The clouds descended 10 miles from Calais and the 28 degrees quickly became 18.
"Is it like this in England?" I asked the ferry representative as we drove through the check in.
"Ooh I don't know. Maybe it is, but I hope not because I've left all me washing out on the line."
Boarding the boat, being greeted by the smell of stewed British coffee, deep fat frying and the smell of fruit chewing gum meant we were nearly home. The atmosphere had changed and it was as if we were back at the zoo. Surely it would get better the further North we went.
It didn't.
Wetherby services just happened to be the perfect halfway point for Sunderland supporters returning from West Bromwich Albion. The place was heaving with busloads of red and white shirts. The air stank of beer and burgers. The rubbish bins were overflowing. There was plenty of analysis of their team's 1-0 defeat, but they were generally well behaved.
This could not be said of the minibus full of men on a stag night who pulled into the car park as we were leaving. They rushed down the steeps. A couple of the walked crookedly over to the saplings and peed. The others just peed on the tarmac wherever they stood, regardless of who could see them.
My children screamed with laughter. " Loooook! I can see his danglies," said the youngest.
Welcome home, I thought. Welcome back to buses. Welcome back to the great British public.
Maybe.
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