Has the ferry to France lost its romantic appeal? I took the service to Calais to find out

When it came to my first journey abroad after lockdown there was really only once choice: the ferry from Dover to Calais.

What resonance that routing has; what tingling excitement it conjures. For generations of Britons, this simple journey across the Channel has been the gateway to Europe; the starting point of countless voyages of discovery and boundless adventure.

For me personally, it has marked several key rites of passage: a schoolboy trip to the Continent, teenage jaunts to Paris, the start of a gap year voyage to India, first holidays with the girlfriend who was to become my wife.

So when at last we were given the green light to travel abroad again from the end of last week, it was clear which way to go. We wanted to make it a driving holiday – amid continuing Covid concerns you can’t beat the bubble of your own car – and we wanted to start in France. We considered going through the Eurotunnel – an almost perfectly socially distanced form of travel, but one utterly lacking in romance. No, we wanted something with a bit of flair and fun; a bit of charm and character; a bit of symbolism and style. Dover to Calais by ferry it had to be.

So what was it like? I confess to thrilling at the sight of the signs to Dover as we worked our way through the boroughs of south London on Saturday morning and to gasping with pleasure at the first sight of the sea and the sound of seagulls.

It all felt very familiar. Until we got into the port itself and joined the line of vehicles waiting to board P&O’s Spirit of Britain. I’d expected there to be lots of people like us only too keen to make use of the first weekend of travel freedom by heading to France by ferry. But it was a very modest line consisting a few hardy couples, a sprinkling of families, a French lady carrying two poodle puppies and a man with a motorbike on a mission to hit the autoroute. When I popped into a little shopping complex at the terminal, it was almost morgue like. “It’s still very quiet,” said an assistant at WH Smith. “We’re hoping it will pick up again soon.”

Of course travel at a time of coronavirus was never going to be the same. A big screen at the port reminded us all to stay alert and to observe social distancing. On the ship itself, passengers coming up from the car deck without a mask were told in no uncertain terms to go back and get one – or remain in the hold. Large parts of the communal dining areas inside were taped off and on the outside deck, where we headed, tables and seats had been secured to preclude the possibility of proximity. Numbers anyway were being hugely restricted. According to one of the ship’s barmen, who was proffering pints of Stella Artois, only 500 passengers are being allowed on for now (instead of the usual 2,000).

But what did that matter when I looked up and saw the White Cliffs of Dover and heard the engines fire up and then sensed the steady progression away from the coast of southern England towards the shimmering Côte d’Opale?

What did that matter when after all these long months of lockdown we were finally setting sail to France to begin a new chapter, to embark on new adventures, to reconnect at last with a wider world?

Twenty-six miles and 90 minutes later we were disembarking at Calais, as if for the first time. “Don’t forget to drive on the right,” said my wife. “And follow the signs for ‘Toutes Directions’”.

P&O Ferries (poferries.com) offers several sailings a day from Dover to Calais; see website for fares and timings.

For the latest Foreign Office travel advice, see gov.uk