We have crossed the channel alive and mostly well.
Last night I slept no better than the night before, my mind still alive with all the worries and stress that had plagued my previous sleep. But my wakefulness presented me with the unique opportunity to listen as a young woman walked home sobbing, after ending her relationship with a young man, or to listen to the Chinese family across from us fight for the better part of the night. But when I finally managed to fall asleep I didn’t have to worry about over-sleeping and missing the ferry, because construction started across the street bright and early. Even with the noise of trucks and cranes and men hammering bricks into place it was a much better way of waking than the morning before so we both greeted the day, if not with smiles then at least tiny grins. Never before had packing up seemed so effortless and it probably never will again.
We left the campground for the ferry terminal, this time armed with a map showing us the way. Fat lot of good it did us as we biked far past the turnoff to the terminal. And Heathers bike wasn’t through with us yet. Before too long heather realized the load on her back pannier rack was unbalanced and well it should have been, one of her bungee cords had disappeared without a trace and it was impossible to stabilize her things without it. So we were force to backtrack. searching for a hardware store. Along the way Heather stopped into a newsagents to see if they had the companion book that complimented my map. Even though they didn’t they spent the next twenty minutes trying to convince Heather that she was going the wrong way. Repeated repetition of the phrase “I know” had little effect. Finally we got out of there and found a hardware store and made it to the ferry terminal with only two hours to spare.
Our ship, the Pride of Hampshire, was not really all that large but Heather was very impressed.
The trip out of the harbour was filled with exciting vistas. North of us, gray and squat, was Portchester castle, looking ready to defend even in an age its designers could not fathom. The harbour was filled with military vessels; mostly troop ships and tenders but the occasional fighting ship tucked away in a hidden place.
As we left we encountered Portsmouth’s high speed ferry, an enormous catamaran with a swept hull that looks over the water with the aquiline beak of a bird of prey.
Heather, back in Calgary, had continually confused a catamaran boat and a tandem bicycle, calling a tandem a “Tadamaran.” At first I could not help but make fun of her for the slip and I began to call out pair of bikes a tadamaran. But the joke was soon on me because the logic of the word dawned on me. Traveling the way we were was in fact a tadamaran, two bikes like a tandem, not quite enough to be called a caravan, but our bikes were separate, like twin hulls that support a similar load going the same direction, but forging their own paths through the water. Tadameran described our journey perfectly and became our banner. The harbour was filled with catamarans so I spent a large portion of the journey out sticking my elbow into Heather. I don’t think she was amused.
We passed the historic dockyards and saw, it’s rigging standing out like a spiders web, the HMS Victory in it’s dry dock.
Even from the water it was a most impressive sight, yellow and black hull curving graciously to a smooth deck, bow rising proudly, jutting forward like a spike, It’s stern castle ornate and elaborate, like a hotel rising from the water. It made the ferry we were on seem an ungainly collection of parts and the modern warships that littered the harbour monstrosities of the sea.
Finally we passed Portsmouth itself. The portion of the city on the waterfront was small from our vantage point and it looked like the perfect model makers image of what a harbourfront should be. A curving warren of streets and towering buildings looking out on the water, each carve by wind and spray and facing it’s stone proudly out to sea as if in defiance of the elements. The perfect touch was what I can only assume was the harbour masters house. A small house on the harbours only stretch of green lawn with a child’s playhouse and car in miniature beside it.
The trip to sea was long, the ferry moving slowly past Henry VIII’s coastal forts and anchored tankers. Heather at last got to see another shore of the Isle of Wight as we slowly circled around it. But once we left the sight of land we abandoned the decks and went inside. I came to the realization that I love the ocean but not the open ocean. Instead I love where land meets sea, the coastal waters were you can see thousands of years of eternal conflict. Where ships can meet castles and waves can meet the land. Open ocean, at least the calm blue ocean that we crossed, is too much like the flatlands of Alberta, beautiful in their way, with open sky and racing clouds, but too flat for me.
The crossing past mostly uneventfully but as we neared Cherbourg and went excitedly to the deck to watch it approach, Heather’s unique charm played its magic once more and an old gentleman approached us and proceeded to share his life story. He also produced a camping guide that seemed to have little in common with my own. I was very nervous about finding a place for the night after previous experiences and I had been worrying about where to stay in France with almost painful intensity.
The ferry docked, we hurried to our bikes and suddenly we were on French soil. We meandered aimlessly trying to find a map for campers but we came up empty handed. Finally I decided we would go to where I had originally intended. A short ride later we found our campsite. No trumpets blared, no fanfare announced our arrival but my relief was the same as if they had.
Heather was unwilling to try out her novice French, even after buying a phrase book, so I went in to ask for a place. Heather stared at me like I was an alien as I got a pitch. I think that even after all those years of me claiming I spoke French, Heather didn’t really believe me! After all where has we the opportunity to speak French at home? And she has seen my miserable failure at Japanese and at Latin. Unfortunately she now thinks I speak french like a native speaker and hardly hears my protests that what I speak is little better than the communication of a five-year-old child. Somehow I have been handed the communication tasks as well.
Our final adventure was the toilets. We opened them fearfully and there it was, the dreaded French pit toilet. You cannot imagine our relief on opening the other doors to find them relatively normal. Still, With finding our spot and speaking the language I ended the day Tookish indeed.
Next Entry: Day 50. Cherbourg
Previous Entry: Day 48. Portsmouth
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