week 13 - part 1

Summertime finally hits in. I have an appointment with a ferry and a little stress about getting there - with an hour’s less sleep than normal. And then my car won’t start. Whirr, whirr, whirr- it’s not the battery- and I don’t know much about diesel engines (so it can’t be the timing, or the plugs) – and I don’t have a home start policy, because home starts are usually about flat batteries - and friends or neighbours can sort those out. Small stress. Go upstairs and chant for inspiration –go back down and the car starts – inspiration, belief in overcoming obstacles, or what? Baby’s on the road again on his quarterly (or so) visit to check on his father and his affairs.

This route is getting familiar- one hour to the Belgian border- circumvent Antwerp and Brussels – take a coffee and pain chocolat in a Belgian service station – relish the opportunity to speak French for 2 minutes – and to be in a service station that presents its food better than most Dutch restaurants (and, of course, ask myself if I am living in the wrong country). Get to Calais with an hour and a half to spare. Rather than sit in a dingy harbour I go to the beach for short while. Yellow sands, blue sea, footprints of seabirds on the shore – it’s been a long time since I was in a place where nature is so much stronger than human influence. A ham sandwich and a mini-tetrapak of apple juice. Shall I dip my toes in the sea? No, it’s still March – certainly really cold…..Then I’d have to towel all the sand off.

On the boat –at the front of the queue. I watch the seagulls flying in the wake of the boat’s stream. How fast do they fly? They are wheeling and circling and still keeping up with a boat doing – what- 20 knots? I try to watch one and see how many loops (s)he does to keep track with the boat. Many. All the gulls make a point of staying behind the boat as if it would devour them if they got too close.

Customs call at Dover – young guy comes over and asks innocent questions about where I’m going, how long I’m staying – all the while surreptiously tapping the panels next to the drivers door to see if they sound hollow or not – it's a Dutch wagon – prime suspect I guess – but I pass. There’s time to spare - and not too much stress –so I call my occasionally-in–debt friend on the North Downs – and arrange to stop by for a ‘cup of tea’ – which of course, being Britain, turns into a walk and a pint (ah yes an adequate amount of liquid within one glass). ‘Home’ before ten- reheat a dish of lentils, bacon and spuds – which keeps me farting much of the night.

Whispers home at last, whispers home at last...