Have you ever stepped foot in an unknown country and a strange emotion crawls up your leg until it meets the nerve endings in the sensors of your brain?

This sense of having been there before.  Or you were destined to be there.  France does this to me.  It’s my second time visiting and still that insistence I was a French Countess in a former life haunts me.

Scribes have often called Paris the city for lovers.  I couldn’t agree more.  For when I roam the streets and openly gawk at an 18th century building intense love overcomes me.  The musical language and elegant presentation.  Whimsy and form and texture. Paris has done a remarkable job of combining old world aesthetic with the post-modern sensibilities of technology and functionality.

I’ve fallen head to tail.  In obsessive lust – with Paris.  I doubt any real man could surpass it.

Along the path towards the bulls, I paused in my Paris.  And was heartbroken to leave him.

I decided to do an unusual route to enter France by taking a National Express bus from Victoria Coach Station in London to Dover.  At Dover you can take a P&O Ferry to cross into France by way of Calais.

At the Dover ferry terminal, the scenery was foreboding.

However, I was surprised (and delighted) to find two full floors of bars and restaurants on the ferry.

All engines at full speed.

This fellow kept me company on the viewing deck.