Not that I am Christian or anything, but in a general seasonal greeting. And in typical Bank Holiday weather, it is raining. Not quite Biblical amounts, but enough to make us stay indoors, put the heating on and watch the poor birds scratching around for seeds in the hedge.
It has not been rainy all day, in fact it was quite glorious this morning. We walked from the house to the lighthouse and back over the fields, looking at spring having sprung, or seriously thinking about it. It takes about half an hour to wander down via the paths to the cliffs at the lighthouse, and the sight as we walk down the narrow path towards the cliff edge is always a thrill.
We bumped into a guy who asked me to take his picture by the cliff edge. Which I did. Twice. He was from Boulder, Colorado. Did he know Aurora I asked? My Dad lives there said he. I did not mention the whole library thing in case he voted to close them. Anyway, we all have a nice chat; he's over for a week, staying in Canterbury, and loving it. He went to Rye last night to watch the sunset, but complained it was so cold. So there you have it; the Romney Marsh, colder than Colorado.
We suggested all the places he should think of visiting, but then said something I had replied to all the folks who I spoke to on my grand trip down the west coast of the US five years back; if I saw everything this trip, I wouldn't need to come back!
We walked back over the fields, different fields, to the village and via one of the four pubs there, The Red Lion, where we read to daily papers and had a pint whilst sitting by the open fire. Did I mention how horrible it is to live here? And then back home for lunch of more French cheese and bread.
Yes, French cheese and French bread. Did I mention we live not four miles from one of the world's busiest ports, and la Belle France is two hours or less away? No?
My Father-in-Law likes to smoke, and smoking is very expensive here in jollie olde Englands. And so we can go over on a ferry to France and buy cheaper tobacco and bring it back and thus ruin our health.
Although in recent years, France is not that cheap, but if you head through Calais and drive for half an hour up the A16 autoroute just over the Belgian border, there is a village that has a dozen or so shops dedicated to tobacco, booze, chocolate and the such.
So, early this week I got a call, would I like to go over to France on a booze cruise? If nothing else it is a day out, and something to enjoy. And so yesterday morning, just an hour and ten minutes after being picked up outside my door, I was on a ferry, having cat off and heading out of Dover Harbour to France. Of course travelling on the day before Easter it was going to be crowded, but as we had a day ticket, we went to the front of the line and settled down to read whilst the hour and a half of the crossing passed.
Calais does not have the history or setting of Dover. Well, it may have the history, but it is situated on flat lands at the end of some chalk cliffs, but is pretty industrial and charmless. There are nice parts I guess, but for most of us arriving from England we see it as we whizz though on a motorway on our way somewhere else.
We drive through Pas-de-Nord Calais, across flat fields and over canals until we turned off and we driving down alongside another canal. In the not-so-distant past, this was the main road from France to Belgium, when all traffic was taken off a perfectly good four lane road, along here so we could drive past, at a snail's pace, a French customs post, and then re-join the motorway after wasting maybe an hour. The Eurozone has ended this; and should have done duty-free goods, but somehow these shops find a way to sell gaspers and snout to snoutcasts and coughers at cheap rates.
Not that I mind; we all know the risks, if you smoke, roll the dice and hope they don't come up snakes eyes, I guess.
I wander around whilst they buy a few month's supplies, I love the feel of a continental town, the shops, the houses are different. And, as usual, nearly get knocked down whilst trying to cross the road, looking in the wrong direction.
All snouted up, we get back in the car and head back to France, to the many warehouses that supply the day-tripper market with cheap beer, wine and spirits. I buy three cases of wine at the rate of £1.60 a bottle, although my Father-in-law's brother tells me that Lidl's in Dover sells pretty much the same at £1.50 a bottle. I also by some beer for me and cider for Jools and that is my lot.
We call in a supermarket before returning to the port and I buy bread, cheese and some chorizo sausage, because it is a fraction of the price back home. The cheese is available, but at four times the cost. Cheese available at those prices back home would be rubber looking bright orange cheese with no flavour. Thing is, the French wouldn't put up with that quality, or lack of it, and quite why we do is beyond me.
We are back on the ferry and back in France soon enough, and dropped off at my door before four in the afternoon and making a nice cuppa before Jools comes home. We have bread and cheese for dinner, and a glass or two of red, which seems the civilised thing to do.
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