Blackberries, White Cliffs & the Worst News Of My Life
Today we had a big day planned, catching a train to the famed white cliffs of Dover. Molly had the details all worked out so we made our way to the London Bridge station, tapped our cards as usual, stepped aboard and found ourselves in a very plush carriage with wide seats and little tables. It soon dawned on us we had landed in the First Class section. Not sure whether we needed to move, we hung tight; hung tight that was until we were sprung by Karl the conductor. ‘Allo, allo, allo. ‘Ave ye got ye tickets?”
Fearing we’d be slapped with a fine or thrown in the clinker, we explained we had ‘tapped’ in and didn’t realise we’d need tickets. He assured us that we most certainly did but was extra nice about it and had a laugh about us being in first class. We have decided that Londoners are just so nice. Everyone we’ve met has been incredibly jolly and over-the-top friendly. Nothing’s too hard and they just take everything in their stride. It’s refreshing.
Our train ride was through lots of little villages with identical houses butted up to each other in neat rows with matching Mary Poppins chimney pots. As the train zoomed along the coast there were wide open fields of wheat, dancing in the breeze and thatched rooved farmhouses with white picket fences.
We sat down in the main street of Dover, just next to the humungous church, built in 1203 (!) & while Molly sorted out our bus route, I met the delightful 95-year-old Elsie, who had recently lost her husband to dementia and was about to go on a cruise to Portugal that her daughter had booked for them, hoping to cheer her up. She patted me on the leg, told me she was a realist and doubted it would help. Born and bred in Dover, she still remembered trips to the seaside with her parents in the ‘good ol’ days’ before it became a little more, shall we say, cosmopolitan. She doesn’t mind the influx of good curry shops though.
After a substantial wait in the sun for a late bus, we finally boarded and were greeted by our very friendly and jovial driver, who proceeded to tell us how best we could save money on our tickets, presenting several options and then following up with a nice, long chat. Now we know why the bus was late. When we alighted we enquired as to the whereabouts of the white cliffs, he said, in his cute cockney accent “down na bo’om of da hill ar nay?” Of course. Silly question…wannit?
It was a long way down through narrow shady pathways with overhanging trees forming a tunnel - just so pretty! We emerged at a gorgeous little beach, flanked by big white headlands and tucked into the cliff. With sizeable pebbles underfoot, we crunched along the beach to find caves set in the chalky cliff. People had used the chalky rocks to write their names on large pebbles and we added our own to the whole wall of personalised rocks already there.
We dined on chips and cheddar at the Coast Guard Pub on the bay, built in 1698! The closest English pub to France, which we could clearly see across the water. Our phones sent us a message saying “welcome to France!” Apparently Ian Fleming, of James Bond fame, had lived on the cliff for years and if you look closely at the pub’s big sign, you’ll see his face is hidden in the white cliff.
It was a huge walk back up the hill towards the white cliffs as we dodged gigantic bumble bees and ate wild blackberries from along the sides of the path we felt like we were in an episode of Escape to The Country. All the houses had names, like “Badger Walk” and “Avonsea”. Just as we were cresting the hill, I got a very sad call from Ben to tell me our beautiful mum had passed away. Mum has had advanced stage frontal lobe dementia for the past eight years so it is true what they say about the grieving process starting long before now. Ben described it really well, it’s like reading a book three-quarters of the way through. Even though you know how it’s going to end, nothing can really prepare you for the loss of a parent.
So on we walked, across this breathtakingly stunning and unique coastline, me bawling and Molly being a great comforter. We walked (cried and talked) for a whopping five and a half hours and were relieved to find we could reach the town of Dover without having to turn around and go back the way we’d come. My phone battery was fading fast and Molly had no wifi so we didn’t really know where we were going - not unusual for me most days. We came to the Dover Visitor’s Centre, a beacon of hope for our weary legs but alas it was closed. Molly had suggested we ask a ‘nice stranger’ for a lift earlier in the day & I had said: “Hitchhiking? No way! Way too dangerous”. Now, after almost six hours of trekking in the relentless sun and with apparently still a long way to go, I’d have been happy to be strapped to someone’s roof racks.
We asked an American girl how far it was to the train station and she said it was another hour to reach Dover and then 40 minutes to the train station. Really? That wasn’t good news. We found a solitary E-bike but the seat was up way too high and wouldn’t budge. I wasn’t as convinced as Molly that we’d both fit on the one bike either. On our way down the steps, we met a lovely Englishman called Peter. He was probably about ten years older than me, but fit as a fiddle. You could crack nuts on his calf muscles. We explained our dilemma. The last train to London (good name for a song) was at 7pm and we had one hour before then. He scoffed at it being 40 minutes from town and with a hearty “Follow me! I’ll get you there on time” he beckoned his two very bedraggled travelling companions onwards and upwards. Peter walked like a maniac, never looking back and if it hadn’t have been for his stamina and cracking pace, we’d never have made it. I told him about Mum and burst into tears. He told me his dad had died during lockdown and had battled with dementia for five years. He was so understanding and we shared our tears. When we parted at the corner, he urged us on, told us to keep asking people for directions and he headed home. What a godsend he was.
Our next directions came from a toothless chap in a tartan hat who told us to turn left at the bank, go past the Roman painted house, go through the roundabout, turn left, go across the crossing, go right….
We got as far as the Roman house and had to stop for more advice. We got some excellent directions from the friendliest bunch of locals you could ever meet. They say it takes a village to raise a child, well this village got us to our train.
What a day.
