The difference between English roads and French roads is that English roads are unsuitable for traffic yet are at maximum capacity, while French roads are eminently suited to beaucoup de transport and yet are relatively empty.

I know which I prefer. Especially after missing the ferry to France thanks to a long delay on the M6, traffic regularly slowing to a crawl for no apparent reason on that lovely London roundabout, the M25, and then having to tackle rush hour in Newhaven, a town so piddling it shouldn't even be allowed hours let alone rush.

All of which added up to Liz and me arriving five minutes after they closed the check-in gates at the DFDS ferry terminal for our 5.30pm sailing. Worse, the ferry was still in port, it's bow agape as though laughing at us, braying at our bad timing.

And so we had to cancel our reservation at the accommodation in Dieppe, losing €74 at the aptly-named Hotel Casino without having even placed a bet. Or maybe we did; anyone driving from Liverpool to Newhaven to catch a cross-channel ferry is undoubtedly taking a gamble, given that the odds are very much against a smooth, trouble-free journey.

On the upside (there's always an upside), we were able to advise the management at Newhaven's The Ark bar and cafe that both the gents and the ladies needed loo paper, so had we caught the ferry on time they might never have known. See?

Plus it has to be said that their tapas were rather nice, and being just a two-fingered gesture away from DFDS's ferry terminal we were able to be at the front of the queue on our rebooked 11pm sailing in no seconds flat. Along with half of Wales.

Yes, unfortunately the sailing was crammed to the gunwales (see what I did there?) with Welsh football fans, all heading to the continent for something called Euro 2016, a function of some sporty nature and one that must have had all the campervan rental companies rubbing their hands in glee, judging by the circus on the vehicle decks.

Normally we like the Welsh and their soft lilting accents, but not when there's a group of six of them sitting next to the reclining seat area loudly talking such inane rubbish the whole night. And one of these rugged sporty types had the most girlish giggle you could imagine. And no, I'm not going to apologise for the sexist remark because after over five hours incarceration with this particular Welsh choir I am in no mood to be conciliatory. Deal with it.

Being an overnight sailing we found ourselves in Dieppe just as the sun struggled to pull itself over the horizon, seemingly reluctant to peer over a summer blanket of cloud in case it didn't like what it saw: a procession of white campervans full of sleepy football fans snaking its way off the ferry.

A quick top-up with cheap essence and we were on our way south towards Migennes where Liberty awaited, the lovely clear roads stretching out ahead of us like a long and uninterrupted French lunchtime. No delays, no traffic jams, in fact hardly any traffic.

Vive la difference!