A few months ago, one of my former colleagues said something like, “Hey, we’re thinking of taking the ferry to France for the weekend. We’re taking the car. Do you want to come along?”
I am the worst person to say these things to.
Because I always say yes.
And before you know it, I’m off to Portsmouth with my friends A and C and we’re driving their car onto the quite large and substantial ferry. If you like logistics and operations like I do, this is pretty damn amazing. ALL THESE CARS. Squeezed onto this one ferry. Off to France! Across the sea. Amazing.
We booked cabins on the ferry and I had a spacious four-berth room to myself. It was tiny and pink and clean and neat. Not luxurious at all, and I slept like crap down in the bowels of the ship, but it was not bad, all in all. (I really cannot imagine sharing this room with three other people though, unless they were my children and even then, it would be hard.)
As soon as we got onto the ship, A. hustled us to the posh restaurant and procured a corner table. I am laughing as I’m writing this because guys, it was a real restaurant, with real food! Quelle surprise! The service was very French and very lovely. I had the poached sole and we drank Champagne out of tiny bottles and capped our night with some Muscat and the dessert bar, where we may have eaten all the Tiramasu and all the cheese. Lactose intolerant, we are not.
Bright and early the next morning, we arrived in the medieval city of St. Malo. They have ramparts there. For the next 36 hours, we drove around Brittany and Normandy and drank all the wine and ate all the oysters. A perfect weekend, really.
Well done, Brittany Ferries. Well done.