Low-cost midlife crisis

16.05 – that was the time of our ferry out of Dover. Obviously we’d rather have been on a train, but see threads passim.

For a ferry, foot passengers have to check in 90 minutes in advance (it’s another of those anti-foot-passenger rules. The carbound only need to be there 60 minutes beforehand.) So our ultimate target was to be at Dover ferry port at 14.35. Previous experience on trains in England (see day 17) had made it clear that we needed to factor in a lot of extra time just in case. And so, as overly cautiously as it felt, we went to catch a train from the village station at 9.06. The app made it clear that if things went to plan we’d get to Dover Priory station at 11.42, giving us a cool 2 hours and 53 minutes to travel the fairly short distance from the railway station to the ferry terminal.

The train was a couple of minutes late, but we had so much time that this was of no matter. It trundled on through the villages of South Cambridgeshire and thence into the villages of North Hertfordshire. And then it stopped. Somewhere next to a field of wheat just outside Ashwell and Morden.

Time passed. I realised we’d miss our first train to Dover. But it didn’t seem terribly important. The second train to Dover, an hour later, would still get us there nearly 2 hours early. I wasn’t concerned. Time was very much on our side.

An announcement. There was something in the overhead cables ahead and we had to wait a bit more. Then the driver walked through our carriage going from the front to the back of the train. Then another announcement. “Due to the obstruction in the wires, we will return to Royston, until it is cleared”. We did, and then we all got off. At this point, on the platform, along with the thronging hordes, I learned what the obstruction was. A balloon. “A hot air balloon?” I asked the guard, hoping for an exotic and exciting reason for our delay. “No, a child’s balloon”

At Royston the announcement was that anyone wanting to go to London should go in the opposite direction to Cambridge, and then take a train from there on a different line, seemingly unencumbered by balloons, to Liverpool Street. The amount of time it takes to remove a balloon from the overhead cables is, apparently, unknown and unknowable. So we went back to Cambridge.

I checked with the information guy on Cambridge platform and he still had no news on the status of the rogue balloon, only knowing that the power had been turned off on the lines, but not being sure how long it would take an engineer to come out. I wondered how you would feel if you’d studied hard to become an engineer, perhaps attending a prestigious university and landing what seemed like a plum job with Network Rail, only to find out that much of your tasks involved removing balloons from cables.

Going to Liverpool Street was a much more complex route. Balloonline would take us to Kings Cross, right across the road from St Pancras, the station for Dover. Liverpool Street was much further away. And there was a tube strike. But in the end we felt we had no option but to go for the latter.

The train we had intended to catch from St Pancras to Dover went at 10.37. Obviously that was very much out of the question. The back up train went at 11.37 – and with our arrival at Liverpool Street scheduled for 11.45 that was also out. But I had cunningly left us enough time that the next one, at 12.37, would still get us to Dover with time to spare.

Miraculously, the train to Liverpool Street seemed to be running on time, smoothly, and with no problems. There were no random objects blocking our way. No toasters on the points, or crampons on the tracks. And as a result we arrived bang on schedule at 11.45, still 2 hours and 50 minutes before we needed to be at Dover ferry terminal.

As there was a tube strike, we needed to get a taxi. When you are travelling in a group of 5, London cabs are perfect as you can all get in them. But obviously as there was a tube strike there was also a queue. But it seemed to be moving reasonably fast, plus taxis get around quickly what with dedicated taxi and bus lanes, right?

As you may have guessed…I was wrong. We got into the cab around 12.05 and then sat in a lot of traffic. Half way there I realised we weren’t going to make it. I checked the app. The next possible train got us to Dover at 14.33, precisely 2 minutes before we should be at the ferry terminal. Things were beginning to go decidedly awry. Or rather they were in the middle of going decidedly awry.

We got to St Pancras, at about 12.45, and £28 lighter. I decided to call the ferry company to see how crucial this 90 minute thing was. The guy was singularly unhelpful. “I’m afraid I can’t help you”, he said, repeatedly. The bus for foot passengers leaves 90 minutes before the boat departs and that’s that. He offered to rebook us on the next ferry which left at half past five. I worked out that this would get us to Calais at around 8pm local time. I’d already ascertained that the last train from Calais to Lille (where we were booked to spend the night) left at 8.31. And foot passengers get off last. So that sounded like a disaster. He then told me that the cost to rebook was £64. I asked if I had any options and he revealed that I might be lucky and the bus wouldn’t have left or the staff at Dover might be able to help out. I decided to chance it.

