... driving to Germany and back

Unusually for us we had a very acceptably timed departure so had the luxury of a fairly relaxed morning of packing and tidying up. Perhaps too relaxed as we subsequently realised we had forgotten to bring a rucksack and to set the house alarm. 

After lunch and a visit to the mother we were on our way, arriving at Euro tunnel with much time to spare. As we sat in the car pondering whether to have UK or French based dinner a man (with all the officialdom a high vis jacket can provide) said that if we wanted an earlier train we could go now. This sounded too good an opportunity to miss. So off we went. I dealt with a couple of emails from work while we were in the queue, with one of my team saying that we would have a great crossing in this weather. Generally speaking, bad weather doesn't make the tunnel crossing unpleasant. England was at that time in the grip of a heatwave, the likes of which had not been experienced for around 40 years. 

With dinner location now clear, we were soon on our way to France. The family in the car in front of us in the train turned on their engine as soon as we emerged into daylight on the French side. After a few minutes Husband needed to tell them to turn their engine off as we were being engulfed by fumes. They had possible wanted to be the air con going to cool down.

We quickly found the hotel in Calais where the receptionist demonstrated zen like calm as we flustered over finding the booking confirmation and clarifying where the garage was so that we could park Alfi safely.

Having checked in, we wandered into town for dinner. In Place d'Armes square there were ground level fountains and a girl on a bicycle was cycling the gauntlet run through them, as the spurts of water erupted reasonably randomly around her. 

We opted for a brasserie near the 13th century former lighthouse and watchtower Tour du Guet - and named after it (well, cafe de la tour). After our dinner of mussels and frites I had a grand marnier was coffee which consisted of an espresso and a separate shot of grand marnier. Then we went outside to see the now lit up oversized desk lamps and waterspouts in the square. 

After a quick look at the port we ambled back to the hotel.

The following morning we set off early, picking up a couple of croissants from a local bakery on the way. This was the biggest driving day, and we made good progress through the flat fields of France, peppered with wind farms and old battle grounds. Then the rain came. Initially just a few spots and then became torrential. England's scorched earth was crying out for this kind of weather. However, this was not ideal as Alfi was no longer entirely waterproof. After a while the sky ahead seemed brighter than the sky behind. 

We needed to stop for lunch and as the options on the motorway were uninspiring we pulled off to follow a country road for a few miles where we might have a greater chance of finding food, as well as getting a break from the motorway boredom through the vineyards of champagne region. The road took us through a couple of sleepy towns and we then pulled up at an isolated restaurant in the middle of nowhere, housed in a converted barn. Inside was a fabulous high ceilinged timber frame, with multiple farm implements hanging on the wall. Lunch was perhaps a bigger and more formal meal than intended and we did wonder if we should have investigated the bar next door. But the waiter seemed pleased to have the business - particularly once we tipped him. Another table of people appeared and promptly left when the waiter's back was turned. We were pleased we hadn't done that. 

The day had improved and the temperature was rising to when we returned to the car, we decided to put the roof down. Only it wouldn't open. It didn't even have the decency to give an error message. This was not ideal. I was then becoming concerned that if it did open, would it then close again. Of either option, this was the better position for the roof to fail. So off we went. Lid up. The worst part, as far as Husband was concerned, was the impression of the English that we were giving by not having our roof down on such a warm and sunny day.

We wanted to drop down into Belfort via Ballon d'Alsace Col. This proved tricky to navigate onto with our 12 year old map and unhelpful sat nav (which didn't understand what we were trying to do), made more so by diversions and road closures arising from serious accidents. We were hot and tired and jut wanted to get to Belfort. Eventually we managed to find our way onto the correct road and wound our way up the hill - to the burning smell of something on Alfi - then dropped back down into Belfort.

Husband was determined to try and improve on the time to destination advised by the sat nav. On a hillside road filled with hairpins this wasn't ideal, as far as I was concerned.

We arrived in Belfort, at the time predicted by sat nav, and went to our usual hotel, but this time we had a different room. Having deliberately selected not a Monday for our visit, the town was thriving so our previously discovered preferred bar and restaurant were all open for business. The weather threatened thunder but we still sat outside with our drinks to watch the promenading. I supped on a Chardonnay Jura. Well. As soon as I saw it on the wine list, that had to be tried.

