And my bark is on the sea… Letters to Rhona 21/02/2022

Dear Rhona,

My plan to begin my journey on foot in France was delayed, owing to the machinations of bureaucracy. The whole episode cost me a few bobs, for example, I had to travel up to London to apply in person; that’s fifty quid. Not to mention that at Clapham junction I got on the wrong train for Wandsworth Town and ended up in Richmond. Thinking I would be late for my appointment, I hopped into a taxi, only to discover when I arrived at the visa centre that there was little need to be in a rush, since it was a ticket and wait for system.

The affable young woman who handled my papers then caused me much consternation. The visa was all good, but I had neglected to bring some documents. She printed out a sheet and handed it over. It had a barcode and a time, 14:30, it was 14:05. I had twenty-five minutes to produce the missing document. I was forbidden to use their printers, owing to some policy. But the lady said there was a post office around the corner. The clinching thing was that I had to have my biometric data taken and have a new passport photo before I could go to the post office. The lady also realised my plight. She interceded on my behalf and had me placed in front of all the others. I was a bit manic and with then only twelve minutes to go, I ran to the post office. When I arrived, I pushed in front of the queue and told the man at the printer that I needed my documents as soon as possible. I tapped the counter, then tossed some money down, grabbed my papers and ran. I made it, with a few minutes to spare.

This is but an example of the stress and pressure that characterises the build-up to a journey like mine. Rhona, I am currently on my way. The ship, Galicia, is pitching and rolling as it is making its way across the English Channel, or La Manche as the French call it. The high winds meant that the departure of the voyage was delayed until morning. I don’t know if the winds have died down that much, but at least we passengers can see outside of the windows.

I don’t know how I should feel. Yesterday, I was feeling anxious which could hardly be alleviated by the many tasks I had to complete, but I kept a calm composure. All the preparation I had done was then falling into place. My restored rucksack was ready, even though I had to make some last-minute adjustments and fastenings. I was worried, and I still am, as to the strength and durability of my restoration of it, but alas, only time will tell.

There is no sense of deja-vu. Yes, six years ago I made the exact same crossing to begin a peripatetic journey across France. But this time I am older and have a very different idea of how I intend to characterise the walk. The weather is different too, six years ago the sea was glacially flat, today I am suffering four-plus hours of seasickness, from the point of St Helens to the breakwaters of Cherbourg. We are just coming into port as I write this. Ha, I couldn’t do anything in those last hours. Not the worst seasickness I have felt, but I very much prefer the exposure of a sailing yacht than a slowly lumbering from side to side, mastodon of a ship.

It’s going to be half three, French time, by the time I am out of the terminal, so I have decided that I am not going to walk out of the city to find camp. I barely slept the night before, and the seasickness and the anxiety of yesterday have taken their toll already, I’m mentally exhausted. Plus, importantly, I only have a few hours of daylight left, which gives me quite a little window to find and make camp. Anyhow, it was my original idea to stay in Cherbourg for at least one night, so that I might use the occasion to wander about, see the place and maybe get some food.

From my view on Galicia, it looks pretty windy, wet and miserable out there. I am not perturbed by it at all. I have prepared myself for such inclement weather. The seagulls are gliding on the torn currents of wind that the ship is creating from its sudden appearance. Galicia has turned around 180 degrees and is coming in by its aft, I can just see the concrete quay moving beside me, the same quay I watched approach six years ago, with its large tires acting as fenders bobbing in the water – no fishermen here today, however. 

Read the rest of this blog at my Substack: https://dominicdebonhomie.substack.com/