Blue Skies Over the White Cliffs of Dover

Last week we headed off for much-anticipated mid-term break to the UK. Journeying to a holiday destination by car still holds a certain thrill for me; firstly I love the fact that no-one is going to weigh my luggage so if I decide to completely over-pack, it's my business and won't involve handing over a credit card. Secondly, it brings back fond memories of being a kid, huddled together with my sisters in the enormous back seat of our big V8 Holden, roaring off in the early misty morning for Te Kaha or Paihia for a week of living on crayfish, paua, butterfish and all sorts of other goodies Dad would bring home and Mum would cook to perfection with just one pot and a rusty spatula. Days spent playing on the beach, crunching sand with all our food and not really caring, and hair so full of sea salt it would take three shampoo washes before it would even move again. Ten cents pocket money each day - a real treat since we never had pocket money as growing up on a farm meant there wasn't anywhere to spend it anyway - and hours spent hanging upside down on the monkey bars at the local park or building huts under the Pohutukawa trees at the beach, in the days before parents started looking sideways at every potential child snatcher walking past. I also vividly remember being pretty ill on some hoildays, with bronchitis and chest infections necessitating trips to strange doctors we didn't know. I particularly have very crystal clear memories of being prescribed a cough medicine by an elderly witch doctor in Paihia which was dark blue in colour and so vile tasting it actually made me vomit and stained my tongue and teeth. Aah, the fond recollections of our youth!

I digress. Just before we headed off our new toy arrived; a Tom Tom. Ok, we must be the last people on the planet to get one but hey, we've survived with maps up until now. After reading the instruction book cover to cover (I admit it's an obsession but it's one I can live with), I programmed in our destination - to Dunkirke then from Dover to near Tunbridge Wells - and off we set. Ah, the bliss of not having to track our progress kilometre by kilometre, one finger pressed firmly into the map book so as not to lose our place. I even downloaded - get this - a female NEW ZEALAND voice for the Tom Tom - my squeals of "honey I found a voice without ANY ACCENT AT ALL!!!! probably audible across half of Lochem. Can't imagine why hubby was rolling his eyes and mumbling, but I swear it took less than 24 hours for him to start ignoring that machine, so maybe an accent like mine was asking for trouble.

All was well until we got close to Antwerp, and then Moana (that's what I christened) her died. No more power. At all. Turns out there was a faulty fuse in that little hole you shove the power cable into (and yes I do believe that is the technical name thank you very much) so it wasn't charging. However we still had our trusty maps, so off we sped to the ferry terminal.

Ferries are so much more relaxing than planes. We simply drove up to customs point where the cheerful officials briefly squinted at our passports to make sure they were the right colour (yes that's why I married him darling) before being waved onto the vessel. We lounged about a bit and then, get this, I had a MASSAGE on the boat before we docked in Dover. Let's see that happen on a plane. Plus the return trip cost just 60 euros for all of us, the car, and Moana (on Norfolk Line). Unblievable.

Arriving at our converted stable cum cottage in Shipbourne, the sun was still shining, the golden autumn leaves were sighing in the breeze, and it was the perfect time to crack open the bottle of Tanquery I'd picked up on board for half the price we pay at home, ready for a pre-dinner G&T. We were officially in holiday mode.