words by Williams

Monday June 19

Cal’s booked tickets for 10.30am at Monet’s Garden at Giverny, so we’re making an early start. Giverny’s only half an hour down the road, but Maisie’s half hours tend to be flexible.

I’ve learned something about Maisie too. Her ‘best’ roads usually equate to the ones she thinks will get us there fastest. As previously stated, she has no idea of who or what Betsy is, so we are, to coin a phrase, stuffed.

As we’re packing up I hear the same angry cackling that kept us awake a couple of nights ago. Then I see the culprit - a magpie. Of course it’s a bloody magpie, so no wonder what havoc it was creating among the ducks and no wonder they were so agitated.

It occurs to me my surprise comes from this being the first magpie I can remember seeing in France. They’re all over the bloody place in the UK and Cal’s dad, George, hates them as thieves, robbers and the murderers of other birds’ fledglings.

I catch Maisie in another sneaky rat-run attempt, but otherwise the journey to Giverny goes smoothly apart from the inevitable speed humps that seem part of every French village. Parking’s easy and it’s a 10 minute walk to the entrance.

Of course, we head straight for the water garden - the one with the Japanese bridge Monet made famous.

Luckily for him there were no bloody tourists spoiling the view at the time, or maybe he just couldn’t see them with his fuzzy eyes.

There are people nose to tail around the perimeter of Monet’s lily pond. Considering it’s so packed people are remarkably calm and polite. 

Everybody is looking at the scene through the lens of their phones or cameras or taking selfies, or getting someone else to take pictures of them.

People stand on the bridge to have their picture taken, but no-one seems to hog the space or block others who want to join in.

We ask a young British guy to take our picture. He’s sat with what I presume is his mum and dad. We thank him. I’m quite surprised when having joked to them that the garden looks “a bit like the Dingle in Shrewsbury, only flatter”, she replies “it does, doesn’t it.”

Normally that would have been the cue for a different conversation, but for now we’re being swept along by the river of people around the lake.

As with Villandry, we’re sure George would love the gardens. The non-pond garden is like George’s only flatter. It’s rammed with hundreds of different flowers and plants in a kind of ordered chaos. Exiting through the gift shop, we buy more seeds so that George can add to the floral abundance of his own jumbled pride and joy.

We can’t decide whether to stop for something to eat, either in Giverny or on the way, or head straight for Dieppe. There’s an aire just a few hundred metres from the ferry port but apparently close enough to walk into town.

There’s another one the other side of the harbour which is further away from the ferry, but much closer to town.

Bet now…

As happens with us, we'll end up in ‘get there’ mode.

We’re avoiding motorways and toll roads and the journey’s about two hours. Again I’m astonished by the long straight roads with the odd kink in them and soon we’re on the outskirts of Dieppe.

Cal’s fretting that we’ve not bought enough French wine home, so we stop at Lidl to make up the deficit.

The girl on the till nods and laughs when we explain we’re heading for a ferry tomorrow.

In fact, the ferry isn’t until midday tomorrow and we’ve arrived at around 4pm.

We go for the close-to-the-port-long-walk option on the aire. In the distance we can see parasols, which must mean bars and food.

We’ve not actually eaten today, so Cal’s moules and my burger are basically breakfast. I get really daunted by big burgers and find mine hard to finish, while Cal’s demolishing hers and muttering about me leaving food.

This being a port, there are gulls. One has been eyeing my burger and chips greedily with beady little yellow eyes. The family next door have finished their meals, paid and left, but the food’s not yet been cleared. Having no luck our end, the gull is up on the family table launching into what’s left to scavenge.

Say this about gulls, they’re really good sorters and pickers, but they’re rubbish at tidying up after themselves.

Soon we’re into a gull v waitress standoff, with her waving an empty wine bottle in its general direction. It moves away. She moves away. It comes back, messier than before.

Eventually she’s left to clear up. There are mussel shells and chips on the table and mussel shells on the floor. The gull’s been having a party and no-one else was invited.

Tuesday June 20

I’m up ridiculously early. Like pre-6am. I’m not conscious of being nervous about travelling home, but clearly I am deep down. It’s daft - and it makes no sense.

