We left Pickering just after dawn, the sort of start that feels adventurous until you realise you’ve left your tea on the windowsill and neither of you can remember locking the back door. James reassured me (four times) that he did, and I chose to believe him somewhere around Driffield.
The drive to Plymouth is long. Long and mostly beige. Bertie spent the first hour sulking with his nose pressed dramatically to the window, clearly dismayed that we weren’t stopping at Cropton or the Co-op. By Birmingham, he was asleep. By Bristol, he had snuck onto my lap and refused to move until we stopped for petrol and a reluctant sausage roll at Exeter Services.
We got to Plymouth Ferry Port early — and thank goodness. The queue for Brittany Ferries’ MV Pont-Aven was already backed up, and we spent a good half hour in a line of caravans, French hatchbacks, and one man in a camper van playing the accordion to no one. The sea air hits you before you see the ship. It’s that mix of salt, diesel, and fish fingers that always reminds me of school trips.
Bertie was suspicious. He does not care for ports. Or seagulls. Or suitcases. The moment he saw the ship, he froze. You could practically hear the internal monologue: Absolutely not. That is a floating kennel and I am a land-based creature of refinement.
Boarding was smooth — Brittany Ferries are well-practised — and we were shown to our inside cabin fairly quickly. No windows, dim light, two beds bolted to the wall, and a tiny bathroom with the world’s most ambitious tap/shower combo. James described it as “cosy”. I called it submarine chic.
Then came the dreaded bit: handing Bertie over. He’s sailed with us before, and every time it’s the same betrayal. The onboard kennels are safe, clean, and regularly checked, but try telling that to a scruffy terrier with separation anxiety and a Napoleon complex. He gave the woman at the kennel desk a side-eye that could curdle milk. Then he looked back at me as if I’d just sold him to pirates.
We were allowed to visit him during the crossing — set hours, access via the stairwell by deck 10 — and of course I went. Twice. The first time he refused to look at me. The second time he forgave me briefly when I brought a bit of leftover croissant. He sniffed it, sighed deeply, and then turned away again. Drama queen.
The ferry itself is surprisingly lovely. Restaurants, a cinema, shops, lounges — though our inside cabin made us feel like cave dwellers, it was quiet and the beds were surprisingly comfortable. James snored like a walrus and I lay awake wondering if Bertie was dreaming of mutiny.
We docked in Santander the following morning. Early light. Damp tarmac. A mild sense of dislocation — like the world had shifted just enough in your sleep to make everything unfamiliar.
Bertie was furious. He emerged from his kennel as if he’d been wrongly imprisoned, scowled at us both, then immediately peed on a pylon with excessive theatricality. Message received.
Driving off the ferry was straightforward — passport check, the usual polite nods, and then we were rolling onto Spanish roads once more. Palm trees where there used to be pines. Sunlight sharper. Car radio flipping to Spanish pop before I could find the right frequency.
And just like that, the Yorkshire chapter closes, and the Spanish one begins again.
