By a road in Calais, a group of people sit and watch the traffic roll past. Their trousers are splattered with mud and water.
The rain is tumbling down in the grey of an early morning. It is cold and unwelcoming. Beyond the beach at Sangatte, the sea rolls ominously.
The group are all wearing coats against the weather, but most look ferociously tired. One young woman huddles beneath an unfurled sleeping bag.
In most seaside towns, they would look discordant and unlikely but here, on the northern French coast, everyone knows what’s going on. Another group who have tried to cross the Channel, and failed.
This time, it is a tale of a journey that never happened – the group were spotted by the police, intercepted and their boat slashed, rendering it useless.
“I will try again,” one man tells us.
“When?” I ask.
He shrugs slightly. “Maybe tonight.”
Among this group – Turks, Iraqis, Iranians and Kurds. All tell tales of fleeing in the face of persecution. There is, remarkably, an acclaimed filmmaker here, celebrating his birthday. Three days ago, he discovered he had won an award at an international festival. Now, he has just failed to get on a boat across the Channel.
There are tales of people who attempted previous crossings – once, twice, five, even seven times before. A man who was shot by ISIS in Mosul.
Most affecting, perhaps, twins from Iran – 25 years old and desperate to leave their country.
They had joined protests against the ruling regime and saw the violence that came as punishment. Hundreds left at least partially blinded by pellets fired by police. Friends who had been imprisoned, raped and even murdered as an act of revenge.
“I need to get away from Iran,” says Asrin, as her twin brother sleeps alongside her, sitting by the road. “Even life in the camp here is better than being at home – being persecuted, tortured and raped.”
And when you visit the camp in question, on the edge of Dunkirk, you realise what a significant thing that is to say. I’ve been there many times over the past few years, and it is a sorry place at the best of times.
But now, lashed with rain and dotted with puddles in which empty drink cans float around, it is utterly miserable. A place where nobody wants to be; a shanty town united by the single aspiration of getting to Britain.
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