Crane me over back to Dover

Houlle to Calais

22 km

3 locks

6 hours

Leaving the River Houlle, it wasn’t long before we reached the junction for the Canal de Calais. We braced ourselves for what we thought would be the waterways equivalent of an autobahn.

Venturing down the canal, the first thing we noticed was how eerily quiet it seemed. This situation didn’t improve and by the time we arrived at Hennuin lock it appeared to be closed for business. We had been aware that a lock on this canal had been closed for over two years but we presumed this had been the sea lock.

Hennuin ecluse - very bleak and desolate

As is our usual experience, there was no pontoon provided for us to tie to while we mulled the situation over. We eventually managed, against very strong winds, to get close enough to the banking and I shuffled down the gunwale for the long plank for us to use.

We tried mooring here but an hour after the picture was taken the canal level dropped and we almost got grounded

Once safely tied up, Tracy made a bee-line for the sign “It says to call on channel 22” she shouted back to me.

“Bonjour Hennuin ecluse, Hennuin ecluse” I called waiting for a response. Silence. After ten minutes I gave it another go. Waiting again, I could hear two people having a conversation on the channel. I tried again. And again. And again. Nothing.

The sign also gave details of a mobile number so Tracy gave it a go. There was a garbled response in French and then a beep to leave a message. Tracy left a message in French of who we were, where we were and what we needed. I hope they are not telling us in French that the lock is closed she said. In fact, we had not seen a single boater or even a human being in the vicinity for hours and with time now an issue we began to feel our default settings slowly move over to ‘worried’.

At times like these, it is fantastic to have friends like Peter, a Dutchman whom we met back in Sens. He has been at the end of the phone for us in many of our hours of need and desperation and without his knowledge and reassurance we’re uncertain to whether or not we would have made it. Peter (who is single by the way ladies) has lived in France for many years and can speak the lingo like a native. He called the number for us and translated the message as ‘there is a mobile lock keeper, leave a message and they will be with you as soon as possible’. We waited four hours until 5pm, but nobody came.

Our lock keeper eventually turned up the next morning, still in her pyjamas, and grudgingly worked the lock for us. We asked if we could get some water. “Non” was the reply as she sat scowling at us sipping her coffee.

Still dressed for bed, she met us at Hennuin lift bridge a short distance away and after letting us through, we waved at her and shouted “bon journee” In response, she grimaced and pulled her cardigan more tightly around her pyjama top. (Just goes to show you can have the easiest job in the world, and still not be happy).

“Strange lady” we both commented but what was more strange was the fact that we still had not yet seen another boat on this canal. We eventually pulled up at Pont des Attaques. Again, there was nobody around to work the lift bridge for us.

The sign board gave the same details as we had used for the previous lock so we called the number again and left a message. This time a young cheerful (fully dressed) lad turned up, opened the bridge and waved us through.

Not just a bridge, it is a roundabout

Drunk drivers beware of this tree

Great we thought, he will be at the next bridge a short distance away. No, that would be too simple.

“I’m getting sick of this,” I said as we were arrived at Coulogne and, once again, had nowhere to moor. A short distance from the sign board I noticed a kayak club and tied up on the struts of the jetty. It was only after doing this, that I spotted a VNF van hurtling on the road alongside us. It was going in the ‘wrong’ direction to open the bridge for us, so in desperation I jumped in front of it waving my arms to flag him down.

“You can’t moor there” he said before I could speak.

“I don’t want to moor there, I want to get to Calais” I said slightly exasperated by the situation.

“Oh, you don’t want to go to Calais” he responded “I am just on my lunch but when I get back I will help you”. And off he sped like a formula one racing driver.  

Returning after his lunch, he couldn’t have been more helpful. We had a few days before we needed to be in Calais and he explained that there would be problems for us if we headed there and it would be better for us to moor up next to his office at the bridge.

Our mooring in Coulogne

“What about all the boats using the bridge, aren’t we going to be in the way there?” we said. It turns out nobody ever uses the Canal de Calais anymore. The sea lock had been broken for two years before it was repaired so now everybody is in the habit of entering via Dunkerque.

We tied up and after digging out some fittings, he even dismantled and rebuilt his water system so we could fill up – what a lovely lock keeper, one in a million.

