Folkestone

The last couple of years I've visited Britain much more frequently than in the previous two decades. Many of these visits have been beer-connected. Trips to the archive, judging for Tesco, Beer Writers' Guild dinners. That sort of thing.

My short stay in Folkestone last weekend was an exception. It was principally a shopping expedition. For food. Now Mikey has a car, it's simple. For me, at least. I don't have to drive. The only slight worry is that his car is about to fail its MOT and was making some rather disturbing noises. And the hole in the exhaust made it sound like a Heinkel 111 with a sore throat.

We left Amsterdam 08:30 on Saturday. An hour or so later I was scanning the beer section of a Belgian petrol station. Pretty crap, to be honest. But you can't expect somewhere like that to stock Westvleteren or Struise. I had to settle for a few cans of Gordon's Finest Gold. Not the world's greatest, but, at 10%, at least it has a little poke. And the only other options were either dull pale lagers or Inbev nasties like Leffe.

For some of you, 09:30 might be on the early side to be guzzling a ten percenter. You're probably right. I'm not so sure it was a particularly wise course of action. But when did that ever stop me? Two hours later, with an achingly full bladder and Calais still 30 km away, I was already beginning to regret the beer. I didn't have a spare pair of kecks with me, so any toileting accident would have caused real problems. Some bushes on the tunnel approach arrived with seconds to spare. What a relief.

Mikey had bought a new lighter-socket powered cool box. To test it out, he'd put a couple of cans of Strongbow in it. We cracked these in the tunnel. I was already over my daily recommended limit, and we hadn't even got to Britain. Things were going well.

Why Folkestone? Simple, the tunnel entrance is on the edge of town. Only ten minutes driving and we were at our hotel. Just 25 quid for an ensuite room with a sea view. Bargain. And just a couple of hundred metres from Sainsbury's.

My watch was showing 12:15 when we walked into Chambers, the town's premier real ale pub. I hadn't had to adjust my watch. Since the little screw fell into the toilet bowl, I haven't been able to change the time. I've got used to it being an hour behind the real time. Suddenly having it correct was confusing. I'm easily confused. That's what happens when you get old. You'll find out for yourselves soon enough.

I can't remember what I had. Mikey was a bit pissed off because they only sold still cider. He likes his fizzy. So we stayed only for the one. Time for dinner. Well, breakfast. We had a full English in a cafe. Next stop was a Weatherspoon's in an old church. What can I say, it was a typical Weatherspoon's. Definitely far fewer nutters than in the Newark branch, at least. But Newark is full of headcases, so that isn't saying much. Mikey wasn't to keen on it. Just the one, again.

I'm not going to bore you with the details of my shopping. Well, maybe a bit. Pies, sausages, mini sotch eggs, pork pies, salt and vinegar crisps, tea, malt vinegar, pickled onions and sloe gin. The last one was for Dolores. The two before that for me and the rest for the kids. I'm doing my best to pass on my British culture to them. Pies, vinegar on their chips, yorkshire puddings and taking the piss. I think that about covers it. And being able to pronounce "the" properly. Talking of which, Andrew gave me a masterclass in pronouncing the word "Spui" last week. I still can't get it right.

So now we were loaded down with shopping, right? No. Because we'd arranged to leave it in Sainsbury's cool room until just before our departure the next day. But we decided to stroll back to the hotel anyway. Mikey was in need of a rest. Lightweight. Luckily, our route took us right past a pub, Harvey's. Unfortunately, not a Harvey's pub. Courage Best was the best they had to offer. A pretty unexciting beer, but cask. That's enough of a thrill for me.

Harvey's, despite its trendy-sounding name, is the sort of unashamedly downmarket pub that I rather like. "It a builders' pub. A bit rough and ready" the friendly owner of our hotel later told us. We just stayed for the three. Then it was siesta time. For Mikey. I still had a couple of cans to get through.

The evening session started at Skuba. A smart, modern bar with no cask. I had to make do with a couple of bottles of London Pride. It could have been worse. Mikey got chatting to some locals who recommended another pub, the Bank (or was it Bank's?). No real ale and not even any bottled London Pride. Time for Guinness. How they can make a Stout as bland as Draught Guinness is beyond me. Virtually flavour-free, with only the slightest hint of roast. So I only had two or three.

This is where the evening starts getting rather vague. Mikey tells me we chatted with some French people. Can't really recall that, myself. Nor going back to the hotel. Everything's a blank until I woke up to the sound of seagulls the next morning. Feeling as rough as a badger's arse, I dragged myself down to breakfast. After forcing down the last mouthful, I got the setting concrete feeling in my gut that's the usual precursor to vomitting. Wonderful. I rushed back to my room. Throwing up in the breakfast room is frowned on in most hotels. But the puke didn't come. After 45 minutes lying in bed watching the Hollyoaks omnibus, I felt a little better. Semi-human.

I didn't buy much in Tesco. Just a bag of Jersey Royal potatoes and a couple of magazines. My heart wasn't in shopping, the way I felt. Watching a low-quality soap opera in a reclining position was about all I was good for.

We went back to Skuba for Sunday dinner. A roast, of course. Not bad. I'd just about reacquired an appetite by then. But my thirst was still AWOL. I did something I very rarely do. I left a pint unfinished.

We went straight from the pub to the tunnel. We both wanted to be back in Amsterdam at a reasonable hour, having to work the next day. We weren't quite finished yet, though. In Calais we had an appointment in Beer and Wine World to pick up 10 slabs of Strongbow. Eight for Mikey and two for Dolores. I had a look at the beer, but there wasn't anything very interesting. I limited myself to a couple of bottles of decentish wine.

We arrived back at my gaff at 20:30. Exactly 36 hours after our departure. The car hadn't fallen apart, which was relief. Mikey only told me after we got back that the main problem with the car was a knackered chassis. The mechanic had advised him not to put anything heavy into the boot. 240 half litre cans of Strongbow doesn't count as heavy, does it?