The alarm fails to go off at 6am, but by a stroke of luck the lorries outside have woke me. I repack by bag and go down for breakfast, and guess what? Monti's late as usual. He turns up after a few minutes and we swap small talk while trying to wake up. I can't face much to eat, I'm far too excited and I always get screwed up when I travel like this, so all I have is some toast and coffee. We collect our stuff and Malcolm writes out some postcards from the hotel for Francesca (his eldest girl, my god daughter) and asks the receptionist to post one now and the other in a day or so. Nice touch. We fill up and go down the road to the docks, which are being expanded at a rate of knots to try to compete with the channel tunnel when it is finished. Our ferry leaves at 8am, and after we are directed on board we make our way upstairs to the 'motorists lounge'.

The sea is calm and soon we are off, through the harbour entrance with the white cliffs of Dover receding into the distance. We do the usual cross channel things, have a cuppa, walk round the duty free shop, watch the ships wake, and think of home. Before long the coast of France is visible, and the familiar stretch of sandy beach which runs for a couple of miles or so up to the port at Calais. We have to 'hove to' outside the harbour while a French ferry departs. As the gateway to Europe, Calais docks leave a little to be desired. Dirty, uninspiring, grey, deserted. I guess ports around the world are all alike. It's 10.46 local time when we go down the ramp, and we make the usual jokes about driving on the right, the French police and all the other poor unfortunates who work in the port. Once outside the port I use the car 'phone to ring Zena at work. The phone still works even here (1989, remember) but we will be out of range soon. The reception is good, she could be in the next room. She says she is fine, she didn't cry when I left, not much anyway, and I promise to 'phone when we get there'. Monti gives Jean and the girls a quick ring, then we are off down the French motorway. It is some time since I have travelled in this part of France, and the motorway has been extended further North towards Calais. It is very smooth and we are soon humming along nicely. The weather has brightened up a bit and the road is drying out. Monti is on the look-out for the 'old bill' (police), he got caught for speeding on his last trip this way.

We travel across the flat northern plain and the road signs tell a story all of their own - Arras, Somme, Picardy, and my thoughts drift to my great uncle George. He was regimental sergeant major with the Royal Irish Fusiliers and saw action here in the First World War. He would be pleased to think I am travelling through the country where he won his medals and I make a mental note to return some day and spend more time. The land is so flat, with few trees, it must have been awful to fight here, nowhere to hide, just dig your trench and keep your head down.

My great uncle George, decorated with the Military Medal, and the French Criox de Guere.

We hear a lot nowadays about counselling for people who have been involved in traumatic events, but poor uncle George never had the benefit of counselling, he had to come to terms with his experience on his own, and that's a brave thing in itself.