Calais Cove

I wanted to go to Paris, and my colleague Isabelle, who is French, was heading there herself, so we decided to travel together. For reasons unknown, there were no trains running, including the Eurostar. Planes were a no-go too, so we settled on walking. Google Maps estimated that if we kept a steady pace and trekked through the night, we could be there within three hours. The app was not exactly accurate, as we did walk all night through the English countryside and still hadn't reached the Channel Tunnel. We hiked over ditch and dale, trying to avoid motorways but getting turned around in the wrong direction and needing to recalibrate. We eventually reached the Tunnel, only it was a bridge we had to cross.

Towards dawn we finished crossing the bridge and arrived in Calais, where Isabelle lived with her husband. She suggested that we stop over at her house before making the rest of the journey by train to Paris. I sat in the guest room, reorganising my suitcase and wondering what I was doing, yet eager to be on my way. First I was made to join Isabelle and her husband for dinner, and although I appreciated the hospitality, I was in an antisocial mood and felt the small talk painful. I asked about her sons, whose photographs were spread around the dining room. The doorbell rang and Isabelle announced it was time to go, her friend had arrived to accompany us to the train station.

On the way, Isabelle's friend, a fifty something year old woman, wanted to show me a cove in the town where local families caught their fish. Isabelle was proud of her town, and eager to share the treasured spot with me too. I was impatient with all these diversions, but agreed anyway, telling myself that as soon as I got to Paris, I could go off on my own. The cove was much more than I could have imagined. Up a small flight of stone steps, and through a narrow passage between two houses, we came upon it. A hidden retreat nestled behind picturesque houses with their well tended gardens, it seemed as though this was the only spot in the town where the sun shone. Limestone cliffs encircled the bay, with only a small opening to the sea.

The waters of the cove were choppy and dark blue. They were also teeming with fish, leaping and broncing clear of the surface, their sharp heads gaping in stupefaction as fish are wont to do. I was amazed at their abundance, and could see why the locals ate so well. "Bluefin tuna!" I declared, instantly recognising them. Isabelle and her friend affirmed that I was correct. "I thought these fish were now endangered?" I queried. My guides told me they were only found in this particular spot, gathering for no discernible reason where they were easily snagged by fishermen. After a quick look, we turned back for the station and our pilgrimage continued. The rest of the dream was uninteresting. A backpacker girl approached me looking for drugs, and I eventually said goodbye to Isabelle and boarded the train to Paris.