A few decades ago, travelling between England and France, I took the ferry across the English Channel (or La Manche, as the French prefer to call it).
The highlight, on both legs of the journey, was the sight of the famous White Cliffs of Dover. That luminous landmark comes to mind this fine Parisian morning as I mosey into bustling Gare du Nord, armed with a bag of fresh, warm pain au chocolat, and a rail ticket to Calais.
Shunning the rapid Eurostar to London via the Channel Tunnel, I've decided to indulge my nostalgia, embrace "slow travel" and go by sea instead. From Calais, I can hop on a boat to Dover.
According to the station's departures board, my train is leaving in 10 minutes, enough time for me to grab a takeaway drink (creamy coffee with French pastries is heaven).
Head in the clouds, I show my ticket to two uniformed female staff standing next to a large platform with trains either side. I swear they point me to the train on the left.
I seem to have a first-class carriage all to myself (booking online, it was only $3 extra to upgrade from second class).
Mulling over my good fortune, and enjoying my breakfast, I see, through the window, the train next to us drifting off.
A few minutes later, we chug away. We're going incredibly slowly, mind, and I'm still all alone in this carriage. Mmmmmmm. I sense something's not quite right. I wander into the next carriage. It's empty.
So is the next one. And the next one. And the bistro carriage. Ooops. My heart starts to throb implausibly fast. Then it sinks to my stomach. My mouth, meanwhile, utters words that I cannot possibly repeat here.
About 10 minutes later, the snail-paced train halts at a depot on Paris' shabby northern edges. Machines splash water over the carriages. Men in overalls are supervising the process. I open a door. They look shocked. "Calais?" I say, showing my ticket.
They call someone on their walkie-talkie. Five minutes later, a large, besuited African man appears. He leads me to a small office, where three African colleagues are chatting in French.
One speaks English. "How did you get here?" he asks. "This is a high-security place!"
Their suspicion quickly evaporates into gentle laughter when I curse my Inspector Clouseau-like incompetence and explain that I must have chosen the wrong train. After chuckling some more, they release, and direct me to the nearest Metro station, from which I return to Gare du Nord. There I manage to convince the ticket office folk to issue me a complimentary replacement ticket to Calais ("Your staff should have pointed me to the right train!" was my argument, as I rebutted their attempts to force me to buy a new full fare).
From Calais station, I walk to the port and pass British border control, where a Geordie official looks at my attire (T-shirt, shorts and thongs), and says: "You might wanna think about getting dressed pal!"
It's blustery on the deck of P&O's Spirit of Britain ferry, the skies are overcast and there's an autumnal chill in the air.
But as we glimpse the English coastline, the magnificent White Cliffs gleam through the murkiness. It's really, really lovely to see them again. Worth today's headache, that's for sure.
