We were off at a sensible hour to Dover this morning to deliver some of Martyn's old textbooks to the Books to Africa operation. It consists of a row of shipping containers in the port zone up at Whitfield, whence the occasional shipment goes out to schools and colleges in Africa. The books have been cluttering up shelves, car boots and garages for some time now, since it's a 130 mile round-trip. Applying the principle, given the price of diesel, that we make any journey by car do at least two jobs, we hung back until we were ready to make a quick booze cruise to the neighbouring continent (provided it wasn't cut off by fog, of course).
With some entertaining in prospect, we'd planned to go and raid the Dunkirk Auchan for the necessary provisions. On arrival at the check-in in the Dover docks, the fellow told as that, in view of further disruption of services from Calais, it would be wise not to travel, and rebook for another day. The prospect of being stuck in the somewhat unlovely (and, frankly, dangerous) Calais persuaded us to take the company's advice. I now read that there has been no such disruption, so our burning of some 15 litres of diesel was a at least partly wasted, given that we'll have to do the whole damn' thing again.
On a whim, we dropped in at Samphire Hoe. I read later that the 30 hectare country park was created out of 4.9 million cubic metres of chalk marl, spoil from the boring of the Channel Tunnels dumped at the foot of the Shakespeare cliffs. Last time I visited, there was a biting wind and stinging rain. Today, which was Martyn's first time there, it was still and balmy, with hazy views of the French coast and shipping out in the channel. It was a hay fever sufferer's nightmare, however, and I've been coughing and sneezing for the remainder of the day, having also from time to time to clean the glasses of the spots of salt spray from my watery eyes. But we were serenaded by a couple of larks, and got quite close to a beautiful adder, bronze with the characteristic lozenge markings along its back. It didn't seem at all alarmed by our presence, but the clear advice from the administrators is to stick to the paths and keep dogs on leads!
From there we ambled along the coast to Dungeness for fish and chips in the dingy Pilot Inn. (There is a better lit area with views out to sea, but whenever we have been there the tables have all been pre-booked. It's a favourite coach outing for geriatric delinquents, it seems.) I couldn't finish my rather bony haddock and chips, and have spent the afternoon wishing I'd eaten less. But it was good: cooked just long enough in perfect crisp batter. Next time we go, I'll remember to order the senior mini-portion and one serving of chips between two. Oh, and forget the mushy peas as well. The Romney Marsh roadsides are a wonderful display of tall blue flowers: viper's bugloss or adderwort: echium vulgare, I later read. A pleasant amble home through the Weald, made more pleasant by Martyn's driving it. Until, of course, we reached the limits of Disgustedville, which is in the grips of numerous road improvement schemes, temporary traffic lights and cones by the thousand. Modern times, I guess.
By the way, Kate's latest, Magna Carta, has been booked for some further performances: check the Historia home page for details.
No comments:
Post a Comment