Down the coast and then inland past Abbeville to Amiens for lunch. Onward to Albert with a spontaneous detour via Villers-Bretonneux.
Because of its unique position, Calais has become the gateway through which many asylum seekers attempt to enter the UK. The Jungle was their temporary home at the time we were there, a tarpaulin town in the woods from which they later scattered after its razing by the authorities that year. They make their escape via ferry after precariously clinging to trucks, stowing away or, more desperately and violently, by carjacking tourists.
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Calm weather and a quiet building made for a peaceful night. There was no audible evidence of the ocean despite being several floors up, only the subtle white noise of hotel air conditioning.
A walk around the corner and down the skewed street for a typically French breakfast of croissants and coffee, then to the beach, vast and luminous and planted with rows of tiny white huts.
Above, a signal tower at the port where ferries shuffle back and forth to Dover. In a parallel route to the west, Eurostar trains piston through Chunnel in the seabed.