It was raining in Calais on election day. A thin, penetrating, miserable drizzle blowing in off the Channel that was entirely in keeping with the mood of a great many voters as they headed to the polls in France’s most momentous ballot in living memory.
“It’s all going to shit,” said Xavier Hembert, voting with his son Arthur on the rue Philippine de Hainaut, named after Edward III of England’s French-born wife, much loved here ever since she persuaded him not to decapitate the port’s Burghers in 1347.
