Best. Decision. Ever.
The driving in London turned out to be fine, despite my increasing concerns of the motoring skills of the British, acquired by my few cab rides. Partially due to Booba's terrific driving and partially because we left so early in the morning that there were almost no cars on the road in London (and the rest was freeways) we arrived safe and sound at the docks in Dover, south England.
We also managed to get petrol, which turned out to be surprisingly easy, despite recent "panic buying" and long lines at petrol stations. For those not reading the British newspapers daily, one of David Cameron's ministers got caught on tape by a journalist offering to sell access to various lobbyists and to "persuade" Mr. Cameron of the nobleness of their cause, for a fee. Shortly thereafter, in an alleged attempt to deflect the heat of the media from this scandal, another minister announced that fuel tank drivers planned on striking over the Easter long weekend and everyone should take their tin cans down to the local petrol bowser to stock up before petrol ran out. Chaos, predictably, ensued, despite the unions denying any intentions of striking. Long lines, closing bowsers and a few of the intelligentsia who stored cans of petrol in their garages near live flames filled the papers. Apparently the "recent" petrol shortages of the 1970s refuses to die in the British minds and hearts.
The drive down was nothing special (despite a few people telling me it would be gorgeous etc etc and the entire south of England being marketed as "England's Garden") - looked rather like an overgrown paddock with a few cows (that looked cold) thrown in.
The trip across the Channel on the Ferry was also nothing special (although the trip back certainly was an adventure - more of that later).
We arrived in France around 11am Friday morning and immediately it was quite spectacular. The drive to the champagne region was about 3 hours (I forbade Booba from going the clearly absurd speed limit of 130 miles an hour in favour of us arriving safe) and the whole way it was sweeping manicured crops and tiny French villages.
The tiny wine tine we were expecting turned out to be a massive industrial French city approximately the size of Geelong (but better, obviously).
Fortunately I had had the good sense (i.e. a budget) to book us in at a b&b that was the epitome of French Provincial, complete with croissants for breakfast, run by a lovely French maman in a tiny village outside of Reims. It screamed Tamara Grima.
No comments:
Post a Comment