The ferry beckoned – ‘The Pride of Rotterdam’, built in Venice in 2001. Quite a comfortable vessel but once onboard there’s nothing to do other than eat and drink. Neither of which appeal. A three course evening meal or gargantuan ‘Full English’ are fair enough if you’re burning calories, on say a bike tour, but I’d spend the next day steering and changing gear whilst sat on my derrière. I retired early with a magazine and a salad and was soon looking at the inside of my eye lids. 

The plan was to drive to Luxembourg to collect Anna from the airport and then we’d trundle around locally in Germany and France before I’d deposit her back at the airport, she’d fly home and move I’d continue in France. We’d be in a hotel whilst she was here and I was alone I’d camp.

We didn’t disembark until past 9.15am. I walked down to the car deck whilst all the motorcyclists waddled, with difficulty, down to their motorcycles. Is being over weight mandatory to ride these powerful machines? From here it was the pointless queue for the customs chap to stamp my passport. Clearly the EU’s revenge for Brexit is characteristically bureaucratic although the official asked about my car but forgot to enquire as to whether the chassis was made of wood. The road system around the port of Rotterdam is modern but with a spaghetti of parallel roads beside or above you. I think I made two errors as I relied on Google Maps. Unfortunately (or fortunately) I was missing my ‘Little Helper’. This passenger bonus was always ready, I’d found, to offer such pearls of wisdom as ‘you’re in the wrong lane’ or ‘shouldn’t you be indicating now?’ and ‘are you thinking of turning your lights on as we go into the tunnel?’. Her real crowd pleaser is ‘the lights have turned green’. A way to deactivate this guidance is to utter the words ‘Would you like to f’ing drive?’ This guarantees silence for a little whilst while I show no contrition for continuing to take the wrong turnings!

Holland contains some lovely folk but it’s a dreary place and soon I crossed the border to Belgium. Frankly, this part of Belgium is painfully flat as well. I had plenty of time to drive toward the Luxembourg border and so I avoided motorways. This meant I followed a series of bin wagons, tractors and learner drivers through small but busy towns. This sedate progress allowed me to reflect on the two official Belgian languages: Flemish and French. I noted that all the road signs in the Flemish speaking part were in Flemish and then French in the French speaking. It seems both languages don’t need to be duplicated everywhere to satisfy the sensitivities of either party. Obviously if the language everyone speaks is English but you’re Canadian, Welsh, Irish and even some Scots then multiple gratuitous language signs are mandatory.

Having the hood down was lovely but it was hot. 30°C soon racked up and an investment in another hat seemed unavoidable or I’d become a ‘Guernsey Tom’. 

I’d cycled this route in 2019, on my way to Vienna. So I knew that as I headed south east that the hills would appear in the Ardennes. It took 150 miles before a gradient appeared. I know this because I was watching my tripometer. I was also watching my fuel gauge, however, this wasn’t revealing as it permanently read the following. 

After about 200 miles I thought I’d top Samantha up and pulled into a petrol station with automatic pumps with the instructions in French. ‘Quelle surprise’ I hear you say. Anyway a very attractive young girl was at the pump next to mine and I enquired ‘Do you speak English?’ Of course she did and set me off on the long laborious task of putting petrol into the car. It is laborious because it kicks back after every 5 seconds and it can take 10 minutes to put a decent quantity of fuel in.

I reflected later about my lady assistant being all smiley and helpful and wondered if I’d been 40 years younger would she have been as relaxed? Sadly, yet, usefully, at my age you look helpless and harmless and no threat! Eventually the campsite I’d also used in 2019 came into view and Reception was shut. Not a problem as you paid a machine (€18) and a ticket popped out with all the details including the wi-fi code. Less easy was using the password to raise the site barrier. In a right hand drive Morgan you’re on the wrong side for the barrier key pad and a 18 inches beneath it. So get out and do it that way Tony! I did and when I had got back into the car it’d shut again. I eventually gained access asking a passing bloke to punch the numbers it.

Dinner and a beer followed. Not least so I could get some change to buy a token for the shower. By 7pm it was nearly cool enough to take a shower and to stay dry afterwards. Hopefully it’s history and chicken schnitzel tomorrow.