Great rides: Channel hopping by boat and bike

Touring cyclists find solace in the strangest of places: bus shelters, drainage pipes, essentially anywhere that provides a shelter from the elements. For Huw and I, one dark and stormy evening as British shores were lashed by the furies of our first named storm of the year, the bins at the Port of Dover were our happy place.

Peering out between the giant vestibules of rubbish, we watched the horizontal rain batter idling cars in relentless waves of water. Wipers were on full tilt, as someone in hi-vis oilskins directed the vehicles and their nice, warm and dry inhabitants onto a ferry that glimmered through the storm’s haze.

“We’re soaked and freezing. Let us on!” I yelled at the traffic manager guiding vehicles off the grid and onto the ferry, but was ignored. Or perhaps not heard? After half an hour of these conditions, cold had set in and we couldn’t stand it anymore.

Together we barged our way onto the concourse, forcing them to notice us. Finally, chased by juggernauts carrying their wares into the EU, we boarded.

Riders on the storm

We weren’t even meant to be on this ferry, leaving from this port or heading to Calais. It didn’t matter. We were glad just to be inside and heading to France.

Four hours earlier, we’d met at Lewes train station, ready to take the next train to Newhaven for our intended ferry to Dieppe. Ferry company DFDS called just before we boarded the train with the unwelcome news that our ferry was cancelled due to Storm Amy.

As 40-somethings with family commitments who live in different countries within the UK, finding a weekend away is a rare and special thing. We weren’t going to let a storm stop our French trip.

“Are ferries running from Dover?” I asked. DFDS confirmed they were and that our tickets were valid for the 00:30 crossing. Which is why, three train changes and some bin sheltering later, our holiday began.

We had about half an hour’s worth of sleep, before a ferryman insisted we wake and pack up our still drying clobber. Through the ferry window, the harbour walls of Calais rose sickeningly up and down, drizzled in orange lamplight. It was half three in the morning and we needed more rest.

Perhaps in the ferry terminal? We stumbled bleary eyed down to the hold and our securely fastened bikes.

We were in no hurry to leave the safety of the ship, but as the last lorry left it was ‘once more unto the breach’. As we inched off onto the tarmac, a van with amber flashing lights pulled up. A man shouted something at us, which we assumed by his gesture was something along the lines of: “Come with me if you want to live!”

He set off at 10mph. Battered by rain and wind, we struggled to keep up. Terminal plans were scuppered as we were led from the port and deposited into the black unknown of Calais.

Darkest before dawn

At this hour there was no traffic and no light. We had no idea where we were and no real plan of where to go, given that six hours previously we’d planned on riding from Dieppe to Calais.

On the ferry, consulting weather apps, we’d decided that heading into the wind to Dieppe wasn’t worth it but, with the wind behind us, a 123km ride to Bruges was achievable.

After 50 minutes and 15km, following flooded gravel paths and stung by incessant rain, we sheltered from the storm at a bus stop. A frog had a similar idea and was busy eating a worm. That’s when we gave up on Bruges. Riding until daylight and finding an open café became our mission.

Ducks quacked at us from the darkness. We passed through woods, along quiet lanes and who knows what else in the darkness, riding hard and scoffing sweets to stay warm in the wet. Hypothermia began to set in and our battery lights gradual faded. Directions were messed up.

With my dynamo light out front and Huw’s fading rear light, we rode on until we spotted the blessed sight of a boulangerie with lights on and an ‘ouvert’ sign on the door.

There weren’t just baked goods, shelter and an oven’s warmth but also hot, black coffee. Two cups, four chocolate-infused pastries and a large puddle beneath our plastic chairs later, we began to feel human.

Dawn was trying to break through the clouds outside. The boulangerie’s respite from the rain allowed us to check our phones. It turned out we were on the outskirts of Dunkerque – and there was a bike-friendly Ibis hotel with a room. Back in our 20s and 30s, Huw and I would have camped. Older and wiser now, we decided to hotel it.

It was the best decision we made. All the campsites we’d checked beforehand were closed. And the hotel staff took pity on us and let us check into our room at 9am rather than after midday. (Perhaps soaking, slumbering men in the lobby as residents eat their breakfast is bad for business?)

Half an hour later, warm and dry at last, our snores rattled the windows.

Belgian detour

Waking in the afternoon, we spent our time in launderettes drying sodden clobber, eating galettes by the seaside and acting as tourists rather than tourers. It was a strange feeling for a weekend tour, where so often the focus is on the riding, rather than taking time to soak in the places you pass through.

The next day, we embraced this more casual style of riding. Stopping became de rigueur; it was Sunday after all. The forecast promised a tailwind into Flanders. We hoped to spot windmills and find a nice lunch spot, at which point the wind was meant to drop. We’d then return to Dunkerque for the afternoon train to Calais.

Leaving Dunkerque along its seafront, sand sheeted along the beach and kite surfers leapt to terrifying heights. With smug grins, we rode with the wind at our backs in dry clothing. Today was going to be a good day. I could just feel it.

Every time I ride on the Continent, I’m overwhelmed by the thoughtfulness of the cycling infrastructure. Being able to ride and chat without concern of motor traffic is a joy. In Département du Nord, there are wide open lanes that enable you to see and be seen for miles by other traffic.

Crossing a border you hope for a dramatic change, but the differences were more subtle. French road signs became Flemish. The cycling infrastructure became a bit more inclusive. By the time we arrived in Veurne’s Gothic market square for lunch, weekend roadies were just as common as families out on laden e-cargo bikes.

The wind failed to drop while we ate, and our detour to St Charles’ Windmill on De Moeren (the Moors) began to feel foolhardy on full bellies. Chain-ganging back to Dunkerque, heads down and legs tired, we eagerly anticipated our train ride back to Calais. Fate conspired against us. There were no bike spaces.

Racing home

Our LeShuttle pickup was midmorning the next day and we had a hotel booked and paid for in Calais. There was only one choice: we stocked up on Haribo and headed back into the wind. As dusk settled, the wind dropped to a stiff breeze and we could finally witness what we’d missed on our initial journey.

Along one stretch we waved at and were greeted by small groups returning to a tent village hidden within a forest. It looked like the aftermath of Glastonbury: battered tents and mud, mud, mud everywhere. Yet it was far sadder.

These were the homes of people hoping for a better life that were under siege from the elements. Then we found fascist graffiti nearby. It put into perspective our grumbling about a single night in the damp.

As tiredness kicked in, we were left alone with such thoughts, pedalling squares as we strove to reach Calais. Brief episodes jolted us out of our reveries. A strange archery competition at Loon-Plage where contestants shot arrows at a pylon. A book exchange where there was no Dan Brown like in England, but Umberto Eco and Bukowski instead.

We finally arrived in Calais as we had left it: in darkness and tired. We were happy for the ride we’d had – and hungry, oh so hungry!