide what we want to see in France and plan our route south. Exciting!
We run out of cider and I switch to lager, paying for it in the morning. I search every bag pocket for a headache pill, but to no avail. It'll be a while before I make that mistake again - the lack of pill, rather than the drinking
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