The plan for the day was to pick up the hire car, come home book the tunnel, then drive to tunnel, cross to France and finally drive the hour up the E45 to Oostene. Simple. But something told me that it wasn't going to be that simple, travel across the Channel rarely ever is.
As it was such a glorious morning, I thought it would be nice to walk into town along the cliffs once again taking in the views over to France and getting some phys too.
After coffee, Jools dropped me and my camera along Reach Road so I could cut through the estate then across the fields to the South Foreland Light, and then by the path along the cliffs, and hopefully not all down to the beach below.All seemed still asleep at quarter past seven as I made my way to the overgrown path and then to the fields beyond. The combines have been busy, as the big field was strewn with bales too, so it would not be right not to stop to snap the scene as I walked to the wood. Te sun was just showing over the houses in the distance, so I hoped for some artistic flare would lighten the shots. Ahem. Chiz.
Once at the lighthouse, there is the narrow path leading to the cliffs, and then the vista opens up all the way to Dover Harbour some four miles away, and over the sea to France to boot. And this counted as work I told myself as I walked along, snapping as I went.
It was already a very warm morning, and was only going to get hotter, so the quicker I made it to the docks and the car hire place the better I suppose. There were very few other people about, a group of Gurkha running from the local barrack; they wave at me as I snap them running by.
The view from the very top of Langdon Cliff was impressive as the ground dripped away to the beach to my left, and as I looked now the cliffs dropped in height towards the harbour, then to the east the downs rose and on top was the Castle, St Mary in Castro and the Pharos. This is stunning landscape in anyone's book, and this is where we live. 
On the other side of Langdon, I take the Cliff Road, then the path leading up to the top of the steep path which plunges down to East Cliff. Yes, I was now warm enough thank you very much indeed. Down the steep path, under Jubilee Way, then at the bottom turning sharp left into the Eastern Docks and into the terminal building. And the car isn't ready, please wait.
I suppose waiting rooms in terminal buildings for buses, ferries and the like are much the same the world over; utilitarian, cold and faintly threatening. There was a black French family with three very young children waiting for a taxi after arriving on a ferry. There was no place to relax, just institutional style bench seating. There is a Costa, and so I have a coffee, charge three quid for a poor coffee and a giant Jammy Dodger, wich thrilled my inner child as it really was as big as I remembered them from childhood.
The car is ready, it was being cleaned, apparently. But when I go outside after the paperwork was completed, it is covered with dry dirty water. looking probably worse than it did before they washed it. But it is a large car, a Skoda "Superb", well, that's their opinion, and after two days with it, I will have mine. I can tell you now, it should have been called the Skoda "Average, but a bugger to park", doesn't rooll off the tongue I suppose.
Back home I book a place on the tunnel, a train leaving at midday, gave me 90 minutes to pack and get to the terminal, check in. Easy peasy.
It is great driving along the A20, instead of going towards Lympne, but taking the sharp bend into the back entrance to the tunnel complex. I check in so easy, go through British customs, then through French customs. And then I see the snake of traffic that had been directed round and through the car park all around the terminal building. This would take some time. In half an hour, I had made it to the terminal, and I had to get out to visit the AA shop to buy a set of light adaptors for the car, seeing as supplying me with a left hand drive car is beyond the wit of Budget Rentals.
I rejoin the queue, and we inch our war closer to the trains, but my planned departure time came and went. At least there was the radio to listen to. At two we made it to a train, the internal doors were closed and we waited. And waited. And waited.
There was an announcement.
The train had broken down, but technicians were on their way.
We waited some more.
The train could not be fixed, we would have to board another one. The doors opened.
And we waited.
And then there was another announcement.
The train had been fixed, and so once the train had been secured, we could leave.
And finally, we were on our way, heading under the downs and the sea to France.Thing is about traveling on the tunnel, is that once you reach the other side, the doors open and you drive off, and once up on the roadway, it leads straight to the motorway; no customs nor immigaration to get through either. British radio had faded, so I opened all the windows, and with the wind in my hair as I cruised along at 120kmh, I just relaxed as I drive north into Belgium.
The landscape is pretty featureless, towns and villages dot the vista, there are pylons, canals and lots of farms and fields. We enter Belgium, nothing really changes, but heading north, the sun begins to sink, and the traffic thins out some.
It takes just an hour to drive to Ostend, and I had not been there since the summer of 1973 when we had a family holiday based there. Apart from that there was a beach, I can't remember much about it. Moden Ostend is approached down what looks like an American style strill mall, all fast food places and stores, but it is OK, traffic moves well.
The road leads into what must be the ring road, the sat nav directs me into the town centre, right to near the Kursaal: the hotel has no parking, so I have use the one underneath the casino. The lug by bags up the steps to street level and back to the hotel. I'm not sure what modern hotels have against fresh air; the windows are sealed, so on such a warm early evening, I have to put the air conditioning on, as it switches off when the room is empty. So, every tme I return it is like an oven, or a stuffy one anyway.
After checking work mails, I take my camera for a walk.Behind the Kuraal was the promenade and beach. Like most towns on the continent, it seems that Ostend decided to beautify itself after the war; build a wide promenade, build pretty buildings, in general make it a nice place for people to come and enjoy themselves. Its Britain that thinks what would look nice next to a beach is a block of flats.
And it is packed with people, families just coming off the beach, couples making their way to a bar sent up in the ground floors of the fine buildings. I snap away. At the northern end there is some modern air, metal boxes painted red to look like some kind of modern Stonehenge. Not sure if I'd like to see it every day, but against the clear blue sky it looked fine to me.
I walk back into the town to look for dinner; so many places to choose from, but I think the ones along the promenade would be expensive, so try to find something cheaper and quieter. On the main square i find a place that has dozens of free tables, but is named after a good brand of beer; so I go in, order a Leffe Royale and a plate of grilled scampi with fries and mayo. Whilst I am waiting for dinner, I get a call from a colleague to say he has arrived in Ostend and once I told him where I was, he came to join me for dinner. And beer.
The food is good, as so is the walk back through the town afterwards; obviously not British, a line of bars and restaurants, with people sitting outside, smoking and drinking, and no hint of trouble. People of all generations are mixing, and all seem happy to do so.
We find a bar and treat ourselves to more Belgian beers; La Chouffe this time, and very flavoursome it was too. We have a table looking out onto the street, so we can look at the parade of people passing by. One more for the road? OK then. So it is half eleven by the time we roll back to the hotel, it is now dark and humid as heck. I soon fall asleep on the bed with the radio playing.
Situation normal.
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