Friday 22nd January 2016

Thursday

Or the one in which I go by train under the sea, drive through one country to get to another, have a meeting then drive back before returning on the train under the sea.

When you think about it, that there are two railway tracks that can take you from anywhere in Britain to anywhere in Europe and/or Asia that run under the sea between Folkestone and Calais is a remarkable thing. It has been open for 22 years now, taking people, and in some cases with their cars, under the sea to another country, where they drive on the other side of the road, speak a different language and generally are different. It is now such a unremarkable thing, that we, or I, take it for granted. But isn't it amazing? That in an houe from leaving Chez Jelltex I could be setting in a street cafe in France, sipping decent coffee, smoking a Gitanes and shrugging.

A lot.

So, the task for Thursday was to take the hire car to the Channel Tunnel terminal, board a train, then drive through France into Belgium to Leuven, have a business meeting and drive back. I was going to try this as an alternative to catching a plane, as this meant leaving from Heathrow, then getting back once I return, which with the late finish to the meeting making it likely that I could not get back home the same day, and maybe having to take nearly two full days to make, whereas I could drive there from home in 3 hours. And get back the same day, return home and sleep in my own bed and that and that.

So, even if it was going to be easier than flying, at least not requiring an overnight stay in London because of an early flight, the driving would be hard for sure. Anyway, as dawn crept over the horizon in the east, I loaded the car, checked my documents, sat nav and all the other stuff I needed. Climed into the Vauxhall Insignia and drove off towards Folkestone, avoiding Jubilee Way just in case there were queuing lorries blocking the road.

Near the castle, I pull over at the parking space near the Duke of Yorks to snap the scene to record the dawn. It looked spectacular for sure, but I have many, many miles to go.

Normally, the drive to the terminal is straightforward, along to Folkestone, take the A20 to the back entrance rather than take the motorway. Only I found the back entrance closed, which meant driving up to Hythe then doubling back down, and I had already seen the queues of trucks on the hard shoulder of the motorway, this did not bode well. As I approached the exit for the tunnel, lorries were blocking both lanes into the terminal, the line of cars were forced to stop by a lorry stuck in the wrong lane, but it turned out to be the first of many who were using the car lane in order to jump the line for trucks. We ended up driving into some roadworks to get round the last of the trucks, thus enabling us finally get to the barriers and get our boarding passes.

Despite being held up for 20 minutes or so, I was able to get the train I was booked on, and so after draining me spuds, I got some headlight adapters for the car, and drive over to the waiting line to board the train.

Once the traffic light went green, we drove in line down the long ramp onto the platform, then through the wide door at the end of the train, and then up along the train until we filled up each carriage. As I think I have said before, the tunnel is efficient, but not romantic; after the safety announcement and the fire doors closed, the train pulled out of the station, and the glorious pink dawn vanished as we entered the tunnel.

After half an hour we emerged in France in full daylight, the train rattled round to the terminal, stopped. A couple of minutes later, the doors opened and we drove off it, up the ramp, round a corner and onto the motorway. As simple as that. Bonjour La belle France!

Two junctions up the motorway, I pull of to step at the wine warehouse; they have a good deal on a few labels, but I choose the cheapest, £2 a bottle if you bought six boxes. 36 bottles; yes, that would do.

I loaded the car, programmed the sat nav, and off we went, I went, up along to Dunkirk and into Belgium. And it was all very pleasant; the road was quiet, the weather glorious, and just over two hours to go. Across Flanders, past pretty small villages with almost Kentish church spires piercing the sky, Fertile farmland on both sides all very, well, un-British I suppose. As was the lack of litter really.

All was going well, through Gent, wich the sat pronounced as in gentleman, which made me smile each time it said it. I could see the outline of the cathedral in Brussels, which meant that traffic would soon get very heavy indeed. And as soon as I turned onto the ring road, we ran into a jam, it cleared, only for another one to form at the next junction, and so on for 11 miles.

Into Leuven now, through residential areas, the sat nave seemed to know what it was doing. I arrived at a quayside, only to find the road ahead now closed off: and all other roads away seemed to be one way, the wrong way, or brought me back to the starting point. This was just crazy. Taht I could see the offices on the other side of the water was even more frustrating. I ignored the sat nav and the signs, turning up a one way street, performing a forbidden left turn, and then I found a road that took me to the right part of town, up a narrow street to where I knew there was an underground car park.

I had 90 minutes before the start of the meeting, so, I had a camera with me. Should I go for a walk round the city centre? I think I should. A short walk along the main shopping street brought me to the main town square, dominated by the cathedral and glorious town hall. Surrounding both is a wonderful typical Benelux town houses, each housing a welcoming looking bar or restaurants. But I am already worrying that I might have misread the start time of the meeting, so I retrace my steps to the office. Turns out harder to get into than Fort Knox, but once inside, the rest of my colleagues are there.

Showtime.

Once done, it is half four, and I am thinking about the return trip, through all that rush hour traffic, and all of it going round the Brussels ring road. Out of the car park, taking the same road out of the town and onto the first of nearly a dozen motorways between there and the coast. And as I thought, heading due west into the rays of the setting sun. It does look wonderful, and I did think maybe I should have stayed for more photography malarkey.

And turning onto the ring road, the queue starts, so we crawl at less than walking pace for nearly ten miles. I suppose it wasn't that bad after all, really, and once on the road back to Gent traffic thinned out, and I made good time, cruising at the speed limit until I crossed back into France. I had watched the sky go from a glorious red and orange to slowly darken to reds and purple before light faded to black and the stars came out.

There were no queues at the tunnel, I got my boarding pass, had my passport checked, and had just enough time to drain me spuds again before boarding the ten past eight train back to Blighty. I did look round the shop, there were some nice stuff, but really, did I need anything, really? Anyway, I had 36 bottles of wine in the car already.

Onto the train, the doors close and once again after the safety announcement we glide off, into the tunnel and under the sea.

Off the train, taking the quieter road from the terminal to Folkestone then up the A20 back to Dover. Phew. With the time difference, I was back home by twenty past eight, Jools had a huge brew waiting, and I had half a cold pizza for dinner waiting too. I round off dinner with a slice from the last Christmas cake, somehow the whole day, 16 hours was gone, time for a shower and then bed. Oh my, but tomorrow is Friday, then the weekend. Good job too.