The promenading, already limited by two of the roads around the square having been pedestrianised was further compromised by one of the remaining two driveable roads being closed. But people did their promenading nonetheless.

Our male drinks waiter proved far more demanding about getting a tip than the female one had been, and small spots of rain had started to fall, but as we were approaching the time Husband had booked our dinner table for, in the re-named Boef Carotte, we departed. It was good that we had taken the precaution of popping in on the way to book as it was quite busy. The waitress explained the menu to us and flirted with Husband all evening. She had described one dish as being stomach and another as cheeks.

He had a bloody butchers special - a meat equivalent of catch of the day. It was unclear what kill of the day would be, or indeed what body part. It turned out to be steak with green pepper sauce. We accompanied dinner with Pinot Grigio from Alsace, biological. Husband reckoned that meant organic.

We returned to the hotel drunk, full and tired, then woke early for the enormous basket of bread the hotel served for breakfast - but this time we added cheese and meat to the order. Having had no coffee the previous day, I had coffee for breakfast. Half a litre of it, judging by the measurement on the jug. The cow milk jug did not make an appearance but Husband's tea was served in bistro building tea pot.

Replete, we set off for Mannheim. As we had gone further south than necessary to go to Belfort, technically we were heading back now.

The promised thunder and rain had not appeared overnight, which was good. But as we pressed on we drove past some substantial hills with weather on them. Before long we entered Germany. We paused for a comfort break at a P Schutter rest stop. The public lavatories at the service station had a revolving seat which turned and got cleaned when you flushed. In the gents Husband advised there was a vending machine dispensing sex toys, including (because he had studied it closely) a vibrating cock ring and virgin pussy. 

Now in the land of no speed limits we cruised along at 100mph, the only danger posed by crazy Swiss drivers. Then we joined the back of a 4km queue of slow moving traffic - 4km to the roadworks! The rain came down. Torrentially. No sooner had we cleared those roadworks than we joined  a 6km queue to the next set, which ended up being a very small area of road digging up. 

We had pondered getting the 11.40 train to Hockenheim to watch qualifying. We were still just about OK for this if there were no further hold ups. As we drove past Hockenheimring the weather was awful. We watched people crossing the bridge over the motorway into the circuit, dressed in emergency ponchos. Having briefly eased, the rain as again coming down in torrents that reduced visibility dramatically and suddenly. At that moment we decided to head for the hotel and watch qualifying on TV. I changed the sat nav accordingly.

We followed the long, grand avenue to Friedrichsplatz but once there, it wasn't entirely clear where the hotel was. We cut across the middle, passing the water tower, and had the distinct feeling that cars weren't meant to be there. Then we saw the hotel. Now it was just the small matter of finding the car park. We went round the block - seeing the station at the end of the road, and navigating round the tramlines on the road. But no joy, not even somewhere we could park just to go in. So we started to go round again and Husband pulled in while I ran inside, potentially needing to do the full loop again if he had to move on.

The car park was under the water tower. As we were now back in the one way system going in the opposite direction we needed to go round again and the come back, and under the water tower. At which point we saw the sign clearly marking hotel parking.

Fortunately the car park was underground so Alfi could dry out and be protected from further downpours. There was a subterranean tunnel linking the car park to the hotel, but it was too early to check in so we dumped the bags and wandered around the magnificent arcade fronted buildings of Friedrichsplatz, looking for somewhere to have lunch. If we had wanted, we could have just about made the 12.49 train to the circuit.

Husband had a pizza, which was enormous. 

It looked as though something was being set up for the evening. Tables were being put out on the pavements. Road blocks were ready to install and much cabling was being laid. It was still raining. We walked through the gardens in the middle of the platz and over to the water tower, the first platform of which was open to the public to walk up to.

Enough time having passed, we returned to the hotel to check in and settle down for qualifying. Annoyingly,while Mannheim was wet, Hockenheim was now dry and sunny. In the room we used the visuals from the TV but turned the sound down, and used the English commentary from the F1 app.

