At Calais, the bus to the ferry terminal had been delayed nearly two hours because of a cycle race! Not in the least bit happy about that. Fate stepped in again with the help of a couple of Filipino Americans, we walked – yes, again – down towards the harbour and where we could see the ferries. Nup, wrong way. So we went around the harbour to the other side. Nope, that wasn't it either and bugger me if we could find anyone who would speak English! Yep, carting luggage unnecessarily does make you tired and emotional. We went back to the junction and found an English trucker and his mate. Their advice? Go over to the nice people at the Holiday Inn. They will order you a taxi. So we went over to the hotel and those nice people ordered us a taxi. Good thing too, because where we were supposed to be, was wa-ay too far to walk even sans luggage.
The girls left me once aboard. I couldn't leave my luggage and they had none. So I made the trip alone, but happily took photos of the French beach, the ships, the water and then... the White Cliffs of Dover! Spectacular!
Off the ship and I loitered about wondering what to do. I didn't have anywhere to stay and most of the people on board were in cars. A mere handful walked onto the ferry and they were expecting a tour bus.
Hmm... again, fate has a hand. I slung the big backpack and picked up the other bag, walked around the corner and lo, a taxi! I asked him if he knew of any reasonably priced places to stay. He said 'yep' tossed my bags in and said: "I don't usually hang about here, but I thought I'd just give it another couple of minutes before heading back into town." And he proceeded to take me to a lovely B&B on Castle Hill Street called St Martin's Guest House, just below the famed Dover Castle.
Noice, except the proprietress put me on the third floor, a hike and a half on narrow steps with a large backpack and a smaller one. Two trips, then. The proprietress recommended a few places to look at, since Dover is older than the Roman fortifications would suggest.
But I'm not ready to do the Castle, it is, after all up the hill. Instead, I wandered down to look at some antiquities. St James' Church where I found a name like my ancestor – something to look up – and further down into the market square. More photos, of course, but of Dover Castle overlooking the town. I wandered up a street and found... the Roman Painted House! Now this was a real treat. The painted plaster walls survived because the Romans filled in the rooms to construct a ramp, and the colours are still vibrant.
Unfortunately, no photography is allowed. I canoodled around for while, on my own, and noticed... the same scent as Tyne Cot Memorial. Was it, I wondered, indicative of buried sites, or burials or both?
Anyway, I bought some tourist loot, thanked the ladies and wandered down to the sea. Now... I spent a year living in Norfolk, I spent a month touring way back in 19mumble, mumble but I didn't go to any beaches. This time I did. Even bought myself an ice cream to have while strolling the promenade. Stones and pebbles. How can anyone call that a beach? And the teenagers? Have I ever heard such wholesale, indiscriminate, loud swearing? No, I don't think so. And that was the girls. Nor did they care who overheard them. Eventually, they left, and so did I. I made my way to a pub and had a Guinness, then on to a small shop selling fabulous fish and chips. Gotta have that in Britain, don'tcha?
The morning dawned warm and bright. I stuck my Belgium hat on my head, packed the camera into my daypack and took off around the hill. The proprietess suggested the walk to the National Park, that I'd enjoy it. For the first part, I did, but the hill grew increasingly steep. I could not see a way to the castle up this way and, by the time I reached the top, I knew there wasn't one. There's only so much a body can stand and the trip down reminded my of the hike I did down into the Grand Canyon in Arizona. You can feel your thigh muscles tense, then burn with every step. When I finished that hike, I felt like I'd never walk properly again. But after a long, long soak in a hot bath, everything was better.
So I reached the bottom of the hill and wandered around to Castle Street. Up, up and still up on a 13 degree incline that seemed more, and further up a flight of stairs. By the time I got up that hill, I was wondering if the walk was worth it. I bought the entrance ticket and moved further into the grounds. As I walked, I got a text message from Australia reminding me that it was Mother's Day. Great. Time was slipping away to call home – it's nine hours ahead. I tried to call, but got nowhere and the final call for the World War II trip into the secret world of Admiral Ramsay came. I went on the tour and found it interesting. The tour has voice-overs and sound effects, so you get a feel for what it was like during an air raid with lights flickering and sirens going off in the dim interior.Once out, I managed to call home and it was comforting to hear my mother’s voice. It also reminded me of how I alone I am, even though I've spent a year without friends and family in this country. As a cure, I went around the castle without a tour guide. I followed a group of American tourists into the medieval tunnels. So caught up in my own thoughts of what life would have been like, that it wasn't until I went down a darkened corridor that I realised I was actually on my own. As a way to freak yourself out, it's pretty effective. You can feel the history, touch the history, and nearly hear it – at least, I hope I didn't hear it. Those noises, they were the Americans, weren’t they?
With a deep breath – again, that… smell – I made my way back, staring intently at the pitch black end of the tunnel as I walked; just in case, you know. Outside, the sun and air felt warm and fresh. I bought more touristy stuff, including a Tudor cookbook... well, I make Hypocras, Henry VIII's favourite drink, so why not try some other recipes?
The long day began to take its toll. My feet hurt, my calves felt like I'd torn something and my thighs ached. Off I went down the hill and to the Market Square. Desperate for coffee, I found Beano's cafe. As a child I read Beano comics so I had to get coffee here. A mistake, a really big one. The coffee – a supposed latte – was made with boiling water with a layer of foam and thick cream on the top. The foam formed a barrier so the cream didn't melt and cool the coffee down. End result, one badly scalded tongue. There was only one thing to do: head for a bar and cool my burned mouth. A pint of Guinness did the job, but next morning my tongue was numb. So much for enjoying breakfast.
It was time to go to London. Work on the family tree awaited. I called a taxi and boarded the train. What secrets would the National Archives give up?
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