If you’re not an early morning person, you would not have enjoyed travelling with us this morning. We got up at 4 am and Aramis was now certain that his owner had lost the plot. He decided to ignore my packing, shuffled to the remotest corner in the room and rolled himself up into a ball. He was probably hoping I’d change my mind if he just refused to acknowledge my efforts to wake him.
The night watch staff at the hotel commented on my sportive endeavours as I ran back and forth several times between the hotel room and the car. I had mislaid my glasses. And time was becoming an issue. Oh, and petrol.
I found the glasses. Bought Gudrun generous breakfast. Made it to Calais in time. The road was dark. There was very little traffic, Aramis still refused to show any other signs of life than occasional breathing. I was tired, and had Benjamin von Stuckrad-Barre tell me more about his rather pleasant sounding shenanigans of substance abuse. Decided not to become a drug addict or bulimic anyway.
And then, Calais. A dull transit town that I, in my ignorance perhaps, have never associated with anything else than its unfortunate existence as another temporary symbol for the migrant crisis, and its somewhat more fortunate relative geographical proximity to Dover.
I give Aramis his breakfast, which he eats, but then immediately goes back to sleep, just to make a point.
As I am writing, the sun is rising and warming up the damp and rundown sitting area of this DFDS ferry. I am very much looking forward to having breakfast with my friend in London and hope that the drive there will be hassle free.
Despite Brexit and all, this was the first time that the officers had virtually no interest in Aramis whatsoever. His passport was barely looked at. Most surprising of all, I was not even asked to check his microchip. So the boot remained shut and I could have brought a baby panda into the country. Nobody would have noticed.
The Adventures of Aramis 