F&@k, f&@k and double f&@k!

Today got off to a lovely start.  I woke latish and had a lovely French farm house breakfast then took my time packing and sorting out the bike ready for the ferry while Pierre and Brigitte pottered about the place.  With my kit on I went to see Pierre and Brigitte to pay for the night and say good bye.  They wouldn’t let me pay and we swapped email addresses so we can stay in touch.  Brigitte was insistent that I come and stay with them and bring Harriet and the children.  I hope to be able to take them up on the offer and co-inside the trip with the vintage car rally in Le Puy Notre Dame.

With goodbyes said I set off for the ferry in Le Havre.  

Domaine de l'Enchantoir

I had the whole day to get there as the boat wasn’t due to leave until 2300hrs.  On my way north I passed signs for the Le Mans and thought it would be rude not to visit the museum.  As you would expect its full of amazing exotic cars and the odd bike.  I decided to have some lunch there but the café had run out of baguettes but could still do a croque Monsieur or as I call them a croque Trystan, long story.

Legends from another age.

After my luxurious lunch I took full advantage of the free wifi and facetimed Harriet and spoke to her, Wilf and Alice much to the amusement of the bartender.  There were a few other British bikers in the café and we got chatting about trips as bikes you do.  After another coffee I got back on the bike and headed north, I had the fear of missing the boat and wanted to get to Le Havre with plenty of time.  I managed that all right, I was 5 hours early and the port was closed.  With nothing else to do I went to find a café, get a bite to eat and more coffee.  Post coffee I still had hours and went to find a bench with a view.  This reminded me of a time, years ago, when I was waiting for a ferry in another French port and saw a biker cooking himself something to eat.  I remember looking at his fully loaded bike and thinking that one day I want to be that man.  Well today I became the biker waiting for a boat to take me home at the end of a long journey.  In some small way I had arrived, and it felt good.

I've arrived.  Feeling smug in Le Harve with time on my side.

I had killed some time and the boat was due to leave in 2 hours so I thought that they might open the port soon and rode to the check-in area and found it still closed up, taking advantage of the cool evening I sat on the bike and rested my head on the tank bag and tried to get some sleep.  But something was bugging me.  Surly other people would be here by now, where were they?  I dug out my phone and checked the booking confirmation.  There it was; in small print at the top of the email.  It looked so unassuming:  “Caen to Portsmouth”….. 

Fuck….. Fuckity fuck fuck.  Underneath it said “Last check-in 45min before departure.” (2215hrs).

I quickly turned on the satnav and plumbed in Caen.  1 hour away and it was now 2113hrs.  No time to swear, just get my kit on and ride.  I had packed my back protector ready for getting on the boat, my neck brace was secured to the pacsafe and it would take at least 15 min to get it out and on.  No time for that.  No time to put in my ear plugs, no time for my neck warmer.  The bike was rolling in record time and I turned so sharply in the carpark that the peg scraped down as I shot off. 

What was the best plan of attack?  Do I open the taps and go for it risking being pulled by Plod?  Do I stick exactly to the limit and hope for the best?  I thought that discretion would be best so I stuck to the limits in Le-bloody-Havre.  As soon as I got onto the motorway I hit a toll booth.  This one turned out to be free for bikes and the lady waved me on.  It was now dark and I wished that I had taken the time to correct the headlight for the heavy load.  With so much weight on the back the headlight pointed into the sky like a searchlight trying to spot a bomber.  Allot of use that was!  Ahead was a car that was cracking on at naughty pace.  I fell in behind and used his lights.  At least I had spent that past few hours drinking coffee and the effects where telling.  My eyes were wide open, I could see everything in great clarity and I felt great.  I. Can. Do. This!  The GPS didn’t think so as the clock had ticked on and was now telling me I was going to be 1 minute late for last check-in.  Shit, I needed to make time in the “Withnail and I” sense.  I cracked open the throttle and sat just shy of daft speeds.  It was dark, my headlight was useless, I had lost my pace car, I wasn’t wearing some of my most protective kit, a headache was just starting and the GPS was telling me I was going to miss the boat.  Things couldn’t get worse. 

Then it started raining…. And the fuel light came on with 50kms to go. 

I had to slow down but the GPS was back on side and told me I was going to make it with a minute to spare.  Toll booth.  REALLY FRANCE? ANOTHER ONE!!!? BOLLOCKS!!!!!

I looked at the GPS and saw the road peel off to the south, away from the coast.  WTF are the French playing at?  Why not build a straight road?  The Romans managed it why can’t you?

I was now wet, late, unprotected and getting a little bit stressed.  Finally, I entered Caen.  Where’s the port?  GPS says it’s the other side of the city.  I shot past a junction and saw a sign saying “Car ferry” out of the corner of one bloodshot eye.  It was too late, I passed the exit but the GPS says straight on.  In for a penny…. I carried on and saw another ferry sign this one was on my side.  The GPS said I’m going to make it.   Come on!!!!

Roadworks.  NOOOOO!! I had to slow down, and thought that I had blown it.  Surely I’m done.  I thought about the options.  I could make for Calais and get the tunnel.  But my MoT is booked in Portsmouth at 0830.  I would have to ride to Calais chuck money at the problem and carry on to Portsmouth in time for the MoT in the morning.  That meant an all-nighter, I didn’t want that.  Where have the ferry signs gone?  I must have passed it.  The GPS still had confidence in me, had I set it correctly?  I kept on going into the night, no signs, no other traffic just dark countryside all around and no sign of a port.  I was ready to admit defeat, then I saw a car in front, was it heading for the port?  The numberplate was yellow so it could be a Brit, it looks like he has roof bars maybe I am going the right way after all.  As I closed in on the car I noticed it had something written on the back “Gendrmerie”.  BRAKE, HARD (but not in a noticeable manner).  I slowed to the indicated limit and noticed my dipped headlight was shining straight into the rear view mirror.  Perfect.  The GPS still had faith in me, I wasn’t so sure.  In the distance I saw a caravan.  Everything was colluding against me tonight but at least it had stopped raining.  The bike told me I had 20kms of fuel left as my speed dropped to match the caravan.  With the rozzers in attendance I couldn’t get passed. 

Then I saw it, the unmistakeable shape of a ferry dead ahead.  We crawled through a small town, is this the port?  The caravan went through some lights and they turned red.  The Old Bill slowed to a stop and I pulled up next to them.  As soon as the lights turned I set off, very carefully.  There was the terminal.  Now there was just a caravan between me and the UK.  Sod it, I overtook and pipped him to the check-in.  GPS was right, 1 minute to spare.  I had made it and for my efforts was waved straight onto the boat passed the lines of waiting cars.  Now I know how Steve Macqueen must have felt in the Great Escape.  But I made it!