It was interesting though to see Rosberg and Vettel speaking in their native language. I was also a refreshing change to have a Ferrari preference, and noticeable cheers when Hamilton's car failed in Q1.

We were both tired so had a nap before the evening and when we went out, evening events were afoot. It had finally stopped raining and the closed off road around the platz thronged with people, and music designed for people much younger than us. The road was lined with beer tents and food stalls. The restaurant tables spilled out onto the pavement, using folding tables and benches to substantially increase the cover capacity. What's more we were trusted with glasses, using a token return system.

We did notice that the fountain in the central garden was cordoned off and Husband suggested this was because we would all get drunk and want to get in it. Yet we could be trusted with glasses. A live band was playing some more enjoyable music, but we thought it a shame that they sang English songs. Husband said this was because German songs were rubbish.

At one bar we saw what was either a trani or a very unfortunate women.

To break the pause between the band change over a woman came on stage who said German, german, german, changeover, german, german, german. We wandered on. The next band were rubbish. And not because they were doing German tunes. We went and sat in the central gardens and became aware that fireworks were planned, which we deduced from the pyrotechnics van. After a while we were moved back, and set ourselves up seated at the top of the grass bank overlooking the gardens. Things seemed nigh, especially when the pyrotechnic staff ran away. In a wonderfully German way, a table was carried out and set up directly in front of proceedings, then a briefcase placed on the table and dramatically opened. This was how the display would be operated. Crowds were gathering. The live band had stopped, but not the relentless boom boom boom coming from the DJ. An initial loud firework salvo was fired. A few minutes later, this was followed by another. Either this was going to be a long and potentially dull show, or this was the cue to the DJ to shut up, and for the crowd to turn their attention the sky. The DJ didn't t stop, but the show began and successfully drowned him out. An impressive display of choreographed fire, music and fireworks. It was fabulous and an entirely unexpected street party. The firework smoke hung heavily in the recently wet air. We chatted to a man next to us who said no one will be able to drive in the city until Monday because of the firework fog. We asked if Mannheim was like this every weekend - apparently not. 

Once over, we went to the curry and me stall for dinner, expecting curry. This turned out to be not curry, but sausage sprinkled with curry powder. That wouldn't do at all in the UK.

As things were closing we headed back to the hotel bar for a whisky to end the day with. Some drunk British northerners soon appeared. One of them came to the bar to order drinks, and Husband struck up conversation. Initially we thought he was a Manc, but turned out to be from Durham and apparently much in need of jägermeisters. He was wearing an F1 top and talked in unflattering terms of the arrangements to get to the circuit. He had tried to get a train around 11am but it had been rammed full. This was comforting to hear as, by all accounts, we would have been unable to get on the 12.40. The barman gave us a bowl of nibbles with our drinks, possibly out of sympathy, which we devoured,  (Curry powdered sausage had proved to be an insubstantial dinner) while he politely and professionally managed the northern chap - quite brilliantly failing to serve him without ever refusing to do so. Before long they left and we had peace and quiet to enjoy some further whisky cocktails. 

We went to be late, which was perhaps a mistake as we planned to be up early for an early train - based on the intelligence provided by the northerner. The station was a 10 minute walk up the road, and we passed a wig shop that proudly advertised the Shag Blonde look.

We were carrying waterproofs and jumpers,which would have been in a rucksack if we hadn't forgotten to bring it. 

The ticket machine at the station had instructions for Hockenheim tickets that were unintelligible, so we asked the German speaking chap behind us, and then made our way to the train. The 8.40. Which would arrive 6 hours before the race. It was already quite full, but we squeezed our way on. It wasn't due to leave for 15 minutes and in that time more and more people tried to board, and then there was a file of people lacing up and down the platform desperately looking for an inch of space in any doorway. But not many more were able to board and it was an hour until the next train. A father and his little boy managed to get on near us shortly before the train left. Initially the boy looked panicked as he was put on the train by his father, who still needed to get on. Cunning plan, I thought. There was room for a child and clearly we would all squeeze in a little bit more to ensure the parent could join him. Once on, the boy hugged him tightly. Then the young man livened up somewhat and started chatting merrily to his father - and to Husband. Who responded with nie sprechen deutche. This information made an initial impact as the boy then started to talk deliberate gibberish - to which Husband responded. But he continued chatting to us in German.

