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| Manchester (Salford) UK to Dieppe, France |
It was with great anticipation and fanfare departing Manchester this morning ahead of schedule. Maybe it was the 9% alcohol by volume local craft beer that I was drinking last night combined with the horrible nights of sleep over the last fortnight, but in general, my body is buggered. By this point in the day, I had taken six Sudafed tablets with the hope of controlling the malaise which includes a very runny nose, sneezing and watery eyes. I am hopeful that after a much anticipated proper night of sleep will shake the disease.
The drive from Manchester to Newhaven (271mi/436km) took around six hours - an hour wasted because of roadworks on the M6 and congestion. A single break involved a brief stop at a roadside service station to purchase a tank of diesel and two bottles of Dr Pepper. The attendant asked us if we were doing anything interesting today with little real interest. I responded by saying, "going to France" with a smile. She asked if that is where I am from. Come on! I have a dodgy hybrid accent but I have never been accused of being French. "L'horreur!" I shouted and she didn't get it.
Traffic on the London Orbital near Heathrow was predictably awful. There was congestion heading in every direction, including towards the sea which is where we were going. Just when I thought that the interior of the motorcar might be getting too cold, the air conditioning stuttered and the joyous cold air quickly morphed into a hellish draft direct from a fissure from hell. I paid to have the system recharged and hygienically cleaned after I purchased the vehicle a month ago. Frustrated and dumbfounded, the windows had to be retracted as we rolled into Newhaven with a few hours to spare before the car ferry was scheduled to leave.
With my eyes watering and violently sneezing, I ordered a chicken sandwich from The Ark in the working harbour at Newhaven, desperate for some sort of sustenance. My dinner last night consisted of two huge scotch eggs which looked like inflamed testicles and the aforementioned craft beer. I was in probably the only bar in Manchester that had air conditioning running blissfully on full blast. I ingested more Sudafed, blew my nose and forced the chicken burger down my throat. It was awful. The bloke behind the counter offered his opinion as I ordered and claimed it is really good so I knew I would be disappointed. Two chicken burgers and two diet cokes came to more than I could simply tap and go on the EFT machine as the bill was more than £30. Shocking. I had to suffer the indignity of pressing the numbers on the machine as beads of sweat rolled down my back.
With time on our side, we drove along the coast to Brighton. The unwashed masses were sunning their collective pale skin on the rocky foreshore. Revellers sipped from pint glasses as they looked out to the sea somehow as a phalanx of cars, mine included, crawled down the road with the alacrity of a newborn escaping the womb for the first time. Scaffolding had been erected around the Grand Hotel and it is undergoing a facelift. The last time this probably happened was when the IRA blew it up thinking that they would take out Margaret Thatcher.
Back in Newhaven, the check-in procedure for the ferry was painless. We drove to the gate, presented our passports and since I had pre-purchased tickets and associated our journey with the registration number of my disabled motorcar, passing into the waiting zone was easy. Fortunately, we were directed to the first lane which was shrouded in blissful shade.
After ditching the vehicle where we were told to leave it, we were directed to the restaurant and bar area of the vessel. A band was setting up. Televisions were broadcasting the jubilation of the very recent France victory over Argentina (4-3) in their World Cup match. I took another two tablets of Sudafed, kept my sunglasses on and tried not to move as the ferry roared to life and disembarked from the port. The cover band belted out classics that made the majority of people seated on the deck, level 7, flee to the back of level 6 just to get away from the noise.
The four-hour journey over the English Channel felt like it went by quickly. Very limited WiFi is available on the boat which made WhatsApp useable but not much else. Still hungry after my poor late lunch, I rolled the dice and ordered spaghetti bolognese from the "restaurant" which could easily be confused with the canteen from high school. This time the food tasted like it came from a can and I imagined 100-gallon drums of spaghetti being stored somewhere on this ship of fools. I wandered outside to watch the blood red sun begin to set in the distance just as an announcement was made in two languages that we will be arriving in Dieppe shortly.
Ours was the third vehicle to drive off the ferry which meant we visited the EU immigration officer within a minute. Our passports were handed to him from the relative comfort of the motorcar (it was no longer warm outside and the lack of air conditioning was no longer annoying me) and we were quickly sent on our way without a question being asked. After passing two gates, I followed Google's directions to the foreshore and quickly found Hôtel Mercure Dieppe la Présidence and abandoned the motorcar in a public lot on the beach.
I had been looking forward to sleeping at this four-star hotel for weeks. Finally my chance to sleep in freezing conditions courtesy of climate control. As I was handed the room keycards, I was enthusiastically poked in the ribs and a sign in both English and French was pointed out to me. This hotel is not air conditioned it announces very matter of factly. Outraged, I flash-backed to the three different sources I consulted before making every hotel booking to verify that the hotels are in-fact air conditioned. It was 11:00 PM and being out of practice conversing in French I didn't want to try to argue or try to get a refund and go somewhere else. I got in the lift thinking it can't be too hellish. I was wrong.
