And we’re off! Bray-Dunes, France
Oh yeah baby! We’re off! Zagan the motorhome is currently swamped in sunshine a couple of blocks back from the channel coastline at Bray-Dunes, just a mile or two from the Belgian border (N51.08098 E2.52338). We’re at the very northern point of France, balancing on it, wondering which way we’ll tip? Motorhomes over 5.5m are allowed to park on the road here except July and August, and although it’s lovely and warm in here, it ain’t summer just yet.
Zagan the motorhome parked up at Bray-Dunes, France
The trip out of Blighty started yesterday morning at oh-seven-thirty hours. Here we are loading Zagan up just up the road from the Cooler where we live in Kimberley, Nottinghamshire:
At about 10:30am, we pulled off, snapping the photo below as we did. It always seems the same set of sensations we go though when gearing up for a long trip. In the days running up to the off, a sense of grief washes over us as we say our au revoirs to friends and families. I must come across as a miserable git to folks asking polite questions about how excited I must be, as I’m simply awash with sadness. There are also all the last minute things to nail which keep our minds focussed on the practical rather than the fun side of what’s to come. I call all this stuff ‘the hump‘. Only at the point of turning the key, when the wheels roll and the months stretch out ahead of me, do I feel the buzz, the popping of the cork of freedom! You might be able to see it in my eyes:
Oh my lord, we’re over the hump and outta here!
Down the M1 the skies greyed and started to spit and dampen the road. We’d an appointment with a tyre man in Rayleigh at 1pm, but I’d forgotten about Zagan minutes (the fact we drive at 50 to 55mph (in a quest for free beer) so tend to arrive much later than anyone else on Earth would. Traffic around the Queen Elizabeth bridge would do as an excuse though.
The Dartford crossing – no toll booths anymore, you have to pay online (or cross overnight for free)
Arriving at the tyre man, we found we hadn’t arrived at the tyre man (satnav error, ahem). In the ensuing chaos, I suspect I left the handbrake on slightly (my tool box slipped under it, the critter). When we did arrive at the actual tyre man, an horrific smell of burning we detected a few minutes before was confirmed to be coming from us, as the left rear wheel hub was smokin’ out the workshop. Andy, the manager at the tyre place, called all his mechanic mates (about 57 different places – he tried very hard indeed) but they were all busy (or ‘banged up’ in local parlance, which made us smile). The final chap he called suggested the handbrake might have simply stuck on a bit, so with a new spankin’ set of Michelin Agelis Camping tyres fitted we just tried driving it anyway. Boom, success! The brake freed off – we stopped a couple of times to check, but the drum stayed cucumber cool.
Stocked up with Three vouchers for our crackin’ t’interweb solution, we zoomed off south heading for a pub Ju had found on Facebook which welcomes motorhomes, and it’s only 10 mins from Dover. As grey turned to black, Zagan decided he’d had enough and called a strike for the windscreen wipers. At this point we’re driving down a packed A2, with no ability to wipe the windscreen. Onto the hard shoulder, lorries skimming the habitation door, we tried swapping the fuse, no joy. Cringing commenced. The passing vehicles were so close we made the call to try and get to the next junction, and squeezed back onto the road, squinting through the drizzle. Now then. They say trying the same thing over and over to get the same result is a sign of madness. Well, I tried those wipers about 20 times and eventually they just started working again – make of that what you will folks! Whoop whoop! Weirdly, Dave’s (our previous motorhome) wipers did the same thing somewhere rainy three or so years back…?
Next up, satnav pops us down the tiniest, narrowest, darkest rat run of a backroad to get to the pub – think much squeezing past tens of locals trying to get home in a hurry. When we finally got to the pub, the Plough and Harrow at Tilmanstone, I nipped in to check we were OK there. The landlady (who I think wanted to play darts more than sell beer) told us ‘of course love, no need to come in here’, to which I replied ‘believe me, I’m coming in here’. A couple of very nice Kentish pints later and a chat with a well-travelled local fella and the 8 hour trip was forgotten. Throughout all of this, Ju was, and still is, feeling awful with a head cold.