His sister had worked in Oldham, Manchester for a number of years and he’d visited her a few times and spoke really good English. With common interests, we talked for some time, although embarrassingly he stuck his arms out at one point and puckered his lips. He didn’t know the words to describe the blow up dolls he’d seen tucked under the odd arm or two on his visit to Blackpool. After laughing about this he then commented on how dirty and grimy the place looked.

“Well from what you have told me, you didn’t experience Blackpool from the right perspective at all” I said. “On arrival you need to drink until your ears leak and your eyes go blurry, then, when they turn on the illuminations you’ll think you’re in Las Vegas. Stick a (kiss of life me quick) hat on your head, just in case, and an inflatable lady under your arm for that stroll on the beach” I added.  

I can’t comment on the folk from Oldham, but the only food items that stuck in his mind were ready meals and Philadelphia cheese. To which he pulled out his tongue and said “Ewwww”.

Coulogne was only five kilometres from Calais so the next day we decided to take a cycle and have a look around. As I was balancing on the gunwale unlocking the bikes for our journey, the lock keeper came out from his office. “Don’t bother cycling, use the water bus. It is only €1 each way”. The stop for the waterbus was just the other side of the bridge so we hopped across and jumped on.

The water bus

Very few people use the service, we were the only customers

This sculpture, The Burghers of Calais, was created by Rodin in 1889. Following victory by the English in 1347 (the Hundred Years’ War) Edward III demanded that in order to spare the people of the city, six of its leaders surrender by wearing nooses around their necks, and carrying the keys to the city and castle. The burghers expected to be executed but Edward’s queen, Philippa of Hainault, persuaded him to show mercy as their deaths would be a bad omen on their unborn child.

Amazingly, for €1 there was a tea and coffee machine, a video in English about the history of Calais, toilets and really friendly conductor who, after spending many years in Australia, could speak perfect English. The journey lasted thirty minutes and we were dropped off right in the heart of the city. The conductor gave us a mine of information including the correct pronunciation of ‘vétérinaire’. Not that either of us could say it correctly in fact I don’t believe any Englishman could get their tongue around this word (vet-erry-on-airrrrrrrrre).

He was also kind enough to point out places not to moor on the trip to Calais, before recommending the halte nautique in the centre. “You will be ok there, no trouble” he said reassuringly. Apart from a migrant camp 20m away it did in fact look a good spot to moor.

The next day we decided to set off for Calais, but before leaving Coulogne, we visited the farm cheese shop and bought some raclette cheese for the kind and chatty lock keeper we had grown to know so well, as he had told us it was his favorite.

Once moored in Calais we took a stroll down to the beach, unfortunately, there were no dogs allowed in any direction for as far as the eye could see. Eventually, tired and footsore, we joined the queue at the takeaway van and studied the menu. It all looked like a variation on the theme of burgers so I just went with a cheese variety. Tracy, being unusually adventurous decided to chance her digestive system on something advertised as ‘Filet Amercain’ thinking it was going to be a proper piece of meat, she even asked the bemused looking server to put mustard on it.

The water bus passing our mooring in Calais

Like the blind man from the film Jason and the Argonauts, we sat amongst the giant seagulls dive bombing diners for chips and unwrapped our lunch. Mine was 80% bun and 20% slop burger with a thin slice of luminous processed cheese smudged on top. Tracy’s turned out to be mushed raw pork with a slither of mustard. Needless to say, she didn’t eat it and I handed it over to one of the many asylum seekers that hung around the port pondering how to cross the channel.

Not very appetising when your sandwich looks like a chapped arse

When we got back to the boat, someone had tried pinching the bikes from the roof not realising, I suspect, that they were locked up tightly (you can take the boy out of Manchester etc).

Despite the many warnings we had received about the immigrant problem in Calais our neighbours were a good bunch of lads. There were about twenty of them living under the railway bridge ranging in age from about 14 up to around 17. Apart from the one incident where they tried to pinch my bike, we had no trouble from them at all. Tracy and I just felt incredibly sorry for them. They had all left home, family and friends to live like animals in cold, wet and squalid conditions. They believed with utmost faith that if they could just get to England they would have a life of unimaginable comfort and riches. I chatted to them and tried to tell them what reality looked like. They wouldn’t believe me and one lad boasted that he would make me a millionaire if I would start transporting the migrants in batches on my boat.