The train had now made 4 stops. At one, quite a few people tried to board who were English. One observed that based on his daily commute the train was virtually empty. Indeed, there was even enough room for him to read his newspaper. 

At Hockenheim we piled out of the train and went to the shuttle bus, managing to get the last remaining standing spaces on the last bus waiting at the station. It dropped us off with still some distance to walk. With no idea where to go, we followed the crowd. Along the way locals had set up stalls to sell merchandise and drinks. At a number of these there were people in bulletproof vests, carrying guns, checking out their credentials.

We walked past a field of parking, which was apparently free of charge. Then the road took us through a long tunnel under the motorway which we had had no idea existed when driving over it the previous day. We arrived at the north corner and needed to walk along the outside of the circuit to the south. Between the circuit's concrete grandstands rising up on our left and the motorway we could hear to our right was a small cluster of trees amongst which was the campsite. 

Finally we arrived at the F1 village - all of which was accessible without needing a ticket. There was a motor museum there, for a small fee, which we went into partly for the opportunity of getting cool and being able to sit down and have a moments rest. The museum had some F1 cars but was largely dedicated to motorbikes that were rather leaky, and included bikes from the early 1900's and a 2 seater Harley.

We went back out in search of food. It was warm and sunny. No one else was obviously armed with rain wear. The circuit's rudimentary set up reminded me of the Hungaroring. Fed up with carrying the extra clothes, we bought a rucksack. At this point we were unaware that the keys for Alfi were in the unzipped up pocket of Husband's jumper. 

The primary food outlets were labelled as Public Catering and we were reasonably sure this would be uninspiring but as we walked towards it we saw another, better range of food stalls. So had burrito for breakfast, followed by beer. 

We decided to go into our stand to figure out where our seats were. Husband went to the gents first which had a huge queue on account of there being only one urinal. We hadn't realised there were facilities- with no queue - just inside the barrier of our stand.

This was the first and only time we needed to show our ticket - and were given a wrist band to ease future coming and going.

The seats were uncovered, as the concrete roof only ran over the top of the walkway at the top of the stand and the first couple of rows of seats. The sun had worn the seat numbers off which made finding our seats unnecessarily complicated. But we were settled in time for the Porsche race. Our view was fabulous, in the middle of the stadium section with a clear view of the cars coming in, round the hairpin and the the long left handed curve back to the start line. 

After the Porsche race - which was won by a Brit - we went back out into another part of the village beyond our stand, and I hoped that was the last we would be hearing of the English national anthem for the day.

The place we went to covered a huge area and was filled with benches, tables and umbrellas, surrounded by a huge range of food and drink stands. We were feeling a little sleepy, from our late night and early morning, fresh air, walking and heat of the day. So I fancied a coffee or a red bull. But we found a Latin American cocktail bar selling Energy Drink, so I had one of those. I have no idea what was in it but I think it included alcohol and Husband's Long Island iced tea was different to the expected recipe. One of the bartenders was a well built, not attractive Brazilian girl. So we weren't going to argue. We found ourselves a seat and drank. The place was heaving. Mentally busy. And the cocktail bar was pumping out jolly German tunes that many of the crowd were singing along to. Husband claimed this proved his point about why the band the previous evening had opted for English and US songs. But the Germans seemed to like these popular tunes - although they all sounded like Eurovision contenders.

Husband went in search of food - and a refill of the drinks. He came back with a giant cheese pretzel. The drinks were the same round again, but quite different. This time mine contained red bull. We had now managed to move to a seat shaded by an umbrella. A man came and joined us in the shade and started chatting. He was from Bavaria. I found it interesting  that he didn't that refer to himself as a German. Our new Bavarian friend highly rated the liver sausage, saying it was as good as in Bavaria. What's more, they had Bavarian mustard - heidlemeyer, so something like that. He did, however, think brexit was a mistake but did believe that the EU needed to be changed. 

