Cherbourg to Portsmouth: The Plat du Protest Express
Ah, the romance of ferry travel, sea spray, seagulls, and the gentle hum of civil unrest. Our return voyage from Cherbourg began with a surprise twist—our sailing was bumped to an earlier slot due to portside protests. Whether they were rallying against ferry timetables, the tyranny of duty-free Toblerones, or the existential dread of maritime bureaucracy, we’ll never know. What we do know is that we joined a queue longer than the plot of Les Misérables, boarded with the grace of caffeinated penguins, and were promptly served a plat du jour that defied translation and possibly classification. It was either coq au vin or a bold reinterpretation of plumbing putty. Delicious either way.
Trish Dines, Poseidon Whines
In a twist worthy of maritime legend, the crossing was so smooth it could’ve been sponsored by silk. Trish—usually the poster child for Dramamine and dry toast—achieved the impossible: she ate a meal. A whole meal. Not just a nibble or a brave sniff. Somewhere between Cherbourg and Portsmouth, Poseidon must’ve taken the day off, because Trish tucked into the plat du jour like a seasoned sailor on shore leave. We’re still waiting for the ferry company to issue a commemorative plaque.
Knock Knock, Who’s There? Asphalt
Back on British soil, we disembarked and began the drive home, spirits high and stomachs full of mystery meat. All was well until roughly eight miles from the end of the A34, where our front wheels began auditioning for Stomp: The Automotive Musical. A rhythmic knocking emerged, perfectly timed with our speed, as if the car had developed a taste for interpretive percussion. Naturally, we pulled into a layby, whipped out a head torch like seasoned pit crew, and began the inspection. What did we find? Not loose bolts, not gremlins—just a road paved with evenly spaced asphalt ridges, like a tarmac xylophone. The car wasn’t broken. It was just jamming.
Return of the Laundry-Scented Legend: Home, Chaos, and Basil Uprisings
Home at last! The front door creaked open like it was judging me for abandoning it to the whims of the neighborhood cats, who’ve clearly staged a coup and now rule the garden with iron paws. Inside, our plants have evolved into a new civilization—there’s a basil dictatorship in the kitchen and the spider plant is running a black-market humidity ring. I tripped over a pile of mail that’s taller than the Eiffel Tower (mostly pizza flyers and one mysterious envelope addressed to “The Chosen One”), and the fridge greeted us with the scent of betrayal and a yogurt that’s now legally old enough to vote.
But despite all the chaos, the kettle still knows our names, and the couch welcomed us back like a clingy ex. Home: where the weird is familiar and the laundry is eternal.
Comments
Debbie Stokes
I think we enjoyed your blog as much as your did your trip
