I am here, again, to smooth things out after my e mail last week, only to find those I want to see are all away. And so I find myself in an office here in gloomy Dunkerque, doing the same job I do in Ramsgate. It all seems a bit mad, but I am getting to speak to people face to face and listen to their problems and hear their side of the story and why the system, in their view, does not work.
I don’t know enough to decide who is to blame, even if there is someone to blame, but the system is certainly not working here, which is something that should not have been allowed to continue. But it has, and we are here to pick up the pieces and make order from chaos.
As is usual on a British bank holiday, the weather was pretty bad, with just Sunday good enough for going out photographing stuff; castles, trains and flowers, etc.
Friday night we went down onto the cliffs to watch the full moon rise; it was chilly, but the lights of Calais shone over the Channel, and ferries zipped across. We sat down and waited for moonrise, and as soon as the dark red ball rose, it went behind the clouds and so no good pictures to be taken. So it goes, so it goes.
We went back home, and I had a whisky to warm my blood and then we called it a night.
Saturday dawned grey and drizzly; we went into town for breakfast and then I went to have my mop of hair tamed, which involves sitting listening to the barbers cracking wisecracks and giving their view on the world. It passes a morning, and I look half presentable.
The forecasted rain did show up in the afternoon, and I settled down to watch the penultimate game of the season; another play-off. I should have cared more than I did, but I found myself nodding off.
Sunday was a much different affair, and we decided to head to the north and west of the county, to visit yet another castle and gardens. Scotney Castle is in fact two castles, a broken down ruin set in a moat, and a Victorian house overlooking it. With many rhododendrons and other spring plants in flower in the large gardens.
We arrived an hour after opening, and already it was filing up with tourists and the curious. The old castle was very picturesque indeed, all tumbledown walls and ivy covered towers; I snapped away. The spring flowers were reflected in the moat, ducks and lilies broke up the reflections; it was very pleasant I have to say.
We went round the new house, it was full of grand paintings and fine clothes, with the mundane mixed in to show it was until recently a home. An old TV, a small domestic stove beside an ancient Aga copies of “Your Cat” magazine mixing it with the first editions in the library.
It was lunchtime, and instead of eating in the expensive National Trust restaurant, we headed out into Tunbridge Wells to find something cheaper and more filling. And to find the Spa Valley Railway, as I knew there were smoke breathing locomotives to be seen there.
Opposite the station, in the old station building in fact, was an American West themed restaurant which had fine smells coming from it. We checked the times of the trains and found we had nearly two hours and so a nice leisurely meal lay ahead. In a surprise move, they only sold been in half pints or two pints, and so I had two halves, which make very nearly a pint, and Jools ordered BBQ ribs and me a ranch burger. With curly fries. And onion rings. Lots of onion rigs.
And then out into the steamy world of preserved railways, me snapping away at rusting hulks of locos of years gone by. Until our little train came in, and we climbed into the not-so-old carriage and into the wonderfully soft seats. And in due course we puffed away and chugged through the glorious spring fields of the Kentish countryside. The line ended at a neat little station in a cutting, and we waiting while the little engine ran round to the other end of the train so to do the reverse trip.
The middle three carriages had a wedding party going on, with the reception carrying on at a line side hotel, served by the line at a small halt. And at the halt guests got on and off, with just the bride and a few friends left on the train, until the journey back when they could get off. Or not.
We got off at the end of the line and headed back east; stopping off at a village on one of the highest points of the county, with the church at the highest point of the town. And the tower was open. The view from Goudhurst church was magnificent, as the spring sunshine cast green shapes over the high land of the Kentish Weald; scattered around were oasthouses, churches and many farms; all in all a glorious English scene. Another glorious scene was inside the bar of the pub, where we had a fortifying drink before heading back in the car and home.
Monday was all damp and grey again, and so we did go for a walk along the cliffs to spot some spring orchids and other spring beauties, before giving up as the drizzle turned to rain, and so we headed home to watch the rain fall through the windows whilst we did our hobbies; beading for Jools and photography, for me.
And so, here I am back in France. I left Tuesday morning, after picking up the hire car from town and then coming home and battling that unmoveable beast, the Eurotunnel website. It crashes more time than a ZX81! In the end I went old schoola nd called them, as I wanted to catch a train within an hour. Eurotunnel don;t seem to care about the website, or the person I spoke to, as it keeps them in a job I guess.
After planning on arriving early and heading to the terminal to buy lunch, I took the wrong turn and headed to an earlier train. Oh well, it means being at work half an hour earlier!
And soon we were moving off, under the sea to France. And it really is that simple, very functional and undramatic; in 35 minutes we were in Calais and the doors opened and we drove off onto the motorway and me off to work. I know the way now, and just relaxed, listened to the radio as I drove.
Once in Dunkerque, I stopped of at McDonalds to grab lunch before putting in an afternoons work. It was fairly undramatic, I managed to make myself understood and came out with pretty much what I ordered, Royal with Cheese! Jules from Pulp Fiction would have been proud!
And on to work, answer mails, and make enquiries, although, as I said, most of the people I had hoped to meet were not here. And repeat until five, or thereabouts, and head off to the hotel and relax some more.
And the shock of not having a room in the attic as before, but a suite with a balcony, although it was raining, but all very nice, and a double bed and a bigish TV, but no coffee making stuff. Can't have everything. And I can't make the internet connection work, but maybe that's for the best, as it means i do really old school things, like read.
At half eight I head off to the little place up the road for dinner. I look at the menu and choose what I think should have been pepper steak with muchrooms and cheese, I am pretty sure that's what I ask for, but the owner decides what I should have, and cooks skewered beef, salad and fries; it was very nice even though it wasn't what I asked for, and some of the beef was nearly bleu, but yummy nonetheless.
And back to the hotel room after just two beers for more reading and quality sleep.
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