On his advice Husband went and bought a liver sausage and told the man at the food stand that our new Bavarian friend had told us they had the best mustard. While made the man smile.

It was a very delicious liver sausage bap.

On the way back to our seats a girl was handing out free drink samples. Thinking this might be something akin to the refreshing iced tea given out at Melbourne F1 I took one. It was Johnny Walker. 

While we had been away from our seats, a folded sheet had been out on each seat. As the national anthem started, we all held these up for form the German flag. Except for one end of the stadium section which was filled with orange wearing Verstappen fans, who held up the Netherlands flag. And then they were off. 

It went swimmingly until lap 55. By this point the Dutch fans around us had put on emergency ponchos and started doing a rain dance - Max was good in the wet. We could see very dark clouds over the far end of the circuit, and TV footage over that part showed it being wet. Light rain started to fall on us. The track got slippery. And then Vettel, who had been comfortably in the lead, took the hairpin too fast and spun off. As did a number of others. Irritatingly Hamilton won.

Despite the disappointment we decided to wait for the lap of honour rather than rush off and then walked along the track towards the northern end to exit from there. As we descended to the track the sky darkened and big, fat rain drops started to fall. 

Soon it was torrential and loud cracks of thunder and lightning exploded above us. I was pleased we had brought out waterproofs. But within minutes we were soaked, and our jeans were sodden. As we passed the podium I was mildly impressed to see Hamilton come out in this weather to crowd surf over his soggy fans. We looked over but couldn't be bothered to wander closer.

The way off the track was through a substantial, ankle deep puddle. But there was little point worrying about getting wet now. We climbed the steps up into the north stand where a multitude of people we huddling under the small amount of roofing, through which waterfalls of rain were pouring. We pushed our way through the sheltering crowd and trudged on. The crowd seemed to slow as we approached the tunnel under the motorway. I suspected this was because it was flooded. And indeed it was. Some people were trying to walk on the raised, dry pavement rather through the river covering the road. For us, there seemed little point. We were already comprehensively wet. In the warm air we were just as wet under our waterproofs as on the outside. We splashed our way through the shin deep water, which had a whiff of sewage about it. 

The pavement ended on the other side of the tunnel, so anyone who had managed to keep their feet dry now had to brave the river walk. The car park field was now a lake and likely to prove an issue for some cars when they tried to leave. 

The rain started to ease off as we reached the queue for the shuttle bus back to the station. This was shambolic. The crowd had blocked the road and the buses stopped in random places, so there was no logical order for people to be collected. The people in high vis who were presumably meant to organising matters sat in their car, out of the rain. After an hour or so of this craziness, the crowd started revolting. A frustrated German went over the high vis 'staff' and shouted at them about the disorder.

A bus came and stopped right by us, but the girl told him to load from the front only, so the doors in front of us weren't opened. 

Eventually we got onto a bus, but by now we were getting cold and I was trying to protect phones and cameras from the dampness they were being stored in, within my dripping handbag. The jumpers inside our new rucksack were soaked, so were of little use in providing much warmth. 

We got to the station. There was a train there, but it was rammed full. And it was an hour wait until the next one. Brilliantly extra services had been arranged from 30 minutes before the race ended and for the next 2 hours only. Is obviously assumed people would either leave before the end or that their shuttle bus system would run with Germanic efficiency. None of these things that transpired. So we waited. And when it did finally arrive, people barged and pushed and tried to block the entrance. We managed to get on, but it was an unpleasant and aggressive experience. And we left people behind on the platform.

We got back to Mannheim and were reminded by some girls on the platform that this was a country of seriously short shorts. 

We spread our wet possessions around the room, had a shower to warm up and clean off any sewage from our feet before heading out to dinner. It was now quite late. We found an Italianische restaurant which served wine by the goldfish bowl. To round off the night we went to the hotel bar for a couple of cocktails. We asked whether the barman could do an espresso martini. Is that espresso with martini he asked. Maybe not then. 

With no need for an alarm the following day, we sleep until 9.30am. Our room looked like a bomb site. Everything had been spread around to try and dry it.  Husband's jumper was still very wet and at this point I discovered the damp Alfi keys in the pocket. It was something of a miracle that they hadn't fallen out and got lost during the journey. 

