It’s our last day here. It’s been fab. Loving northern France. And tomorrow we drive back to Calais, then hop on the train and whizz back from Folkstone. Ever tried ‘whizzing’ through the Blackwall Tunnel? It’s pretty much ‘whizz proof’. But you can’t come back through Dartford because for some reason the traffic is simply horrendous for miles and miles coming up from the south. Whereas from the north it’s seamless and non-stop onto the bridge. Don’t get it. But there is much I don’t know.

We could just leave the car here and get a boat across. Because the small boats are now coming from Normandy and landing on the Hampshire coast. Well that would do me. I reckon I’d be processed by the immigration team by about February next year and home by March. But no, Calais it is.

Today’s trip took us to the outstandingly gorgeous little town of Honfleur. Another little port, this one at the mouth of the Seine and eye-wateringly cute and fabulous. They all are. The French do ‘towns’ very well, it has to be admitted. So that’s ‘towns’ and ‘cakes’. And not much else. Oh, roads are pretty good, even though it costs you money for the really good ones. And they are all obsessed with the speed limit here. If it says ‘50!’, you got at 50. And I do. Well, no-one told me it was kilo-meeeters, did they? So we have a little chart which Mel holds, a conversion table. From kph to mph, just so she tell me off for going too fast in 2 languages. The motorway top speed is 81 (130kph), which is fab, but it drops to 110kph when it’s raining. The signs tell you. But they’re fixed signs, not digital. So how do you define ‘rain’? As opposed to ‘drizzle’? Can you do 120 if it’s light rain? We’ll see. Rain is forecast for tomorrow.

So we did Honfleur and came back to Deauville to go back to the beach. Which, anywhere else would be described as ‘a desert leading up to the sea’. As this photo almost shows, the beach is just fucking massive. From the boardwalk to the sea is a 15 minute walk. Honest. No exaj. Wonderful soft, golden sands and, unlike yesterday when half of France was here because of the weekend, today was almost Frenchman Free. The dream.

Because wherever there are Frenchmen, and/or French Women, there are dogs. French ones. They take them everywhere. It has become fashionable of late for cafes in England, particularly ones in parks and near recreation areas, to proclaim themselves ‘dog-friendly’. Which means little Rhombus the Cockapoodle Terrier Cross, can join you for a latte in the morning and they’ll put it in a little silver doggy bowl, specially. Whereas here in France, little Hercule, the Alsatian/Chihuahua mix, goes just everywhere. Cafes, restaurants, cinema, dentists, everywhere. There’s no question. It’s possibly the most dog-obsessed nation in the world. I think I might introduce a few more Korean restaurants over here. They need the culinary diversity.

We shall speak on the other side.

Happy Monday

A xxxx