'Don't forget to wave to the fish!' Sarah said with a smile as we left her bed & breakfast place. Wave to the fish? Oh right - a joke! Ha, of course; we would be taking our van underwater to cross to France, so naturally one would want to wave to the fish.

But we needed some light relief. After leaving Liverpool, where we'd spent two weeks trying to furnish our new apartment (with only minor success) we'd only just survived an eight-hour drive to Folkestone. Appalling traffic on the M25 and 26. Endless delays.

Traffic crawling, engine and human temperatures rising. Mine included.

We arrived jn Folkestone so late that we decided to flag away the campsite we'd booked - it was on dark, and the campsite office was closed. So we went into Folkestone and stopped at the first B&B we came to, the Rob Roy, which had a vacancy sign in the window. It was the last available room, said Sarah the landlady. She showed us the room. It was quaint in that old-fashioned B&B style, and we loved it. Mind you, we'd have loved a stable with straw on the ground at that point.

Sarah pointed us in the direction of a fish and chip shop, plus a Tesco, so off we walked and stocked up with a bottle of wine and two Cod and chips. Back in the room we opened the windows to dispel the fish smell and gorged ourselves sitting on the bed. Some meals are just the best, and it's nothing to do with Michelin-starred chefs; it's to do entirely with circumstance. And hunger.

We had a good night's sleep - far better than we'd have had on a blow-up mattress in a tent - and woke to a nice day, with breakfast waiting for us downstairs. Sarah was the perfect hostess, and we tucked in to eggs, bacon, toast and lashings of coffee. On enquiring she pointed us in the direction of the local Post Office where we dispatched some essential documents back to NZ. Have you any idea how hard it is to buy a single A4 envelope while travelling in the UK? Especially on the motorways, where the so-called 'services' are based entirely around filling your tummy with over-priced fast food and definitely not assisting you with your international communication needs.

She also advised us to wave to the fish as we trundled under the English Channel later in the day. We laughed and told her we were veterans of the Mersey Tunnel, so we knew a thing or two.

But we had time to kill before the train so drove to Dover to find a boat chandlery shop in order to buy some anti-fouling paint for Liberty. I had thought of getting some for Luis Suarez but I suspect his fouling is too extreme even for the best of the anti- stuff.

The chandler's proved easy to find, as did a parking space a few metres down the road, but this was right outside a so-called 'hobby shop'. Liz looked at it as we parked and said, 'When I saw "hobby shop" I was expecting cottons, buttons, and craft stuff, but,' she said, pointing to the window, 'it's all guns and fishing gear!" '

It was. And the owner, who was sitting just inside the door and obviously thought we had pulled up deliberately outside his emporium to purchase weapons of mass destruction, tried to sell Liz a rifle. A pink rifle. 'I've got pink fishing gear too if you like,' he announced. There followed a brief discussion on whether pink as a colour attracted more fish, but he asserted women were - alas - just better at fishing. And bowling. He needed to talk.

'My daughter, I took her bowling for the first time ever. She was a natural. Like a pro,' he told us. I told him I'd taken my daughter Catherine clay pigeon shooting as part of her 21st birthday treats and she had beaten me in a competition. The 'hobby shop' owner just shrugged, knowingly. 'There you are, y'see,' he explained, as though it explained anything.

We left without buying anything destructive, pink or otherwise, and instead bought the anti-fouling paint we needed from the chandlers. The whole wonderful boating supplies shop was run by a woman, who was knowledgable and lovely - she even knew what model of manual toilet we had on board Liberty, which made buying a spare part much easier. But we didn't ask if she had anti-fouling in pink; the matt black was fine.

After a pleasant morning sojourn in Dover where we raided the charity shops for some books and DVDs (by far and away the best value way to purchase these things) we then headed off to check in for our journey under La Manche, the English Channel, via that amazing piece of engineering the Eurotunnel.

What a great way to get to France! (As long as you don't mind missing out on the nostalgic view of Dover's famous White Cliffs disappearing behind you of course) If it's fresh sea air, screaming toddlers and parties of school kids on so-called 'educational holidays', or - in rough weather - being surrounded by people barfing into paper bags, that you covet, then by all means take one of the ferries. But if you just want to get to France quickly - half an hour in this case - with no waves, worries or the smell of warm sick - then the Eurotunnel (or 'Chunnel') is the way to go.

It was like being in a science fiction movie. After passing through the departure control - and assuring them that no, despite being a van we weren't carrying commercial goods (we were nevertheless stopped, questioned and searched. Nicely though, no aggro) we followed the signs in the marshalling area and eventually were waved through, following a campervan (RV for Americans) and two tour buses.

It was fascinating watching the buses drive onto the train ahead of us. They basically just drove down a platform and officials then guided them onto the waiting freight cars, though these were like long well-lit corridors, seemingly eithout end. They looked vaguely spaceship-like inside, bright, long and squarishly-tube-ish. 2014: A Train Odyssey. 'Hello Dave...'

Our turn came and we did the same, seemingly driving along the train to France but eventually stopping and parking behind the RV. Engine off, handbrake on, first gear engaged... and that was it. All we did from then on was sit in the van for the 'crossing'. Behind us was a Land Rover, so the three of us filled one freight car, which - once we were all in and secure - was sealed off by roller doors from the rest of the train.

The Eurotunnel is a smidgen over 50 kilometres long, and trains are restricted to a maximum speed of 99 MPH, so yes, it takes about half an hour. Sure beats any of the ferry offerings, though there's nothing to see of course. There are windows, but apart from the odd light flashing past there were no fish to wave to. Good thing too!

The Channel Tunnel opened for business in 1994, just over 190 years since the first proposal to build it. Surprisingly, the original idea came from the French, but why? They had spent years trying to avoid the English, so... je ne comprend pas!

Quaintly, the original proposal, by Monsier Albert Mathieu, included an artificial island midway for the changing of horses. In the early years of the 19th Century, viable trains were still some years in the future, so horse-drawn transport was envisaged, with illumination provided by oil lamps. Had it been achieved it would have been a dark and exciting ride, and certainly one of the Wonders of the World.

However, the threat of enemies and unseemly characters swarming through the tunnel unchecked, or of Hitler using it to stroll into Britain, meant it took until 1988 for the proper work to begin, and - six years, ten lives and a cost overrun of 80% later - it was finally opened, in 1994. When I say 'it', I mean them, because in fact there are three tunnels - two for trains and one central service tunnel.

Of course you see nothing of this as you are swept under La Manche, the English Channel; it is just one seamless operation - drive-on, drive-off. There is no sense of awe, no feeling of being at a depth of 75 metres under the seabed, or that you have travelled almost 38 kilometres underwater.

The Eurotunnel authorities have missed an opportunity to provide passengers with large flat-screen TVs showing what's above... oil tankers, cargo freighters, container ships, ferries, yachts and motor boats, barfing children... or beneath the waves, fish and other marine life (Cod and chips), shipwrecks, and so on. All this is, alas, left to the imagination.

And so, none the wiser, we emerged in the broad daylight near Calais, having travelled under the Channel and forward in time by one hour.

A quick fill-up with cheap diesel - much, much cheaper then the UK - and we were on the autoroute heading back to Liberty. From here we have only about three weeks left of the cruising season, and with luck maybe we will finish with an autumnal trip to Paris. I say 'maybe' because we've been told there is not much chance of a mooring there this time of the year. Perhaps we'll have to tunnel our way in.