We packed, with quite a lot of our still wet, sewage soaked clothes and shoes bundled into bin liners. Husband picked up his suitcase to go, but hadn't zipped it up so it all tumbled out and needed to be repacked. 

In the car park, Alfi was warm and dry and fortunately the moist car key worked. We didn't have far to drive that day. Passing over the Rhine out of the city we headed to Alzey for breakfast. While trying to find our way to the centre, we pulled over to let cars behind us go past. But they didn't. Not for a while anyway. As though what we had done was somehow deeply baffling. Or the annoying Belgians were simply playing dumb deliberately to annoy us Englanders. When we finally parked and wandered into the centre, it proved to be a quaint, timber buildinged little town and as we saw another Alfa spider there, it was clearly populated (or visited) by people of impeccable taste. We had a very nice breakfast in a sun filled quiet square. 

Our onward journey confused the sat nav. There was substantial road building taking place and the sat nav seemed to want us on the bit which was under construction, and was very confused by the only remaining main road option. As lunch time approached we pulled off into a number of very quiet towns to forage for food. Some tantalisingly had bar signs hanging on the sides of buildings, but nothing was open and not a soul was to be seen.

Then we passed a riverside hotel and swung back round to try it for lunch. It was perfect, with peaceful views of the Moselle and vineyards rising up on the hillsides. There was a boat hotel moored nearby. Husband said I wouldn't like it. And he was right. I much preferred the idea of the hotel on the river bank, looking at a boat from the hotel rather than the other way round.

Many cyclists peacefully travelled along the path next to the river. As they seemed to be in no particular hurry to get anywhere Husband concluded that they liked wearing Lycra rather than cycling.

I had a local Riesling to accompany lunch and then wondered if the vines around us were Riesling out of the Moselle.

We carried on, driving through solar panel farms and wind farms, then arrived at Stavelot and found our hotel. It was a spectacular grand old house and we had a huge room in the eaves, which had a lot of decorative antlers in it - although these proved useful as hooks.

We wandered out into town where the responsibly minded pharmacy had a Durex vending machine on the outside of the building. A number of the buildings had disembodied heads with long red noses hanging from them. It was rather macabre and creepy. There were also straw hats hanging on doors, which was somewhat odd. This seemed to be a town of peculiar superstitions. 

We found an establishment where we thought we could have a drink but, after ordering, it became clear we were expected to eat. Things came to a head when they needed our table. The cutlery was rapidly cleared away, and the nibbles that had been brought out with the drinks. But they took forever to take the cash, which was fine with us as it gave us time to finish the litre of water. We were not going to leave without our change. So they had to come and take payment while we were still there. Naturally we left no tip. The table next to us was only drinking, hence why we had thought it was ok. We would probably be the talk of the town for weeks, the English people who only wanted drinks. 

We wandered to a nearby place to have dinner there instead. Husband's second beer took some time to appear. When his third was also somewhat delayed I asked him where the waitress had gone. To the far away room where the beers are kept, he replied. Adding, it's like something out of Raiders of the Lost Arc. 

I had a French coffee to see if it was served like the one in Calais. No - it was delivered as a normal, cream topped alcoholic coffee. There was a biscuit with it, which I opened. 'Ooh', said I, 'it's like a jammy dodger. With chocolate. I don't want it' - and promptly gave it to Husband. He laughed. It's like being out with a 9 year old, he said.

We slept well and went down for a vast array of breakfast goodies in the fabulously high ceilinged room overlooking the garden. Breakfast was good. We were asked if we wanted an egg, and if so, how we wanted it cooked. We opted for boiled. There were little containers on the table which Husband thought contained butter. On opening it, he realised it was cream which he then drank from the little container.

After breakfast we had an amble in the garden, with views over the gentle slopes down to the river. As we came down to check it, the aroma of a cooked breakfast rose up to greet us. I wondered if the other guests had asked for their egg to be fried, with sausage and bacon.

We wanted to look at the abbey ruins before setting off. It wasn't entirely clear why the building had fallen into such disrepair - except for the entrance archway. More interestingly, there was a museum of the Spa circuit in the crypt with a fantastic collection of cars. The original circuit had of course come to the edge of Stavelot.

