The White Cliffs of Dover symbolise the start or end of a journey to England. These shores have seen the arrival of both friend and foe for millennia, sitting just 20miles from the French Coast. Although I was midway through my travels, the iconic while cliffs seemed an essential place to visit before looping back towards a London.
Arriving in Kent from the West doesn’t bring you out into archetypal landscapes you may expect. The scenery here is stark, almost otherworldly. I’d entered the county at the expanse of shingle making up the Dungeness peninsular. Small battered shacks littered the desert-like vista. On the horizon loomed the menacing mass of a nuclear power plant, the giant pylons marching in orderly rows towards it. I really know how to pick great places to visit! I wasn’t alone, a steam train full of happy day trippers came chuf-chuf-chuffing past me. Despite the power plant this was actually a remarkable landscape, unlike anywhere else. Approaching the top of the peninsula two lighthouses came into view. I was hoping to climb the older of the two but guess what..... it was shut till March. I’m beginning to get a theme here! The tourists who’s now disembarked the train clearly felt disappointed too. They were milling aimlessly about the shingle, shivering.
Pushing on towards Dover the landscape returns to the more traditional arrangement of quaint villages nestled amongst the rolling green fields. The villages here hold a fairly unique sight, joining the church steeples are the spires of oast houses. Looking like upturned ice cream cones these unique buildings were designed to dry hops for nearby breweries. Today most of these buildings have been converted into expensive homes.
Reaching the port towns of Folkestone and Dover things become less quaint. Here at the closest point between the UK & mainland Europe ferries ply endlessly back and forth across the channel and traffic rushes for the channel tunnel. This area regularly tops lists of the worst place to live in the country and the area has a distinct border atmosphere. Rough around the edges and bustling with trucks, impatient travellers and currency exchange signs. Entering Dover the grey apartment blocks and the clutter of the port impede the view of the White Cliffs.
Standing sentinel over the scene is the impressive Dover Castle. This vast medieval fortress was built by the Normans, clearly keen to ensure they were the last invaders of this island. The coast here is pockmarked by military structures covering every era since. Secret tunnels, lookout towers, castles, gun emplacements, radar towers all stare out towards France marking centuries of conflicts. As has been the case for most of this journey it was evident that I needed vastly more time than I currently had. I would have to return to explore more fully but for now I had some cliffs to see.
The visitor centre up on the cliffs was filled with people sheltering from the light drizzle outside, the path transformed into a sticky quagmire. There was a fantastic view back towards the castle, over to France and the busy port below. Actually the view took in everything apart from the cliffs themselves. I guess this was obvious in hindsight. A couple approached me, clearly having made the same mistake. They announced loudly, “We’re from Minnesota so we need to get to the bottom of the cliff, where do we go?” I’m not sure why this geographical information was necessary but I made the mistake of saying I’d been to Minnesota. One thing is very true when you travel alone, you don’t stay alone for long and now I had a pair of Minnesotans shadowing me as we shuffled through the mud towards the cliffs. I was getting increasingly concerned that at this rate the fastest way down was soon to be in a muddy sweat right over the edge. My prompt to abort and return to the car came with the simultaneous splat as both of my newfound shadows face planted the mud.
