Even now, after nearly fifty days in Europe, I still have moments when it all feels surreal, like I'm living someone else's life. How did I, a simple country girl from the southern U.S., end up needing outlet adapters in three different configurations and an international driver's permit? Even more, my best friend walks around muttering in French and I've gone swimming in both the Mediterranean Sea and the English Channel. Now I have photos on my phone from inside the Eurotunnel, and suddenly Brexit will impact me directly.
Not the Eurotunnel. There is a very sophisticated and exacting system in place for animal travel from France to England via this route. Coming into the station, one is met with signs about "Pet Reception" and happy little pawprints painted on the asphalt lead you directly to this cheery building.
The friendly signage and bright colors are not misleading. These folks are animal lovers and it shows. From the "station dog" who roams around the building to the warm reception travelers receive from the staff, everything about this step of the process serves to ensure that pets are welcome in the Eurotunnel. I have never been anywhere that made more effort to put people traveling with dogs at ease.
We chose to take the Eurotunnel shuttle itself rather than Direct Ferries since online reviews of the ferry system are less than glowing. Now that I've taken time to learn more about this feat of modern engineering, I'm glad we paid the ticket price. Since its opening in 1994, the "Chunnel" has still not shown an ROI for its investors, yet is the first direct link to exist between England and the rest of Europe in more than eight thousand years.
We had to work our way through three checkpoints just like the one pictured above. The first was a Eurotunnel agent who confirmed our ticket, checked the pet clearance pass on the windshield, and gave us loading directions. The second was French border patrol. The third was a UK border control station and, while they were definitely more personable than any U.S. border police I've dealt with, they were no less intense in their scrutiny. Michel got a bit of hassle about the wear and tear on his passport and I had to answer questions about how he and I knew each other, why I was going to England, and when I planned to get the hell out. But then, once we answered everything to border patrol's satisfaction, the agents turned into bright little rays of sunshine, all smiles and well-wishes about our stay in the U.K. So we were off to a good start.
Loading onto the shuttle was fast and efficient. Several cars went into the first section of the train, then the staff began loading us via the open portal you can see just to the left of the guy in the orange vest. We drove in single file and moved as far toward the rear of the shuttle as we could. Parking assist came compliments of Eurotunnel employees who positioned us bumper to bumper and instructed us to shut off the engine, set the parking brake, and keep the windows halfway down.
We left on time. Shuttles can reach speeds well over a hundred miles per hour, but it felt like we were barely moving. There is no view out of the shuttle windows once it goes underground, so there were no visual cues to indicate movement, depth, or height. My ears told the story, though. They "popped" just like they do during any other sudden altitude change. I had to yawn almost nonstop for the duration of the ride to keep them from hurting.
Exactly thirty-five minutes after we left Calais, the shuttle emerged into full daylight. We were in England! The scenery wasn't great...at first.
Even after we drove out of the shuttle and onto the roadway, I was a bit underwhelmed by the looks of the place and completely overwhelmed by having to drive on the left. I kept waiting for another checkpoint with its requisite interrogation, but we were really, truly in England and all the formalities were behind us on the French side. All manner of exotic automobiles whizzed by me on the right--from Jaguars to Astin Martins to Fiats to Jeeps and Land Rovers. Road signs indicated "London, 60 miles."
Wait...miles? England isn't measured in kilometers?
So it wasn't enough for me to drive on the wrong side of the road, but now I have to convert miles to kilometers so I'll know how fast I'm going since the French rental car I'm driving has a dash panel based completely on metrics....
Well, no drama to report, folks. I managed, albeit with the help of a very competent navigator. Michel and I arrived at our Airbnb in Weeley right on time for check-in and spent an uneventful evening catching up on messages and other business we hadn't attended to all day. I'll have more to post about Weeley, Clacton-on-Sea, and how things are going in Merry Old very soon.