We then set off for Ghent, but regularly deviated from the sat nav route for fuel and 'wake me up' stops. The temperature was again rising and when we arrived at the hotel, I wondered whether my Doc Martins might be better off getting dry. So we brought the bin liner of damp clothes in. It was over 30 degrees, so things should now dry off quite quickly. We opened the bag of warm, wet clothing. They were pretty pongy and mould had started to grow inside my DMs. Within minutes we had converted our Executive Suite room into an entirely different atmosphere.

We went out into the town for a wander. Husband had picked up a map from reception and we amble over to a handful of interesting buildings - almost entirely rebuilt as the town had been broadly flattened in the second world war,  hence my father had described it as a pointless visit. Inside St Bavo's cathedral everything seemed very old, but on the outside it was clear which bits had been rebuilt. Down in the crypt, there still remained the original part from 1150, adorned with ancient frescoes - and smelling quite a lot like our damp clothes. Back upstairs, an entire whale's skeleton was suspended from the ceiling, for no apparent reason whatsoever. I felt compelled to take a picture in order to enquire whether the father (who has written books on such matters) was aware of this one.

The church also boasted a number of sculptures of St John the Doper. Perhaps something had got lost in translation.

Outside the multitude of cyclists cycled perilously close to the tram tracks, but miraculously no accidents occurred. There was very little distinction between what part of the road was for vehicles and  what was for pedestrians, adding to the general danger. 

We wandered to the gothic style house of Gerald the Devil. This seemed a ridiculous name - a bit like Colin the Impaler. How could such a name strike fear into anyone. We ambled over to the canal in search of a bar. It was now stiflingly hot. It seemed as though there had recently been some sort of outdoor concert or party as there was a lot of dismantling going on, and a general feeling around town of the day after the night before, which included many places being closed. The bar we found was heavily patronised with Americans and nutters which we discovered too late. We agreed with my father. Ghent needed half a day at most. It's beauty was barely skin deep, promised much and delivered little. 

Along the cobbled lanes alongside the canal the majority of cyclists were women. This was probably just coincidence. 

In search of dinner we found a large square with a smattering of open restaurants. We were still unclear why so much was closed. After a full circumnavigation we opted for the restaurant claiming to have the best mussels, and were served with as much contempt as she could muster by an anorexic overly tanned waitress who was choosing not to age gracefully. She was particularly upset when a younger, more anorexic girl came in for dinner with her friend - or more accurately, to watch her friend have dinner. The mussels were not that great - gritty and in a rather uninteresting wine sauce. We had a couple of drinks and, feeling tired, with an early start scheduled, went back to the hotel.

We woke to the sound of torrential rain, and was pleased I had moved our now dry clothes from their window hanging. Fortunately Alfi was again in an underground garage. As we dressed we discovered mosquitos in the bedroom and bathroom. A lot of them. Bulging with blood. However neither of us could locate any bites on our bodies. But I took a precautionary anti histamine. I wondered if they knew where the hotels were and treated them like buffets, with a constant variety of flavours from the guests.

After breakfast we made our way back to Calais. Husband decided he didn't like Belgians- the waiting staff were ride and the drivers  were difficult and aggressive. We got into a bit of a chase with a Laguna. Husband said the Laguna driver obviously liked our car as he had got so close to it and made sure he maintained his good, close up view. Overhead the traffic notices warned about pedestrians in the road. Not that old chestnut again, we thought, remembering back to our whisky run. 

As the day broke through the rain stopped, and the heat rose. 

We passed Loon Plage at Dunkirk- it seemed a bit cruel to give it a name like that. Before long we were back in their high fence and barbed wire fortress of Calais. At the French based UK border control we had a very working class English man who you couldn't imagine uttering a word of French - merely louder and slower English or very anglicised French at the most. 

The tunnel back seemed hotter then when we had come over which allowed the 29 bites I had actually got to start itching, bubbling and blistering.

Before long we were back home, having completed 1294.4 miles and total driving time of 27.5 hours over 7 days.