Up at 6 this morning, Ju prised one of her eyes open (literally) and we headed for the ferry. Bad weather yesterday meant Operation Stack had been on, littering corners of Kent with sleeping lorries. Some were parked on sliproads, poking their noses into the main carriageway, or behind the cones in roadworks – so desperate were the drivers for somewhere to stop. Smoothly through formalities, a short wait and we were on, the ferry feeling solid beneath us as it headed straight into the rising sun. I felt great, wonderfully alive at the sight of two coastlines picked out in sunshine. Ju felt pants! The TV showed images of French farmers having a BBQ on a blocked road somewhere (the sausages looked nice), as French taxi drivers enacted a couple of ‘snails’ around key roads in Paris, grinding the place to a halt.
As we rolled off at the other end we kept an eye out for ‘The Jungle’, the camp just outside Calais which houses migrants and refugees. Past miles of enormous razor-wire fencing the fields of tents appeared to our left with guardian French police vans parked above them, their blue lights endlessly flashing. My brain leapt backwards to the sight of photos of men, women and children in similar camps set up for the Spanish inside French borders, packed with fleeing people after Franco forced all of Spain to capitulate to his way of thinking.
‘The Jungle’ – looked more like a very grim campsite to me, one I’m very grateful not to be in.
We’re travelling now for travelling’s sake, just seeing what we find as we go. Whenever folks ask where we’re going we tell them – the Alps or the North Cape, as they want an answer like that, a destination. We of course need some kind of itinerary, but with a motorhome and a book of aires, and a fistful of time, it’s flexible to say the least. We only decided to head towards Belgium as we sat on the ferry, and our route down to the Alps is yet to be revealed to us. It’s pretty cool.
Charlie’s chosen position as we drive. This is what I can see over my left shoulder, the wee furry beastie.
So, we’re here in Bray-Dunes, which unsurprisingly has some dunes, nice big ‘uns which Charlie went all puppy in, legging it about, his arthritis forgotten for a fleeting moment. The town itself is a fairly typical north France seaside place – mostly resturants and mothballed-for-winter high-rise sea-front apartment blocks, but it feels alive compared to other places we’ve stayed in up here. The sea’s a 5 min walk around the corner, and the beach is wide and welcoming. The map is out though, of course, and we’re eyeballing our next destination. At least I am, poorly Ju’s asleep.
A memorial to French fighters who protected the Dunkirk evacuation at the start of WW2. Incongruously, these brave souls are represented by a chicken.
A WW2 bunker at Bray-Dunes
Cheers, Jay
Bonus photo: our mate Jon snipping the last of Ju’s hair off the other day. Gotta say Jon, you’re looking a tiny bit demented fella! She made £1400 for charity, is chuffed to bits, and looked harder than all of the lorry drivers combined on the ferry.
Off comes the rat’s tail!
Looking forward to following your adventures……….. seen you on facebook, don’t know how I found you but good stuff I say.
Yessss, you made it! And now it all begins. Have a safe and wonderful trip. I am happy you’re on the road again, so addicted am I to find your blog on facebook, still no emails…
Think you will find it’s a cock ( national emblem ) on the memorial and not a chicken.
Watch out for the bird when the French Rugby Team are playing.
Ah, good point, well spotted that man! Just walked down the beach and a plaque states these were the BEF embarking beaches. Humbling to imagine tens of thousands of men desperate to escape from here.
Looking slightly manic as you drive off – clearly you only just got away in time! It’ll be interesting to see all the growing-out stages of your hair Ju. Did you like any of the short styles as it came off?
Enjoy your new travels and take care!
Best,
Robina
Ju, why don’t you Bic it to see if you can raise more. Good to see you guys back out on tour and look forward to following the blog and learning loads of good stuff.
Tempted we were Dave, but she’s hiding the fact her head feels like it will explode any minute! Been ill for a week now, so any more hair removal off the cards. Raised £1400 quid though, from a £500 target, so she’s still smiling! Cheers, Jay
Bon Voyage and stay safe
I’m looking forward to new adventures from you both . I have been following you for nearly a year and have enjoyed all of your postings . I know people have been notifying you of not receiving posts , I was one of them and I’m sorry to report I am still not . I’m hoping it can be sorted somehow . I’m wishing you a wonderful time in your new travels , and a do admire you for cutting all your hair off . …all the best ….. Brian the
Great to see you guys back on tour , looking forward to following the blog .
re subscribing as i too am not getting the email notifications anymore
Have a really great trip. I enjoy following your adventures and check in every evening for an update. What an interesting start to your trip, to say the least. I hope Ju gets over the man flu soon. All the best Paul
Ditto above, not getting the usual email notification. Hope you have a good trip.