“Look son, Europe!” he pointed ahead.

Fast approaching were the sand dunes of the French coast. My ordeal was almost over.

Funny how things happen in life sometimes isn’t it? The opening of the Channel Tunnel marked the end of the hovercraft ferry service between Ramsgate and Calais. The hovercrafts were too expensive to run. I remember seeing the last service on the evening news several years ago and felt a touch of nostalgia – I had many happy crossings on the hovercraft once I stayed off the coke and chocolate and discovered the benefits of travel sickness pills.

I have been living and working in West Africa for a while now. Usually if I have to fly to Freetown in Sierra Leone, I take the short helicopter shuttle from the airport at Lungi, across the river to the city. Now there is an alternative service, introduced just this year. They have bought the very hovercraft that I first traveled on all those years ago. The trip takes longer, but it’s worth it to say hello to an old friend.

We had arrived! The hovercraft entered a gap in the wall of sand dunes and reduced speed to a fast walking pace as it approached the car park. The engine note faded to a low drone and our craft gently lowered itself onto the tarmac, the air leaving the supporting skirt in a hiss.

The drivers and their passengers hurried to their vehicles anxious to continue their journeys. I wondered if any of them intended to travel as far as us.

Sadly our first moments in Continental Europe were marred by an undignified brawl. Nobody wanted to have to sit in the middle of the back seat – starved of air and only able to look straight ahead. Our parents separated us and allocated us our positions on the understanding that it would be “all change” when we stopped for fuel.

The row of vehicles on our right disembarked before us. Mr. Volvo driver looked icy daggers at me as he crawled past and the little Volvos pulled faces. Hey, I said I was sorry. So post me the dry cleaning bill! When I am old enough, I’ll get a paper round to pay for it.

Our car soon followed and we joined the procession to the customs barrier. Here a bored customs official and a couple of equally bored Gendarmes gave our documents a cursory inspection before handing them back. Even though our car, being from Britain, was right hand drive, they insisted on standing on the left of the car and dealing with the driver through the passenger window. Just a subtle way of letting us know we were in their world now. The officials took no notice of our heavily laden vehicle and merely waved us on.

Clearly it was inconceivable to them that there might possibly be anything in Britain worth smuggling into France. Like what? Cheese? Wine? Cognac? Mais non mes amis! Any smuggling would only be conceivable if it were going in the opposite direction.

A sign in English reminded us that pretty much the rest of the universe drives on the right hand side of the road, and we were off.

Dad popped some caffeine tablets to keep him alert. All the traffic seemed to be heading out of Calais. We followed and it wasn’t long before we picked up signs for Paris.

I am not sure what I expected, but the towns and villages we passed through all looked so different from home, so French if you like. I can’t actually come up with a better description.

The skies were clear and blue. The ambient temperature already several degrees warmer than when we had left Manchester.

It was strange to see things like advertising billboards, some advertising familiar products, but not being able to make head nor tail of the captions.