Bordering on Ridiculous

Entering the UK from a dangerous Covid country has never been easier...

A black helicopter is circling our house as I write this. I suspect the pilot and observer are checking to make sure that our car is parked outside and that we haven't driven on an eyesight test to Barnard Castle. Because, you see, we are in quarantine.

Under surveillance...

Not because we have Covid or anything; our self-imposed lockdown is due to having recently returned from France, which is one of the places on 'the list' of Covid-risky destinations, and Liz and I are adhering to the strict confinement requirements for travellers returning from such plague-ridden countries.

I suppose I need to justify why we went there in the first place, as you might see it as irresponsible in these worrying times. In short, my father-in-law Reg, who lives in France, was turning 90, and we wanted to go and celebrate this significant milestone, or kilometrestone as they call them over there. And to do so we were quite prepared to quarantine ourselves for the mandatory fortnight on return.

So far it's not been a hardship as we'd stocked the pantry before we left and brought a whole lot of produce (and wine, of course) back with us, so we will cope for the two weeks' isolation, except perhaps for asking neighbours if they wouldn't mind grabbing us a broccoli and cauliflower next time they go shopping.

While we might sound thoroughly organised, the same cannot be said for the UK government when it comes to promoting or enforcing the need for prudence (as the French would call it, pronouncing it 'proo-darnce') on returning to this land of hope and glory. (You can't say those words out loud any more. Ed.) 

Cases of wine, not Covid

Because, as we discovered, nobody official seemed to give a damn that we might be bringing back two cases of Covid along with our eight cases of wine.

The only bit of officialdom we had to cope with was filling in an online government form - which we were obliged to do no earlier than 48 hours before returning to the UK border - which stipulated our personal details: names, address, contact numbers, so forth, and our travel plans. This then had to be downloaded to our phones, which we did, because - as we were sternly warned - we could face lengthy delays at the border if we didn't have this documentation. And it would be checked by border officials. Ooh, scary.

The form, once downloaded, included a barcode, which we assumed would be scanned upon our return and that we'd be given a lecture to drive straight to our place of quarantine and not stop anywhere along the way, do not go to a service station, or pass Go and do not collect £200.

'Border Force officers will scan the QR code...'

So what happened? Nothing. Nada. Zip. In the whole week-long sojourn, including travelling Folkestone-Calais-Folkestone on the Euroshuttle, there was not a single sign, billboard, announcement or personal reminder from immigration officials or anyone else that we must quarantine ourselves on our return. In fact, so much for needing to download the all-important form to our phones - when we reached Folkestone we drove off the train and straight onto the M20. Not a single person anywhere to scan our barcodes, not a single announcement even while we were on the train in the Eurotunnel, which would have been the ideal time to reinforce the measures as we were all stuck on board for just over half an hour and were the perfect captive audience.

Sacre bleu! Young people wearing masks!

The French themselves - at least the ones we came into contact with in the Rhône-Alpes region in the south-east - took their Covid measures very seriously. Masks were obligatoire everywhere, not just in shops but on the streets as well, and everyone wore them, even - gosh - young people. 

Supermarket checkout staff were behind screens, there was plenty of hand sanitizer available, social distancing was observed, and everyone seemed to accept the measures willingly . Since we did likewise we think it's very unlikely that we've brought Covid back with us, and thus far - almost a week after returning - we're showing no symptoms. A few hangovers maybe, but we can blame the wine for that.

We are confined to home for another nine days yet. We have heard anecdotally that one person who returned from overseas was phoned up by the police to ask if she was at home. When she told them she was they asked her to go to her front window and wave to them as they were parked outside. Sneaky, but effective. We've been waiting for a similar phone call asking us to go and wave to two of Surrey's finest since getting back but so far nothing. 

Except for the helicopter circling the house of course.

Postscript, 24 October:

Well, we reached the end of our two-week quarantine on Wednesday 21 October without any obvious Covid symptoms but also a complete absence of any authority checking that we stayed home. Boris owes us one.