Lettie Goes Travelling

Picture the scene.

It’s pre-Covid. I’d just finished cancer treatment. During chemo I’d put myself into self-imposed isolation to reduce infection risk and avoid delays to treatment. By the end of it, I was desperate to rejoin the human race.

So I booked a long weekend in Avignon.

Eurostar from my local Kent station. Door to door. Easy.

I’d been before. I knew the city, knew I’d feel safe, knew the food and wine would be wonderful. I couldn’t wait.

Then came the rumours.

Whispers of Eurostar staff strikes.

No.

Wouldn’t happen.

Couldn’t happen.

Denial mode fully activated.

Friday morning arrived. I stood on the platform… and right on time, my train pulled in. Five hours later I stepped off in Avignon and had the most glorious weekend — beautiful meals, gorgeous red wine, and locals laughing kindly as I murdered their language.

Not a hint of disruption anywhere.

Until 10pm Sunday night.

SMS.

Email.

All trains cancelled tomorrow.

As a friend of mine would say:

“Some problems.”

I was due back at work Tuesday. I could take another day off if needed — but there was no guarantee I’d get back even then.

So I stopped panicking… and started thinking.

Flights? None.

Plan B — head north.

Train to Paris.

Metro across Paris.

Arrive at Gare du Nord.

Chaos.

Queues snaking out of the station. Angry travellers everywhere.

Quick decision.

Train to Calais. At least I’d be close enough to see home.

I arrived in Calais to gale-force wind and sideways rain. The taxi rank was empty. I walked into town, found a cab, and for a slightly eye-watering fare he drove me to the ferry terminal.

Two hours later: foot passenger boarding confirmed. Relief.

Followed immediately by dread.

The sea was wild. And I am not a good sailor.

In for a penny, in for a pound.

Turns out? I didn’t feel a thing.

As we crossed the Channel and the white cliffs appeared through the mist, I tucked into fish and chips with lashings of vinegar — and I swear nothing has ever tasted so good.

One last sprint. Taxi from Dover. Thirty minutes home.

Fifteen hours after leaving my Avignon hotel, I was standing in my kitchen putting the kettle on.

Exhausted.

But buzzing.

Because I’d done it.

No one guided me.

No one rescued me.

No one told me what to do.

I figured it out — and got on with it.

That was the moment I realised something important:

I could trust myself.

Anywhere

Confidence doesn’t come from perfect trips. It comes from the ones that go wrong — and you handle anyway