Passports

The French have taken to checking the passports of people crossing the Channel from the UK.  They never used to.  It might be Brexit, but I think it follows from the terrorist attacks of the last couple of years.  And who can blame them for checking?

So it's late on Friday night and they are checking one lane.  Thoroughly.   The queue is back to the terminal.    At last they open another lane.  It's moving swiftly.   Very swiftly.   I pull out of the first lane and into the second, passports in hand. 

There is nobody in the booth. 

Sod's Law In Operation

We set off in good time.   In fact, we set off well before we usually do.   There were no delays on the M25.   We got to the Folkestone terminal early.  It wasn't busy.  Great!

But sadly, the trains weren't running. 

Eurotunnel had sent me a text to expect a delay of an hour or so, because of a "technical fault".  I had a chat with the lady at the barrier who had been on duty since 9am (it was now 2200) and was obviously totally worn out.  Seems everything had gone wrong.  A couple of breakdowns in the morning and then they never managed to catch up and get back to normal.  Luckily it was not a bank holiday.  

I got talking  to a  group of Sikh lads who were off to a wedding in Bordeaux.  One driver and three pissheads, tucking into a case of Jack Daniels and coke.  Hope it went well lads!

Fun and Games on the Motorway

Some donkey drove his lorry into the supporting pillars of a footbridge on the M20 near Maidstone.   Astonishingly nobody was killed when it collapsed, not even the poor bloody biker who was riding under the bridge at the time.  But the whole south east of England was thoroughly screwed for the next 24 hours.  Including me. 

Last time there was a bit of trouble on the motorway I had little or no advance warning.  This time there were warnings as far back as Swindon.   So a big improvement, although not everyone got the message.  There were still lots of people bombing along the M25 apparently unaware that the M26 was closed ahead. 

Then there was a horrible queue to get from the M25 to the M2.   Only one lane allowed.  So a tailback for miles.  Although there were four lanes at the roundabout, the others were allocated to local traffic.  Not joined up thinking. 

Signs did divert you off to the M2 but assumed you were going to Dover.  Not so, Highways Agency!  At some point I wanted to go back to the M20 and off to the tunnel.  Were you able to get me this information?   Were you heck as like.  But I did find the right turn by good luck and made it to Folkestone two hours late.  

Eurotunnel to their credit told me I was late and put me straight onto the next crossing.

Welcome to Rip Off Britain

12 quid for a 320g box of shortbread in duty free.  Blimey!

Looks like Eurotunnel are trying to separate the French schoolkids from their leftover pounds.  They have a chance to buy presents for mum that they could have got for £2 in Tesco.  

Folkestone terminal was squalid on Friday night.  Every table was loaded with empty glasses or rubble from burger king.  They were closing and obviously not very interested in clearing the tables.  Maybe SOJ?  Someone else's job

So rip em off and show them the nasty side uf Britain.   That'll bring the tourists back I'm sure.

Going Home

Handy for the trip home is Cité Europe.  Most of the shops are closed on most Sundays (the French don't approve much of Sunday trading for the most part, although they make an exception in the run up to Christmas).  Which is awkward for me as I tend to travel home on a Sunday. 

But I say it's handy because it has a Carrefour supermarket petrol station, and it is just round the corner from the tunnel - so just off the motorway on the way home.  And as one of the biggest supermarkets, prices are about the lowest around. 

So most trips I aim to fill up there before I cross back to the UK.  Did I mention that a litre of diesel is about 75% of the UK price?  So that is a worthwhile saving. 

The pumps are automated so if you have a credit card you can pay any time, although the payment gizmo is set low down so I have to bend to work it. 

You can hear the BUT coming, can't you?  Until recently the fuel was underground, in the lower level car park.  They have just moved it to a brand spanking new service station on the Cité Europe perimeter road (where my satnav has always believed it to be).  Large, convenient, and utterly bleak and windswept in winter.   In the rain, in the snow, it is miserable. There's an Auchan nearby - about 5 minutes drive - but again it is a bit exposed.

So I've been sorry to move out from under the car park. 

The Man Who Forgot His Passport

Exit checks?  It's a paperwork formality - at least it seems so.  The UK border cops are rarely sitting in their cabin late on a Friday evening.  And if they are, they languidly wave you through at the sight of the proffered maroon booklet.  The chances of there being someone awake in the French cabin are slim to the point of emaciation. 

Except tonight. 

Tonight was the night we arrived behind the guy who had forgotten to have his passport ready. 

He climbed out of the car and opened his boot.  It was packed up to the roof with stuff.  A small bag for him.  A small bag for her.  And 47 bags for the tiny sleeping infant in the back seat. 

Realising that finding the passport might take some time, he gestured politely  to me to try the next lane.  Surely the first French man ever to gesture politely to un anglais?

I reversed, manoeuvred and found the douanier in the next lane had just this moment decided that enough was enough.  "Fermé!,"  he cried.  I manoeuvred back again. 

By now mum had got out of the car too and was rummaging for passports.  The task seemed hopeless.  Surely they would have to unpack all this stuff?  We watched as they searched the obvious bags.  No joy. 

Eventually our douanier lost patience.  Do you have any ID at all?,  he demanded.  Monsieur patted down his pockets, pulled out his wallet and showed his library ticket - or possibly his carte d'identité, I couldn't tell.  Bon. 

After a short repacking interlude, on they drove, no doubt arguing about whose fault it was that the passport might be in the bag at the bottom of the pile containing the used nappies (good security ). 

         

Unexpectedly Painless

Well that was unexpectedly painless.  We took the Friday off and headed for France after work on Thursday.   And although the advance warning signs said that the M25 was horribly clogged up clockwise,  we were of course going anticlockwise.   And when we got there, the constipation had gone away. 

Which left just the tunnel.  No delays.  In fact we actually caught the S train instead of the T we were booked on.  So an hour ahead of time.  Result!

The newspapers and even ITN News have been blaming delays on the would-be immigrants in Calais.   When of course the immigrants have been taking advantage of delays caused by striking ferry workers to stow away on lorries.  But there were neither immigrants  nor ferryworkers visible when we arrived.  What we did see was a lot of extra security. 

We were directed to  turn left off the train and went the wrong way along what looked like a new road which we hadn't seen before.   I think it must be part of the big new investment for freight traffic  - I wrote about this a few weeks ago.  Do pay attention at the back!

We drove through extra security gates manned by Eurotunnel bods, and past cop vans and gendarmes,  obviously on the qui vive for people trying to break into the premises.   But there were no delays...  Straight through and onto the A16 autoroute south, albeit from a different direction than usual. 

The return journey was a bit more wearing.  We had a delay of about an hour and a half.  No obvious reason for it.  But I had a nice chat with a man from Tunbridge Wells who was just back from a week in Burgundy, and then a fellow from a radio station in the Netherlands came over to do a vox pop about migrants.  So the time passed quickly! 

I told the Dutchman the story of Dick Whittington, and how 600 years ago he came to London because he had heard that the streets were paved with gold.   Interesting how people who haven't been to London still seem to believe it!