Once the van is empty, we are asked if we will stay on at the camp to help put tents up for new arrivals. We are introduced to three men in their late thirties who arrived in the night and are waiting for a tent to be brought from the distribution point. They tell us they are from Islamic State group-occupied Mosul in Iraq and had to leave because of the terrorists. It took them 33 days to get to Dunkirk. One asks how they can get to England. His sister and cousin are there and he is travelling to join them. We explain that England is closed and he asks for how long. "Perhaps in a few weeks England will open?" he asks hopefully. I have to turn away to hide the tears in my eyes as he realises that this camp, this festering, rat-ridden camp without adequate shelter, sanitation or food, is likely to be his home for the foreseeable future.

The tent arrives – the last one in the camp – and we head off to where the men have found a spot to erect it, a slight clearing in the woods behind a row of tents. We step over sodden blankets and clothes buried deep in the mud, over piles of rubbish and puddles of what looks like human urine, and start to clear away the branches and shrubbery from the area that is to be their new home. They tell us three more men are joining them and I exchange a look with the other volunteer, knowing the tent we have is not going to be adequate for six. It turns out not to be adequate for anyone, it is just the top sheet. I can't bear to leave them with nowhere to sleep so we promise to drive back to the warehouse in Calais and return with a complete six-person tent.