To the end of England

Coggeshall to Harwich ferry and the Hook of Holland

It rained overnight and as my head was at the narrow end of the tent, my ear close to the fabric, the droplets sounded like  a biblical downpour. I rose expecting the worse. There was no flood, but the roads were like rivers, blinding with the suns relfection. Confident in the security of my camp, I lingered, packed, shifted weight from my front panniers, and ate breakfast. I used the last of my water on a cup of coffee, that I promptly spilled into the field. I imagine that little spot will only grow frenzied crooked caffeine grass now. Later that same day, my beloved little coffee glass would shatter, when I dropped my  pannier down some stairs on the ferry. The howling wind, that had battered my tent during the night, was behind me still, and  I zoomed north east from Coggeshall to Fordham.  I pass small villages, and soon the scent of the sea is mixed with the aromas of the countryside. I am getting closer to my goal. The roads of essex are suprisingly hilly, but the length of each climb is never that painful, and is often rewarded with an immediate descent into the next gully.
Harwich is a much busier port than I expected. I ride naively to the most eastern point of the town, expecting to roll onto the waiting ferry, as the ropes are cast off, and a gap opens between the ship and the pier. However, my idealistic notions are blown away once I find that I have to back track a couple of kilometers, then cycle through an ugly port, to find the ferry terminal.
I decide to get the overnight ferry, spending a little extra for a birth, and so that I don’t have to stay the night in Harwich waiting for the next days sailing.
So at  about 11:25 that night, I leave England. But I miss the dramatic moment, because I am already fast asleep, scrubbed clean in fresh sheets.