It means that until the ferry sails at midday, I’ve nothing to do and nowhere to go. That means I’m going to get bored. Which means I’m going to annoy Cal at some point.

Her coping mechanism is to pretend to be asleep while I rattle about at the front of the bus. This is a trickiness in itself, because as you move, Betsy moves too, and it’s more noticeable when you’re lying down. Cal must think she’s getting pre-voyage motion sickness.

Today is going to be a strange one. We can’t decide whether to head for home in one hop, maybe split by a leg-stretch in the middle, or look for somewhere to pitch up for the night, at a campsite or a Britstop to break the journey so we get back on Wednesday.

Maybe I’m just travel-weary, or maybe I’ve suddenly started to dither over choices, but I can’t make a decision right now. Cal is leaning towards a sprint for home, which means taking on the M25 at around rush hour. Deep joy.

Come the time, we’re at the ferry port a few hundred metres away in no time, through passport control and into lane four in minutes.

Being on an aire-sans-sanitaires has played havoc with my morning ablutions. I take the opportunity to use the loo.

When I get back, Cal tells me we’ve been boarded by security, who check our loo and ask her to open up the garage, too.

Cal has created a story for this. They’ve seen me going to the port loo (not Portaloo you understand) and wondered ‘if he’s got to go there, who’s hiding in their loo?’ Seeing that no-one’s hiding in the loo or secreted in the garage, they were apparently satisfied in about two minutes flat.

We’re waiting to board for about an hour-and-a-half, but there are noticeably fewer of everything in the lines compared with our Newhaven-Dieppe trip. I reckon there are fewer than 10 caravans and around 25 motorhomes waiting, a handful of big trucks, but quite a few bikers and cyclists.

We’re boarded, secure and up in the restaurant half an hour before sailing time.

Clearly, there are people who know how to ‘do’ ferries. They’re the ones who baggsie the seats next to the power sockets in the lounges, and the ones who put their jackets on the seats of the tables by the window before they order food in the restaurant.

I think I must be the world’s most naive traveller. These are life lessons for me.

For the record, my fish was dry and my chips soggy. I couldn’t work out whether the lady serving was suggesting they were fresh, or French. Either way, they resembled neither.

Cal has a chicken salad. And, as she does everywhere, she finishes what I leave, mainly out of embarrassment I think.

The Channel is nearly as glassy as Monet’s lily pond. This is four hours of watching stuff go by.

There’s a lady by the window who looks a bit like the editor of my short stories. I find myself strangely agitated thinking it might be her, yet being too shy to ask. I’ll send her one of those ‘hey were you on a ferry from Dieppe to Newhaven?’ emails as you do from time to time.

Once docked, we’re off the ferry and on the road in 20 minutes. Cal’s having banter with the guy in passport control. Her hair these days is slightly less brunette than it is in her passport photo, but he’s charming about it.

We decide to run for home and before we reach the M25 Cal is on the phone to her hairdressers booking an appointment for tomorrow. She’s already ordered a Morrison’s delivery. We were going to have to be home by 3.30pm on Wednesday whatever.

As a national transport artery, the M25 is also a national disgrace. We’ve just spent six weeks on French roads which, granted you may often have to pay for, but which make driving more efficient, more pleasant and I’m sure, much safer.

It takes us two hours to get from Newhaven to the M40. There’s a knack to driving on the M25 and it favours nutters and chancers. Being back on English roads is an unpleasant reminder of what a small, shabby place we’ve become. But at least we’ve taken back control of our potholes.

We stop at Oxford services. Behind Gloucester, it’s my favourite motorway stop. Nothing like gloopy sweet and sour chicken to remind you you’re home.

The light’s fading as we finally head through the gate on Ostrich Island shortly before 9pm. It’s been a long day.

The last few miles have been interesting. We’re listening to Radio Five Live commentators filling around the torrential conditions in Glasgow for Scotland’s Euro football qualifier, but there’s obviously been heavy rain close to home, too.

There are pools across the road in two or three places. Betsy gets a clout from a sodden tree 500 yards from our driveway. Welcome home.