We went to the French coast this weekend, friend F and I. He needed to blow the cobwebs away, and I needed a change of scenery, so this was a perfect mini adventure.

We drove to the city of Boulogne-sur-Mer, half an hour southwest of Calais, which we would use as a base camp for our excursions. This turned out not to be a very original idea, as the oldest part of town is built on the grid the Romans established for their army camp, as they set out to invade Britain!

Not much remains of that endeavour, but the city wall still stands intact, high on a hill, reinforced over the millennia, making Old Boulogne an imposing citadel. The rest of the town seems to have gone downhill quite literally, as the further down toward the coast you get, the shabbier the buildings, right down to the waterfront, where ghastly high-rises from the 50’s and 60’s bring to mind Kaliningrad-sur-Mer.

Be that as it may, it is a good starting point for our hike up the Opal coast (the stretch between Boulogne and Calais), and the coast itself is lovely. The tide is out, the sky is high, a pale winter sun is shining, and there is a hint of spring in the air and in our steps. There aren’t many people about, just a few joggers and dog walkers. What there is a lot of, however, is wind. 40km/h wind with gusts reaching almost twice that. At times it feels as if you could just fly away, and I am thankful that I wasn’t tempted to bring my paraglider along – the gulls are clearly enjoying themselves, but I would be no match for the elements.

We hike up the coast, the sea and the heavens competing to see who is the most blue, past twee seaside villages nestled in the dunes. I did expect it to be pretty, and I’m not disappointed. What I wasn’t prepared for was the abundance of World War Two bunkers still in existence. Every kilometer or so we pass these sunken concrete monstrosities, some of which are still accessible. We break for coffee at one and I venture inside. Cramped, cold rooms with a lot of debris give an idea of what life here might have been like for German soldiers; low ceilings and an absence of light give me my first World War Two wound, as I crack my head on a low piece of concrete.

Of course, guarding against perfidious Albion goes back a lot longer than Nazi Germany; the emperor Claudius erected a lighthouse/garrison on a rocky islet just off the coast here, and Calais was the last British outpost on the continent – both lighthouse and British possessions were still around well into the Middle Ages, so maybe the bunkers have the tacit approval of the local populace?

We make good progress at any rate, but the wind keeps getting stronger, and F’s feet are not happy, so we cut our hike short once we reach the one village where the one bus of the day can take us back to whence we came. Instead of trudging more kilometers through the sand there’s an opulent lunch in a local fish restaurant, followed by hot showers, siesta and an even more opulent dinner. Hiking in style, as it were.

The next day the weather gods seem to have a score to settle with the whole continent, so we explore the vaults of the ancient basilica and then the medieval fortress, both of which now hold eclectic museums. In both cases, the buildings themselves prove to be the most interesting bits. We stroll around the city walls, and try to imagine the citadel in its heyday, when Charles Dickens bumped into Napoleon III and Prince Albert having a chinwag here, in what must have been the most Victorian moment of the whole Victorian era. Today, however, the rain drives everyone away, including us, so we get in the car and drive to Calais.

In Calais one last memento of the strained relations between the continent and their island neighbors awaits us, in the shape of a monumental statue by Rodin. During the Hundred Years’ War the city fell after an eleven-month-long siege by the English. Edward III was annoyed with the citizens for their “obstinate” resistance, and was going to kill everyone who had survived. In the end, his wife – who apparently tagged along on her husband’s mini adventures – managed to get him to change his mind, but not before the city’s noblemen had been forced to walk barefoot through the city with nooses around their necks. The statue in front of the Hotel de ville shows half a dozen of them, in their moment of despair.

With a history such as theirs, it is perhaps easy to see why France and the UK seem to have difficulties getting along after Brexit. Maybe Macron’s attempts to mediate in the Ukraine is brought about by a fear that Londongrad will otherwise take the opportunity to stage an attack on the mainland Eurostar station, thus to preempt any further migrant invasions, in the ultimate effort by BJ to make people forget about Partygate? Or maybe I just need to find a new mini adventure to go on? Watch this space.