Monday 26th September
The day had finally arrived, our fanfare homecoming. Feared
at first but now a very welcomed ship on the rally horizon. 70 days of
continuous travel since the 16th July had led us to this point, the
day we were to say goodbye to our nomadic lifestyles and close an epic chapter
inked into our lives. But with coastal France and the English Channel still to
cross, we weren’t quite home and dry just yet.
To champion this momentous day we decided it was only apt to
get all nostalgic over breakfast. 3 tins of Heinz sausage and beans that we
intended to eat on the very first morning at Goodwood still lay untouched at
the bottom of our now empty food bag. Thanks to the expert culinary skills of
one Paul Alford, we had opted for spaghetti bolognaise on that fateful day at
the launch and completely forgot to eat the tins
of processed goodness. Unloved, rusting and bullied by the more wholesome pasta
and tomato sauces of this world, the three tins soon found themselves falling
further and further to the one place no edible item wants to be, the bottom of
the food bag. Just ask the Paxo stuffing mix, now there’s a foodstuff that can
relate to living in this cesspit of neglect.
Despite numerous attempts to be ousted by buckwheat vomit flakes and cocky fresh eggs, the loyal tinned breakfasts clung on in there and remained with us every step of the journey. Not only were their exterior shells still intact, but also their contents were still fresh after 2 and a half months on the road. Extremely weathered, covered in sticky jam and almost label-less, the tins were prised open and we tucked in.
Despite numerous attempts to be ousted by buckwheat vomit flakes and cocky fresh eggs, the loyal tinned breakfasts clung on in there and remained with us every step of the journey. Not only were their exterior shells still intact, but also their contents were still fresh after 2 and a half months on the road. Extremely weathered, covered in sticky jam and almost label-less, the tins were prised open and we tucked in.
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| The last meal |
Once back on the road it was a mere 212 miles to Calais
then 87 miles across the ferry and up the M20 back to Sevenoaks until we were
home. We could almost taste it we were so close. A mood of restrained
excitement filled Marigold as we crept closer and closer to Calais. On the one
hand we remained in a quiet, contemplative mood as we reflected on our time
travelling, but on the other there was also no hiding the palpable eagerness to
crawl over that finish line and declare mission accomplished.
Roadside views were characterised by an abundance of wind
turbines as we made our way through France thanks to their country having the
second largest wind potential in Europe. Towering high above us, we were
dwarfed by these 200m tall spinning blades of power either side of the road.
But as we navigated our way through the minefield of wind farms we noticed one
turbine appeared a lot smaller than the rest. Spinning ferociously at twice the
speed of his imposing peers, here was an infant turbine trying his best to make
an impression. Renewable energy? He wasn’t such a big fan.
With the very last 55p to our names (not even joking), we
each bought a snickers from the port at Calais, boarded the ferry and prayed we
had enough fuel to get us home the other side. The fact that we had completely
run out of every last penny in the final two hours of the final day of the
rally was either down to sheer dumb luck, or our exquisite budgeting skills. I’m
fairly sure it was the latter; scrap paper, ballpark mental arithmetic and an
alcohol consumption error range of +/- 48%, you just can’t teach that level of
sophistication. Move over Chemical Engineering, we could pass an ACA accounting
qualification in our sleep.
Aboard the ferry it was time to take the all-important
“before and after shot” to compare our now rugged appearance with the clean-cut
baby faces that graced the Great British shoreline 71 days ago. Looking at that
photo I was staring into the eyes of three men with no idea what lay ahead of
them. No idea of the challenges, laughter and the incredible adventure they
were about to embark upon. Now, when I look at the same photo two and a half
months on I look into the eyes of complete fulfilment. Our bearded and weary
yet still beaming faces serve as a timely reminder that we did the rally right.
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| Day 1 vs Day 71, boys to men |
Despite all the wonderful scenery, landscapes and natural
phenomena we had encountered on the rally, there’s still something uniquely
special about seeing the White Cliffs of Dover. In the same way the Statue of
Liberty welcomes those to the shores of the US, the white cliffs have come to
symbolise our great nation. The magical thing about home is that it feels good
to leave, but even better to come back.
Just as we were queuing to disembark the ferry we ran into
a few other outrageously outfitted cars who were also returning home from a
trip of their own. These guys had just completed the Screwball Rally, a 5-day
drive from England to Prague and back again. That’s cute. Whilst we were on the
home straight of a full-blown Ironman, they had effectively just completed a
power walk to the shop and back for a pot noodle. Nevertheless, they seemed
like friendly folk and were even generous enough to donate to our charities.
Cheers gents, whoever you are. Even one of the staff members directing vehicles
off the ferry recognised us from 71 days earlier. “You made it back then?” he
smiled.
As we rolled off the ferry’s ramp, our lungs filled with
the bitter sea air but the warmth of a sense of belonging. As the famous mantra
goes, go big or go home. Well we went big, and now we’d come home.
Exiting the ferry port the first thing we passed was the
peeling advertising board and dilapidated remnants of a Carpet Right store, a
true sign we were home. Windows rolled down, “Walking on a Dream” blaring out
of the car speakers and beside ourselves with excitement, Kent’s countryside
never looked or felt so good. Totally anonymous stretches of the M20 motorway
had now transformed into the Transfagarasan Highway, the Silk Road and the
Pamir Highway all rolled into one. Even other motorists were passing us with
their hands aloft, applauding and willing us on. It felt like a homecoming
parade. Rich and Caleb were certainly transfixed by these most joyous of scenes;
Alf on the other hand was fretting about driving on the left hand side for the
first time in nearly 3 months.
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| About to set foot back in the UK |
There was no time to catch our breath as we hurtled our way
inland. We flew past Ashford then Maidstone, across the River Medway and onto
the M25, gathering more and more momentum as we went. When the Sevenoaks sign
came into view we knew it was only a matter of moments before our whirlwind
adventure was to draw its last breath. With darkness descending, we turned into
Brittains Lane and entered the final furlong. At precisely 7.18pm we pulled
into the bunting covered driveway of number 73, Casa d’Alford, where it all
began 71 days before. Marigold, an ex granny wagon from the serenity of the
Somerset countryside, had carried us 18,175 miles across 25 different countries
through a kaleidoscopic journey of wonder.
Whereas the outward journey had been filled with
breath-taking scenery, magical experiences and unforgettable memories, our
return leg offered enrichment of a different kind. The unpredictability of
Russia, the stunning architecture of Scandinavia and the madness of Amsterdam gave
our adventure the perfect blend of awe, discovery and perspective.
It was a hell of run, but all good things must come to an
end.
From East to West, home is best.
From East to West, home is best.
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| Home |
Posted by: Rich