Travel

A Crossing To France Susan Monshaw Describes Her Journey To France During The Recent Pandemic

If you’re swimming, it can take 7 to 23 hours to cross the English Channel, depending on the weather and your determination. If you’re Princess Anne, you made the trip in 1995 in your namesake hovercraft in a record 22 minutes. If you go from England to France via the Channel Tunnel (started in 1988, officially opened in 1994), you’ll arrive in 35 minutes. And if, in August 2021, you travel by ferry, taking your car from Dover to Calais, your trip will have an elapsed time of several months, though the voyage is only 90 minutes.

Pourquoi? Thanks to the global pandemic, Brexit, and the confusing position of being UK residents holding US passports, it took an inordinate amount of preparation and research to make sure we’d be allowed into the glorious land of baguettes, pastis and fois gras, then back into the equally glorious land of cream teas, shepherd’s pie and Cornish pasties. But if you want to go to France as badly as we always do, you keep calm and crack on.

We spent hours combing government websites looking for specific regulations and requirements surrounding pandemic-era, international travel. The rule makers on both sides of the narrow body of water separating England and France were generally vague and contradictory. Also, as the political climate shifted and the traffic light system of policies pertaining to travel between the countries became especially vexing: what colour, exactly, is “orange plus”? Does this mean proceed with caution? Slow down? Give up? Turn back? We did none of these and continued with our plans. The tricky part, as it turns out, wasn’t our passports, but getting a newfangled one for the dog!

George Beagle, age 6, is better travelled than many humans we know. Though his impeccable bloodlines originate in Boston, his canine passport was issued in the UK, pre-Brexit. A thoroughly complicated and breathtakingly expensive Animal Health Certificate is required for him to cross the channel, and it must be executed within three days of travel. Luckily, our London veterinarian knew what to do, rolling her eyes at the 10-page tribute to bureaucratic efficiency. She was, however, very happy to collect the cash and remind us that a similar procedure would be required for our return trip.

While George loves his London life, he would never forgive us if he missed the opportunity to enjoy all those baguette ends, affectionately called nubs at our house. So, we loaded up our British car, tucked George into the backseat and set off for the 2-hour drive to the port in Dover.

When we started to see signs for the ferry terminal, we braced ourselves for the extravagant queues we had been warned of. Instead, however, we breezed down the hill, entering the access road without touching the brakes. Before we knew it, we were at UK passport control. Where was everybody?

Here, we pulled out our folder, thick with the required entry applications, attestations to our fully-vaccinated, negative-test Covid-19 status, up-to-date American passports and the Golden Animal Health Certificate. We had consulted dozens of Facebook groups dedicated to travel to France, owning a second home in France, travelling to your second home in France, and doing all of this with man’s best friend in tow. Amidst the hand wringing and pontificating, we saw tales of families turned away from crossing because they didn’t have valid tests for their underaged children. We read the horrifying account of a pet owner refused entry because she carried homemade food for her dogs. This, according to the French customs official, would be importing meat across the border. Forbidden. Interdit.

As we approached the border control booth, it felt a bit like being called to the school principal’s office. We prepared for the capricious unknown. A smiling young man (well, his eyes were smiling above his required mask) asked if we were vaccinated. ‘Yes’, we shouted, eagerly scrambling for the proof. He waved us off. ‘Do you have the

But if you want to go to France as badly as we always do, you keep calm and crack on

certificate for the dog’? ‘Yes! Of course!’, we said, as he handed the device for us to scan Mr. Beagle’s microchip. The border guard took our sheaf of documents into his booth for closer scrutiny and we held our breath. In a mere few moments, he handed back our precious paperwork and we were moving again. We had run the gauntlet with shocking ease and speed, finding ourselves at the front of the line, waiting to enter the maw of the gigantic ferry. We followed a few huge commercial trucks onto the ship joining about a dozen cars and a handful of smaller trucks tucked into the front of the ship’s hold. Built to hold 2,000 passengers, 180 commercial vehicles or 1,059 cars, the rear door closed leaving us in an eerily empty cavern. It was tough to leave our disgruntled, four-legged companion, but he was not invited up to Deck 8 for the complimentary, full English breakfast.

It was a beautiful morning and the sight of the receding, mystical white cliffs of Dover was spectacular. Looking east, from the empty deck, we could just see the faint outline of the French coast. There were a few cargo ships on the horizon and we passed a ferry going in the opposite direction. We couldn’t escape the thought of the 5,000 vessels and 160,000 troops who took the same journey in 1944, theirs to save the world, ours to merely enjoy it more. It was an overwhelming and emotional moment.

Inside the ferry, there are several lounges and the ubiquitous duty-free shop. Here hundreds of bottles of liquors, wine, and beer clink rhythmically, creating a tinkly little accompaniment to the thrumming engines below our feet. The line is long, mostly men, likely the lorry drivers, speaking Polish and Italian. They are buying booze, cigarettes and Cadbury’s chocolate. I can’t imagine needing to take wine into France, surely these folks are continuing to other EU countries!

We land on the French shore with little fanfare. The ferry slides up to the dock, the giant door drops open, foot traffic precedes vehicles, and we have arrived. Now, after all our white-knuckle driving on the “wrong” side of the road in the UK, we must remind ourselves to stay to the right. We will travel another 12 hours on highways named Autoroute des Anglais (Highway of the English) and Route de Soleil (Road of the Sun). We’ll pass through toll plazas where we would need to get out of the car, run around to pay the toll, saluting the frustrated drivers behind us. Note: there is a solution to this dilemma called Emovis pass. We’ll travel with a lot of Germans, hurtling toward their long-awaited holidays and we’ll pay too much for tiny coffees at the gas stations along the way. ‘No matter’, says George Beagle, ‘it’s all worth it’.

ROBERT MCGUIRE

Associate Director/ Global Employer Services Robert.McGuire@bdo.co.uk