So going to France was a bit of a last minute idea. Mum mentioned she was going with her friend Pamela Stanton-Smith and we decided to gate crash. The four of us joined the other revelers at Green Street Green in Orpington for our 6am departure. We were sat in the front of the coach, and headed out east towards Dover.
It isn't hard to tell when you are in Dover, as its famous white cliffs dominate the coast. There was no customs declaration or checks, instead the bus headed straight onto the ferry, Deck 3, and we simply alighted from the bus and headed upstairs for our ride, which departed the docks at 7:55am. We made ourselves comfortable on the red, leather seats and enjoyed the 1 1/2 hour ride to the French coast.
We landed in Calais, but never stepped foot there, as we entered the coach whilst still on the water and simply drove off, leaving us wondering why we needed to have brought our passports at all. Speaking of which, I regretted not being able to obtain yet another stamp; although it's probably for the best as I am very short on space. We still had a bit of a drive, going past what is apparently the largest shopping mall in Europe, and through the emerald green fields of the French countryside. We hadn't been driving long when we realized that we were not the only ones enroute to the seaside resort of Le Touquet that morning, as we smacked into unforgiving traffic for the next hour.
We slowly passed by Le Touquet airport, a small airport that caters to the wealthy elite of the area, and is frequented by, of all things, pilots from Biggin Hill. I hit the window. We have been traveling nearly 5 hours and all we had needed to do was walk up to Biggin Hill airport and we could have flown here in 25 minutes? For the small sum of a few thousand pounds? Oh fiddlesticks!
We were finally dropped off just along the beach of the resort. Le Touquet is historically a posh playground for the rich, not unlike Eastbourne in England and sort of like the Jersey Shore, in ways. We were advised we were to be back to the coach by 4:30 London time, so, being noon, we had a little over 4 hours to ourselves.
The four of us walked along the boardwalk and turned left onto the high street. It was cute and narrow, filled with tons of Nifty Gifty shops and best of all, restaurants. The driver had recommended a particular seafood eatery and we made a beeline for it. It looked amazing; with a fish market right outside. They sat us in the back outside dining area, under an enormous parasol, while we pondered the astonishing menu. It was incredibly seafood-centric, but there was hope for Christian yet, for at the bottom there was a very detailed description of the non-seafood option: "Piece of Meat". At least it was in English. After asking, we discovered that meant steak.
Mum, Pam and I all ordered the same; it was a platter of four langastine, 1/2 crab, prawns, shrimp, oysters and "sea snail winkle". We didn't even ask what that was, instead opting to get extras of everything else and drop the oysters and winkle.
They came out with Christian's steak and an enormous platter for the remaining three of us. We dove right in, with bottom-feeder flying everywhere, till we just couldn't eat any more. The meal came out to EU126.00, including water and tip. You cannot dine on fresh fish like this in London for anything under a fortune.
After lunch, we really needed to take a walk to burn off some of the sheer magnitude of it. We left mum and Pam to spend some quality girl time together and wandered off by ourselves, heading first to the beach. It was hot and sunny, but with a sea breeze that made it absolutely delightful.
They were having an Egyptian sand sculpture exhibition on the beach, and we went to check it out before we realized they were charging entry fees. Funny that, since we could see absolutely everything from the higher level of the board walk, and for free, so hooray for us.
To get out of the sun we wandered back up the high street, getting to the very opposite end where the posh, historic Westminster Hotel is located. As regulars to our blog can attest to, in order to avoid having to pay 30 euro cents for the use of a facility, one must find a hotel where one can do such for free, and as such, why not find the fanciest, nicest hotel there is? I mean, really.
Charmingly set out in a 40's style, with a magnificent antique lift dominating the front hall, we quickly made use of the facilities, decided against tea, and left. We headed back down the
Avenue du Verger with the intention of getting an ice cream, but upon seeing a grocery store we had a much better idea. Yet again, blog regulars will remember that Christian and I have a habit of getting coffee flavoured yoghurt when in Europe. It's a "thing" we do, because it's so available and so enjoyable. So nixing the ice cream idea, we instead grabbed a few coffee and crème brulee flavoured yoghurt's, an apple/pear juice, and headed back to the park across the street from the Westminster. We found a great spot up a hill overlooking the woods, and had a romantic semi-picnic. It was a beautiful day, and the trees shaded us from much of the sun, so we were in our element. Initially we congratulated ourselves for saving so much money by getting our dessert from the grocery store, till it hit us that we could easily of had a similar picnic at a park back home for free, without having paid £31 each for the privilege.
After leaving there, we bought a postcard for our niece Chalice, as we send her one from every country we visit, even if for only a day. By then the time was nearly up and we met everyone else at the coach. We jumped on the coach and headed back on the long, long ride home at 4:30pm. We soon discovered that getting into England is far more difficult than leaving it; as we were stopped in Calais and had to leave the coach to personally go through customs. For the first time since going to Britain, I was actually given the third degree. The customs official queried the validity of my workers visa stamp. One can hardly blame her; when I entered the UK 4 years ago the official messed up my visa stamp, accidently writing 2006 first, so he changed the "6" to an "8". I had made him initial the error but apparently that wasn't enough. She closely inspected the stamp with an ultraviolet magnified glass; presumably to see if the error was corrected using the same stamp. By the time Christian and I got out, the entire bus was ready and waiting for us patiently in the carpark, and we headed to the ferry. By the time we got home, it was just after 10pm, and we realized that although France is technically just 22 miles from our shores, it takes a devil of a long time to get there.
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