The Laon campsite lacked a restaurant but we rode into the old city and found a cobbled street closed to traffic where the locals were celebrating some festival or other (photo above). Jazz bands played and people ate and drank at outside tables, soaking up the vibe. The place was pretty full so we settled for an excellent kebab house where the waiter turned out to be from Afghanistan, where he’d been an interpreter for US forces. He told us that his young children would now grow up safe in France but he regretted that they would know little about their home country, which he doubted would be safe for any of them to visit again.

Peter reckoned she’d seen enough medieval ruins for this trip, so instead of exploring the city next day we went for breakfast at McDonald’s and headed for the coast. Our Flexiplus+ Eurotunnel ticket had been an expensive but necessary indulgence, given that, when we booked it, we had no firm return date in mind. Now, however, it meant that we could pay £10 to change the date and could take the train back that afternoon. Instead, we thought we’d spend one last night under canvas (well, nylon and polyester) and head back the next morning. The idea of camping close to Calais, with its hordes of economic migrants, didn’t hugely appeal, so we headed for Dunkirk and the campsite we’d planned to use on our outward leg before we’d changed the Eurotunnel timing.

The Camping la Lincorne site was on the edge of town, right by the beach and offered incredible value at €9 for the night; we’d been charged an average of about €25 at all our other sites. This one not only had a bar and restaurant but the barmaid cheerfully let us charge both our phones behind the bar. Like many Continental campsites we’d encountered, there were lots of permanent or semi-permanent plots where the caravan was almost welded to a wooden chalet or a large awning tent. There were relatively few basic tents. The pitch next to ours was occupied by a multi-coloured, hand-painted Citroen 2CV with matching trailer-tent. Its elderly occupant and his wife had driven all the way from the UK to Sicily and back in two weeks, which was some going. He wandered over to admire the Valkyrie and share his experiences owning a BMW R69 back in the day.

We dined very well and affordably in the on-site restaurant, Peter enjoying her first-ever taste of rum baba for dessert. Put off post-dinner drinks by the extortionate prices for the past three weeks, we celebrated the last night of our trip with whisky and Cointreau respectively. Up early next morning, there was time for fresh, warm croissants and coffee before riding the final 35 minutes or so to the Eurotunnel terminal at Calais. We didn’t know what to expect in terms of delays or queues, given the problems on the UK end three weeks earlier, but we joined a queue of perhaps three cars and were through in minutes. With the smug self-assurance of people who’d paid extra to travel with some form of priority ticket, we followed the purple road paint in the Flexiplus+ lane to the barrier and were first in line. The light turned green within two minutes, the barrier rose, and we road through, surprised at all this speed and efficiency. All channel crossings should be this easy.

Hah! It turned out that the only reason we were let through was to allow some car-bound passenger to get through and head for his train. We had to wait inside the barrier for perhaps 20 minutes before being allowed to proceed, waiting train-side to be joined by a group of other bikes waiting to board the last, as is the normal procedure for motorcycles. Those bikes had all paid the standard fare. Lesson: Flexiplus+ ain’t worth the money if you’re on a bike, although it does give you the ability to board the next available train, regardless of what time you show up.

Our plan was to meet our son James for lunch in Shoreham before heading on home to Middlewich in Cheshire. He’d just moved there the previous week to take up a new job. A glance at the Garmin showed what looked like an unnecessarily long route, following the M20, M25 and M23. It was 101 miles and would take 1 hour 52 minutes. I thought that was unnecessarily out of our way: surely you could take the coastal route via Hastings and Brighton and that would be quicker? Garmin didn’t offer that option., but Google Maps did, and so we eschewed the motorways and set off on some ridiculous B road that was poorly surfaced, narrow, slow and deeply frustrating. So much for me learning stuff about avoiding the back roads!

We made it to our lunch in Shoreham only 15 minutes late, and afterwards took the fastest route back to Middlewich via the M25, M40, M42 and M6. After three weeks of rising more than 4,700 miles across seven countries, the worst rain hit us when we were about 40 miles from home! It rained steadily, then heavily, and we made it on to our driveway tired, safe, and still dry. The old Rukka and Peter’s much newer Scott and Halverssons did their job. It had been a great trip, even if we didn’t make it to the Lofoten Islands. The Valkyrie hadn’t missed a beat, but even though we’d tried hard to minimise our baggage there were still questions to be answered about our next foray. Was it time to change the bike? Change the luggage? Change the satnav? Time for some reflection.