So why not visit southeast England when it’s cold, wet, and dark? That’s the way it is much of the time anyway, and when we’re back home and it’s oppressively hot summertime in Virginia we can look back and say, “ahhhh, I’d like to step into a day like that right now”.
Such as it is, the wind-driven rain is lashing the southern coast at Beachy Head, a nature preserve just west of Eastbourne, an hour and a half train ride from London. I can hardly see my brother up ahead. We’re on a part of the 130 km. South Downs Trail which crosses the open space of the Head. This section of the trail features a particularly impressive section of chalk cliffs for which this coast is known. On nice days this place is popular with paraglider pilots, but this is not one of those days. We hike bent into the wind, our rain jackets soon proving inadequate. It’s exhilarating to gaze several hundred feet down to the sea from the unstable cliff tops; the waves crashing through the mid-day gloom.
Soon we’re on the bus headed east to Pevensey, eating chutney sandwiches we picked up at a grocery along the way. It turns out that I’m not a big fan of chutney, but hey “when in Rome… “. The fortress ruins on the coast at Pevensey are impressive. The Romans built the fort in the year 279 and abandoned it after a few hundred years. Then the Normans took it over in 1166 when they invaded England and William the Conqueror became King. That was the result of the Battle of Hastings, I’m sure you remember.
The town of Hastings is famous for the legendary battle, of course, but beyond that it is a pleasant little fishing village. Interestingly, there is no protected harbour; the fishing boats are pushed and dragged into the sea from the shingle beach utilizing various mechanical assistance, including heavy equipment. Seeing the heavy-duty wooden fishing vessels being pushed around unceremoniously by a bulldozer is fascinating. On this day the sound of the waves crashing on the shore is amazing, the shingles tumbling over themselves like shards of china plates. There is some commotion in pushing some of the boats higher up the shore out of reach of the leaping waves. “Ahhh, but she’s nasty out..” one of the fisherman remarks to me with a shake of his head. We’re glad to be on –relatively- dry ground.
The white cliffs of Dover are grey on the day we’re in town. In fact, when we emerge from the rail station we can hardly see Dover Castle through the low dark clouds scudding over us. The prim little woman in the ticket booth at the castle seems pleased to have some visitors, and explains entry to the Neopoleanic and WWII era tunnels, and the ancient castle, with an extra dose of enthusiasm. Sheets of rain chase us up the broad walk that leads to the war-time tunnels.
The high promontory that Dover Castle (circa 1000 AD) now occupies is shared by the ancient ruins of a Roman lighthouse, testament to the historical significance of this piece of ground. There are strategic tunnels dug into the cliffs from the time of Napolean’s threat to England. And during the dark days of WWII war planes of the Nazi Luftwaffe flew directly overhead on their bombing missions to English cities. Earlier, when war with Germany was recognized as inevitable, the British built a complex compound of tunnels and command posts (some joining with the Napoleonic ones) in the cliffs and under the castle, and the modern-day tour of the eerie facilities is fascinating. From these stark subterranean offices, some with small windows cut through the high cliffs, Montgomery coordinated the massive evacuation of Dunkirk. This harrowing operation involved mobilizing approximately 900 commercial and civilian vessels, and 330,000 people were evacuated.
Emerging from the tunnels into a light mist, I’m relieved that it’s not wartime now –not here anyway, I quickly remind myself. Contemplating how there is always the misery of war at various places throughout the world at any given moment, I walk silently and thoughtfully up the winding approach to the castle gates.
Our timing for visiting Dover Castle is serendipitously good. An extensive restoration of interior furnishings, embroidery and weaving, accurate to Henry II’s rein circa 1100, was completed just prior to our arrival. The interpreters share their knowledge -not to mention their infectious enthusiasm- of the painstakingly researched and carried out restoration.
We learn about Thomas Becket and his relationship with King Henry II. They were friends when young but later fell out over the Law of Church versus the Law of Royalty when Becket became the Archbishop of Canterbury, just down the road from Dover. So much was the ill will, in fact, that it is believed that the murder of Becket in the cathedral by four knights was ordered by King Henry himself. I’m reminded of “Death in the Cathedral” by T.S. Eliot.
On the train ride back to London’s Victoria Station we eat our hastily-procured lunch, or is it dinner? A meal of ready-made sandwiches from a busy English grocer is always a good bet, chutney notwithstanding. The cheery conductor points out Canterbury Cathedral as we roll through the town of the same name.
No time to stop there today, however . . . Night-time at Trafalgar Square and Piccadilly Circus awaits
By John Robinson [email protected]