Border Customs and the Smelly French Cheese Decoy

It was another trip to my beloved France—my second home in many ways. I’ve always loved the place: the food, the culture, the pace of life, and of course the language, which I had grown to speak with some fluency. This time, though, I was heading over not just for leisure but as a reward to myself. I had just completed my best athletics season ever.

After switching to a coach in Ireland Coach Alf McMeekin—one who transformed not only my running but my mindset—I had gone from a 54.9 to a 53.18 over the 400m hurdles in a single year. That improvement earned me the Scottish National title and international selections for my native Scotland, along with invitations to championships like the AAA’s at Crystal Palace, London. A golden year by any standard.

So, after the grind of hard training, I jumped into my bright red Citroën GSA—an air-cooled 1.2-litre masterpiece that looked like something only a French engineer could love—and set off for some well-earned rest.

Sleep eluded me the night before. At midnight I was awake, and by 12:45 a.m. I was staring at the clock thinking, why pretend? At 1:00 a.m. sharp, I simply got in the car and hit the empty streets of Edinburgh. In no time I’d crossed the English border and was gliding down the M1. A short nap en route, and I reached Dover by 9 a.m., boarding the hovercraft an hour later. By 10 a.m. French time, I rolled into Calais.

My plan was to explore the famed Champagne region and the beautiful countryside of Picardy. Heading south-east toward Reims (“Rans,” if you want the locals to tolerate you), I spotted a small sign for a place called St Gobain. Curious, I decided to detour. The road wound up a hill into a tiny commune named after an Irish monk. There, opposite the guesthouse “Roses de Picardie,” I ordered a coffee and instantly sensed I had struck gold.

I booked three nights. Secluded, peaceful, and with Reims only 40 minutes away, it was the perfect base. Evenings brought wonderful meals at the local resto—this was France, after all—and days were spent exploring. Reims Cathedral was majestic, and the avenue of Champagne houses offered tours ending with a glass of the good stuff. I resisted the temptation to turn it into a Champagne crawl. I couldn’t wait to get back to quiet little St Gobain.

When it came time to return home, I wanted to bring back the liquid treasures I’d found. Near Calais was a massive wine warehouse—a dream come true. Before I knew it, I had bought around 25 litres of wine. The legal limit for duty-free at the time was nine. This was before the UK entered the EU duty-free arrangement—meaning customs was still very much ready to pounce.

And so the question became: how does one sneak 25 litres of wine past English customs?

On one of my last strolls through St Gobain, the answer revealed itself. I walked past a small fromagerie. Inside, the shelves carried the full range of French cheeses, from mild to absolutely lethal. Then it hit me: a decoy. If the wine was tucked deep in the boot, covered by clothes and bags, with a kilo of the smelliest cheese known to humanity placed right at the front, perhaps—just maybe—the customs officer would be overwhelmed and cut the search short.

I bought the strongest cheese I could find. It could have stripped the paint off the Citroën if given the chance.

The next morning I packed the car, windows wide open, because the smell would have knocked a horse out. I boarded the hovercraft and braced myself. Dover customs had two lines of cars and, to my horror, several ahead of me were being pulled aside. Some were waved through. Then came my turn.

A customs officer stepped forward, raised his hand, and motioned me into the lay-by. My heart rate shot up to competition-day levels.

“Out of the car please,” he said. I handed him my passport.

“Scottish, eh?” he remarked.

“Yes,” I replied.

“It’s a long drive for only a few days in France.”

I smiled. “Well, if you English gave us a port to France, I wouldn’t need to do this, would I?”

He gave me that blank, slightly puzzled English look—the one that says he has absolutely no idea what Scotland’s situation is, politically or practically. While I knew I needed to stay respectful, as a Scot I wasn’t about to bend the knee either.

“Open the boot,” he said.

I walked around, lifted the boot lid, and waited.

A wall of cheese erupted outward like a toxic gas leak.

The man instantly recoiled. “Bloody cheese!” he spluttered. “You like this stuff?”

“Yes,” I replied. “Lovely on a baguette, or melted over steak.”

He hesitated. I could see the internal struggle: the urge to root deeper into the boot versus the very real threat of the smell.

Then, mercifully, he stepped back.

“Alright,” he said, waving me off. “You’re free to go.”

I shut the boot, trying not to grin, walked calmly to the car, got in, and gave him a polite wave.

I had done it.

I had smuggled 25 litres of French wine into the UK using nothing more than a kilo of nuclear-strength cheese.

Ending

As I left Dover and headed north, windows down and eyes watering from the lingering aroma, I had to laugh. Of all the battles I'd faced that year—from gruelling training to national finals—none had felt quite as nerve-shredding as the moment that boot lid went up.

But it worked.

A victory not for cunning or espionage, but for good old-fashioned French dairy.

And to this day, whenever I pass a cheese counter in France, I give a quiet nod of respect.

After all—it once saved me from the full wrath of British Customs.