However, we were now looking at around £200 on top of all the hassle and stress (plus I needed to find somewhere to stay in Calais). Just in case you have forgotten, this day from hell, which was by this stage potentially ripping a massive hole in our budget, was caused by

We got to Dover at 14.36ish. Piled into a taxi and were whisked to the terminal. We arrived at more or less exactly 14.45, 10 minutes after the 90 minute cut off time. The counter was closed up. This didn’t fit my plan of begging for mercy, since you actually need someone to beg to, and there was no one to be found. Begging in front of a closed window is rarely effective. E went round the corner and located some courtesy phones. So I picked the relevant one up. The guy on the other end asked if the window was open. I told him it wasn’t and he said he’d call through to get the person inside to open up and talk to me. This he obviously did and the woman who had been in there came out and started to explain again how we were too late. The bus had gone and we were too late. An Argentinian woman who had arrived at the same time as us explained how she was going to a wedding in Calais that evening and she’d flown all the way from Argentina to be there. Nothing worked. She told us that she could get us on the next boat (for free, actually, making it seem like the man on the phone earlier was really trying to pull a fast one) but that would be later.

A policeman walked in and I tried him too. “I understand that this is a border area but you could walk us over to the passport area, even in handcuffs if necessary” he laughed, but then after consulting with two colleagues seemed to think it was possible – the bus would still be at the passport place, he could get us there and then we could get on the bus with everyone else. (the handcuffs, he said, wouldn’t be necessary). Brilliant, a solution. “Are you checked in?” he asked. The ferry person confirmed that we weren’t (though that was because she hadn’t checked us in, so that seemed a bit unfair). The glimmer of hope unglimmered. He left, and the woman retreated back to her bunker letting us know when she’d be opening up to check us in to the next boat.

Without hope or expectation, I went to try the courtesy phone again. This time a woman answered. I laid it on thick, how we’d left early this morning to be there by 11, how we’d had a terrible journey with delays and cancellations (I considered mentioning the balloon but I felt it wouldn’t help our case), and how we had a place to stay booked in Lille which we wouldn’t get to on the later boat. She said she would see if she could find another bus driver and would talk to the woman there if she managed it.

The glimmer of hope began to faintly reglimmer. Could this work?

A couple of minutes later the door opened and the woman re-emerged asking who it was who had talked to her supervisor. I wasn’t sure where this question was going, but I fessed up. She then asked for our passports and booking numbers as well as for the Argentinian woman (I’ll call her Mariana, as that is her name), who we’d managed to adopt as a co traveller now. My daughter said “Oh my god, dad, you’re a Karen”. Dictionary dot com says “Karen is a pejorative slang term for an obnoxious, angry, entitled, and often racist middle-aged white woman who uses her privilege to get her way or police other people’s behaviors.” That feels a bit harsh. Especially since it seemed my Karenish actions may well have got us on the boat. (I later clarified and it turns out she meant that I was someone who spoke to the manager. I suppose other bits fit too, though)

The woman went back inside. We waited. After what seemed like ages (but was probably about 15 minutes) during which time our hopes had inflated like, well, a child’s balloon on the birthday itself , only to slowly shrink and deflate to those little sad fist-sized balloons still just about hanging on to a kind of state of balloonness three weeks later, a bus appeared. With a driver. The woman came back out of her hiding place to return our passports and hand us boarding passes…and we were on! The bus, anyway.

I didn’t check what time it was that we got on the bus, so exciting was this development. It seemed like we were going to make it. But then we got stuck in a non moving queue behind a Tesla, the driver and passengers of which had got stuck in passport control. Perhaps for owning a Tesla. Finally things moved, we quickly went through the walking passport control shed and to the constant questions coming through the driver’s radio of “where are those 6 foot passengers? We’re still waiting for the 6 late foot passengers”, we got to the ramp and walked onto the boat at approximately 3.58pm,punching the air in celebration. It felt like a huge victory. Mariana bought us a drink to thank us and to celebrate.

I’d like to say that this was the culmination of our travel annoyances and stress on Day 19, but I cannot. But I will save part 2 (a shorter part, you will be relieved to note) for another post.