Snails have it made. They’re born into a world of plenty. Surrounded by green lush on all sides, their constant on-tap supply of fuel and energy sustains and maintains. It’s no wonder their growth rate can be phenomenal, though they never outgrow their home. Some subtle mathematics and their fibonacci-like spiral is ever accommodating. A warm, cosy and protective outer is all they need. And when it comes to locomotion, a little slippery slime can take them a long, long way – you just ask our hostas.
Motorhomes are not called motorhomes for no reason. With an eight week jaunt ahead, the list of must takes, plus the forgotten must takes from last time, stuff Beastie’s inners to bursting. Once we’ve packed every item we perceive as being essential to replicate our home situation, he thinks it’s time we put out a call to Norris (R.I.P.) Then, when he’s fully loaded and on his way, his Billy Bunter Belly starts to rumble and grumble like a Moaning Minnie. Rocket propelled he is not. His speed becomes almost snail pace on any sizable incline. But get us there he does.
The eventual end to a long and sometimes frustrating day, sees us pitched up at our favourite pre-chunnel Black Horse site in Densole. A ten minute drive from La Manche. 10.20am crossing all booked for tomorrow (Wednesday) morning.