Stuck in a jam watching the heroes of Calais

DRIVING to Dover the other day, my friend suddenly says, “I forgot my passport.” We are almost at the ferry to France. Instead of being turned back, we are allowed to travel to Calais on the strength of an Irish passport (mine) and an out of date scrap of paper that used to be a UK driving licence (hers). The ferry operator waves her through.

Later, heading back to the ferry from Calais, we are stuck in traffic. Trucks are lined up in queues in the back roads near the port, stationary in the traffic. Groups of young men from the Jungle migrant/refugee camp are, in the bright evening sunshine, trying to board the lorries, right there in front of us, all around us.

They are not threatening — they appear good humoured, astonishingly, given the desperation and hopelessness of their task — because every lorry is locked tight. Impenetrable.