Fantastic Voyage #1 (a): Leaving Blighty

Ok, so D-Day is fast approaching and I need to get specific about how the heck I’m going to get to wherever it is I’ll end up.

No doubt you will have lapped up my blog about the first stop so now that I have a fixed point at the end of Day One
– it’s time to journey-plan.

The first couple of days needs to see me reaching James Herriot-like deep into the French nether regions so that I can concentrate on
the Francais bits I quite fancy (see Captain Bernie Winters).

That means burning rubber to get off the pock-marked, bumpy and grumpy roads of Ingerland so that the toll-roads of France, smooth like butter baby, can convey me effortlessly through the unnecessarily convoluted and complex nomenclature of regions in northern France (an enforced requirement of B-EUROcrats do doubt) to the sun, mountains and seas in the South and of course the Italian tip.

It’s worth noting – FYI – that James Herriot’s true love was not cows at all but small dogs and usually in a tag-team:

Back to the journey. This approach makes for easy planning really – dull journeys that need to be over quickly are best left to husbands or Google.

I haven’t found a suitable husband yet so this is what the Googleier says (see this link too).

Also take note reader: this could be the last map for a while with the correct distances marked. Miles, originally conceived by the Romans who brought it to London where it was properly defined as the very sensible eight furlongs, is clearly and usefully shown on this map along with the number 197.

If you’re wondering about how long a furlong is then the simple answer is one-eighth of a mile which co-incidentally is also the distance one’s oxen can drag a lump of iron through a muddy Lincolnshire field without being required to have a rest stop (again by the same B-EUROcrats as before, not for long though).

Anyway 200 Ingerlish miles will get me on to the train that will slip gently inside Britannia’s rusty crown and plunge through that dark tunnel before emerging into the blinking sunlight of the Continent floating just of our shores. A continent that once provided an open-armed welcome to our top villains from the 1970’s, gasped in awe at our ability to change colour with prolonged exposure to the sun (protected only by the humble sock inside our sandal) and stood slack-jawed and agog to discover we’d packed teabags, Marmite and baked beans instead of pants whilst travelling. Well roll-over Beethoven, we’re coming back.