Folkestone to Dover – the last leg on British soil (for now)

I sat on a bench yesterday and a man’s voice came from underneath the seat reading out a letter to his wife, written in 1914 on his way to death in Flanders. Folkestone was the big departure point for millions of soldiers pulled out of their fields and factories and thrown into hell. This was a very effective art project, the recorded voice triggered by me sitting down. It was moving.

And this is a tribute to those who fought in WWI. Poor buggers. Just lads, that’s all they were.

Anyway, how much would you now give to be transported back to January 1968 on to the beach at Cannes when Captain Beefheart played the mesmeric ‘Electricity’ and the thunderous ‘Sure n’uff n yes I do’ to cameras from a bewildered French tv station. Priceless.

If you can see this photo clearly then you weren’t really there!

The morning was cool, to the extent that I needed to wear my jacket as I strolled down to the harbour.

It’s an appealing town with some history and a touch of class, in addition to a darker underbelly of Class A and homelessness. Lovely surroundings however.

Dover is my last stop before the long stretch through France, and it was a decent route along the shore and then up a very steep ascent over the top of the cliffs.

There are some nice little coves which you wouldn’t imagine down here in the busy southeast.

Then the climb, which took a long time, inadvertent rhyme but that’s just fine. Although technically fine doesn’t rhyme with time. Working part time in a five and dime. Thanks Prince.

And away….over the top and along the coast. Then looking back from the top. How impressive.

Coming down inside the cliffs I had a first view of Dover harbour. After more than 2,000 miles of walking across the UK I was close to the end. Which is more than these wagons were.

Dover looks great from here.

And I was down and past these yachts moorings before one could say hoorah!

I’ve finished John O’Groats to Dover via Lands End (and Eastbourne). Now back home for a week and then on to Calais. Le grand depart.

Night night.