The lads took great pride in their appearance and despite living in grim destitution would spend much of the morning washing, brushing teeth and otherwise grooming themselves for the day ahead. One young boy cycled past me dressed like he was going to spend a day in an office.

Tracy and I dug out all our old camping gear and gave it to them along with regular flasks of hot coffee and fresh baguettes.

It was a funny old week. Most of it was spent anxiously preparing for our journey back to England rather than sight seeing. The crane was due to arrive at the port on 1 October. After visiting Captain Fred at the port we were told we would have to enter at high tide the day before.

On the day in question, we were tied up just before the sea lock primed and ready to go. Adreneline was running high as we were both unsure how long it would take us to get to the port from where we were. We only had a small window of opportunity to do this and part of the journey was across a short sliver of open sea. We were both anxious and unsure if our slow-mo engine could safely transport us before the tide began to suck us out to sea.

Setting off towards the sea lock

At 3.00pm, Tracy radioed the control tower and the man on the other end informed us we had to wait thirty minutes. This wouldn’t have been too bad if Tracy would have been sure about our precise location, she called back ten minutes later and gave our exact position.

At 3.30pm she called again and was told it would be another twenty minutes before they got to us. At 3.50pm she radioed back. Silence. 4.00pm she tried again. Nothing.

In between her desperate blasts on the radio we would hear the posh public school accents of the ferry captains.

“This is the Pride of Calais waiting for a green to go, a green to go”

“Good afternoon captain, you have a green to go” the harbormaster responded.

“This is Genie’s Wish at the lock can we go?” the girl from Gorse Hill blurted. Silence.

Five minutes later “Port of Calais this is the Stenaline ferry we have engines started and are looking to exit” came the smooth calm tones of the Stenaline ferry captain.

“You have permission to exit the port have a good trip” came the reply from the harbormaster.

“Port of Calais, port of Calais, this is Genie’s Wish please can we go. Thank you, please” came the desperate screeching from an unhinged Mancuniun. Silence.

It was now 4.15pm, from our reckoning the window of opportunity was about to slam shut on our fingers; we needed to get through the lock and into the port.

The two of us begin to panic, as all our preparation pivoted on us getting in to that port. Tracy tried again and again and again. He must have written her off as ‘the mithering bitch from hell’ as the radio fell silent and there was no reply.

Angry and anxious I took the radio from Tracy and basically said “we are on a very slow canal boat, this is our one and only opportunity this side of a month. If we miss it we will be sending you the bill for the crane and the low loader arriving tomorrow from England”.

Within no time at all, the lock doors began to open. With no signs to follow and no detailed map on which way to go, we moved along panic stricken using only the tall cranes as our guide as one would stars on a clear night’s sky. The path we took came to a dead end and with no lock in sight our hearts sank. Then, just as the fingers of despair began to clutch our giblets, a low bridge disguised as a road began to retract revealing the huge P&O ferries and the wide-open sea.

“I’m not sure what we are going to do if the tide suddenly decides to suck us out to sea” I said with nerves jangling.

“Just give it full revs and aim the bow towards Dover” came Tracy’s reply.

Looking down from these massive ships, we must have looked like a discarded lollypop stick bobbing past them on the choppy dockside waves.

Finally exiting the lock, now which way?

Which way now?

Straight ahead to Dover

It was with enormous relief we arrived at the swing bridge and couldn’t get into the port fast enough as it swung open for us. It was now only a matter of waiting until the next day for the crane and lorry to take us back to England.

Approaching the port, the tide has turned and is now beginning to get choppy

Made it safely into the port

Wet Wet Wet - live on TV

Fred had originally given us a time of 4.00pm for the crane but the day prior had asked if we could make lunchtime instead. We spoke to our wagon driver who thought there was a good chance he would get to Calais for l.00pm.

At 11.30am on the day of our departure, Fred approached me and said, “I hope your driver is on time as the crane operator can’t hang about”.  I rang our driver straight away to see if we were still on schedule.  “Sorry, the wagon wouldn’t start this morning. Don’t worry I’m about 30 minutes away from Dover as we speak”.

By my calculations, half an hour to Dover plus one and a half hours to cross the channel would put his time of arrival forward to around 2.30pm. Sheepishly, I went to inform Fred. He was none too pleased but said “well if that’s definite it should be ok but the crane operator’s itching to go home.”

