The house woke slowly on our final morning. There were a number of bottles to be disposed of and bags to be packed. While I rose at 5:30 and John joined me just after 6:00, we didn’t leave the house until about 10:00. Most weasels are well known for their sleeping skills.
We spent a fair while listing the things wrong with the house. The stairs, the lack of curtains, the lack of a kettle, the murderous stairs, the slippery floors, the even slipperier stairs, etc, etc there were oh so many things. Still, it was warm and nice and close to the centre of the town.
Having packed the cars, we wandered around a sleepy St Omer, looking for somewhere to breakfast. The Christmas market in the square and the ferris wheel were both silent.
So was almost everywhere else. There was nowhere to eat.
Instead, we had coffee at the River Spey then drove to a big barn full of wine and spirits so John could stock his cellar for next few years.
It’s quite an amazing place where you can buy lots of wine then organise to get your VAT back at the terminal before leaving.
Mind you, it was an odd route that the satnav took us, (John thinks she’s getting a bit demented in her old age) so we saw lots of bits of French farmland. And little settlements with little point in existing.
Obviously the unexpected was not reserved for the navigating. As we drove through one small town, I spotted a hunting dog, cheerfully running along the footpath with a duck in its mouth. There was no human in sight. Quite strange.
We finally ate in a brasserie at Sangatte, near the tunnel entrance. It will henceforth be known as the place where I reached my cheese limit. They make these things called le welsch which is basically a big bowl of melted cheese on a bit of bread with whatever you want to add. I had ham and egg.
Very nice but it demands that the diner almost immediately falls into a cheese coma after laying down the cutlery. It comes with fries which is a good thing because they help cut through the dairy.
Of course, after food, we had to visit the supermarket for something or other. I left them to it and went to the loo where it seems they have a problem with toilet paper theft. It must be bad if they have to lock the paper dispensers with padlocks.
Unbelievably, our Eurotunnel train left on time. With us aboard. Unlike our arrival a few days ago. Okay, we were jostled a bit because we were upstairs but a few jiggles didn’t take the shine off our arrival back in Britain.
There was a lot of snow.
Lorna and Darren dropped me at Ashford (no longher) International, with sad farewells and promises of accommodation in Sweden.
Having had such a good run obviously things had to change. And they did.
The train from Ashford (not any more) International was delayed, then terminated at London Bridge. This meant I missed the 6pm train to Alton. I frantically found an odd train that went to Aldershot instead.
I’d forgotten how British trains like to roast their passengers at the merest hint of cold. Obviously, I was sweltering.
I thought that maybe the trains were a bit wonky due to the strike starting tomorrow. I was wrong. The train to Aldershot is regular and goes to some odd places. I left the train at Woking with a four minute wait for the next Farnham train.
What a rigmarole. Mind you, all the travel gave me time to write this blog post. Which probably explains the length. And less than readable content.
Something I forgot to mention the other day were the splendid carvings above one of the cathedral entrances.
Sure beats all the crucifixes at Houlle.
