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I'm back from Calais. I've washed the mud from my wellies and the grime from my hair. The inevitable question rolls in: 'How was it?' Honestly, I'm not sure where to start. Many words spring to mind, but I can't seem to arrange the contradictory terms into anything that makes much sense. Some writer I am. One thing I can say, it was uplifting. First off, the Care4Calais volunteers are incredible people whose dedication to others is so humbling. Despite only having 4 days to offer, we were welcomed with open arms into the family. Anyone who knows me would happily agree I'm hardly the manual labour type. But somehow I was bouncing around the warehouse with a hammer, breaking up fence panels for firewood and grinning from ear to ear within half an hour of arriving. It was soon time to head into the camp. Lots of people had told me that they were worried for me. They asked me if I was scared to visit the fabled 'Jungle': topic of media horror stories. As I climbed into the back of a van for the drive over, I wondered whether I should be. On reflection, I can say that I felt entirely safe. With the refugees anyway. Not so much around the French police, with their water cannons, tear gas and scowling intimidation. When they demand our ID and take it from us without explanation. I've heard appalling stories of brutality that I can only hope are untrue. On the other hand, I've met some wonderful, peaceful people. Afghans, Syrians, Sudanese, whose sunny smiles in the face of traumatic pasts and bitter presents are nothing short of unbelievable. I've eaten at their makeshift restaurants, socialised in their makeshift bars, and been treated with genuine warmth. There are doctors, lawyers, people who've spent fortunes in hopes of finding somewhere they're safe and welcome. Mothers, children, families broken apart by war and terror. People no different from me, besides the fact that I was born with skin and a passport in colours that the Western world respects. This year, Valentine's day didn't exactly follow tradition. But it was a day I'll remember forever. It started with a food distribution at the Sudanese part of the camp. As ever, we ran out of food long before the end of the queue. Many were left empty handed. Despite this, no one so much as let out a grumble. Instead the crowd burst into grateful applause and ushered us into their homes (I use the word loosely) for tea. Next, we fired up the truck stereo with a little reggae music. And without further ado, everyone began to dance. Language barriers and cultural barriers melted away. Indeed, the whole world outside of the camp seemed to disappear as we laughed, hugged and grooved to the shared language of Bob Marley. Under the icy rain. On the swampy ground. Between little more than tarpaulin shacks flapping in the bitter wind. And I don't think I've ever felt surrounded by more joy. The Calais camp is no jungle. It's a community with so much love and hope. Though my government won't recognise their needs, I would proudly call these people neighbours. I hope one day that I can.