In the time that followed, I couldn’t think about anything else. I was sat with the phone in front of me willing it to ring with good news from our wagon driver. I literally watched as the seconds hand raced around and around the kitchen clock and kept picking up and putting my phone down just to check I hadn’t missed his call. Finally, I gave him another ring thinking that he must surely be somewhere near Calais by now.

“How’s it going” I asked “well they pulled the last ferry off, so its going to be after 2.00pm before I get on the next one” he said “OK, see you then” I replied looking at the time. It was almost 2.00pm.

I wandered over to Fred and the crane driver and gave them the news. He is about to get on the ferry but it is going to be 3.30pm before he gets here I said. Fred huffed and shook his head and the crane driver looked despondent.

At 3.15pm I rang the driver yet again. “Are you nearly here?” I asked  "I've just boarded” he replied.

“But you said you were getting on a 2.00pm.” I said anxiously.

“Ahh, I’m going off English time and you must be going off French time, that’s an hour forward isn’t it?” He replied calmly.

“Shit! That means with the hour and a half sea crossing you’re not going to get here before 4.30pm” I gasped.

“Look, just tell the crane driver I will pay him the difference if he hangs on”.  He responded and then, just at that moment, the credit on my French SIM ran out.

This news came like a sledgehammer blow to my brainpan. I put off telling Fred the news straight away and walked to the shop in order to buy some beers to sweeten the bitter pill.

“There’s no point topping up the phone Martin we’ll do that when we get over to England on our new SIM, I’m sure the driver will keep you posted now” Tracy said as I was leaving.

Returning, I handed the box of beers to Fred as I was informing him of the new time development. “Keep hold of them for now as the crane driver may not wait that long. Come back in a bit, give me chance to have a word with him” he said irritably.

Thinking he may not put any trust in my driver (and who would blame him) in desperation I said I would pay the difference in money to the crane operative.

Thirty minutes later Fred said “look, if your man isn’t here by 5pm latest you will be too late as no matter what, we’re all going home.

“In fact, we are going to crane you out on to hardstanding in about thirty minutes.” He added as a parting shot.

The situation was ramped up to defcon 5 back on the boat and we sat down to see if we could put a contingency plan in place.

We agreed that we would absolutely refuse to be craned on to hardstanding as Fred had already told us that they could only get access to the mobile crane once a month and it would mean we would have to pay a charge to the port for the privilege of being somewhere we didn’t want to be.

Our only other option would be to get back to Nieuwpoort in Belguim where they have their own craneage facilities. The only problem with this plan was that some of the locks on the French canals were about to close for the winter and we were unsure as to what circuitous route we would have to take to get there. There was also the small matter of having to pay the Belgiums for using their waterway.

At 4.15pm we still hadn’t heard from our wagon driver. “Your face has gone grey Martin” Tracy told me. “Don’t worry, I’ll walk to the shops and put €10 on the phone so you can phone him, he’s probably hasn’t got a signal on the ferry” she added.

It was 4.45pm, a long half an hour before Tracy returned. I’d spent all day worrying and this last half hour waiting for the wagon driver to call was the worst half an hour of my life.

“Well that’s it I suppose, I can’t see him turning up now and it looks like the crane operatives are getting ready to leave”. I said deflated

I took the phone and walked up on to the quayside to see if I could see a low loader approaching. The road was empty. I tried one last time to contact our driver. It was now 4.50pm and with ten minutes to go, the phone rang out but with no answer.

I walked slowly over to Fred and mentally prepared myself to take what was coming.

There was only one thing left to do. I prayed. “God, if we are going to get home, we need your help now.”

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Moorings in Coulogne

Cost: The very nice lock keeper will let you moor outside his office next to the bridge.

Facilities: The lock keeper will let you have water if you ask nicely. No electricity.

Location: Small town with a good selection of shops.

Moorings in Calais – Halte Nautique

Cost: Free.

Facilities: None.

Location: Five minute walk into the centre of Calais.

Moorings in Calais – Port

Cost: €39 per night with water and electricity (we didn’t have either so don’t know if there is an additional charge for these).

Facilities: Water and electricity available (see above).

Location: Centre of Calais