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The limestone cliffs of Dover, and more ...


Dover, Great Britain My husband Alex and I reached Kent County, a part of South England, after a two-hour train ride from London. We wanted to see for ourselves the famous white limestone cliffs of Dover, already an ingrained image since we learned (and memorized!) the immortal poem “Dover Beach" of Matthew Arnold in high school. Our quaint bed & breakfast was called the Longfield Guest House, along Folkestone Road, a quiet end of the long street that housed so many places to stay. The house looked lovely, with a small but well-tended garden that had sturdy flowers blooming in the cold spring weather. It was threatening to rain when we got in, not really helpful for someone like me who had the sniffles and cough, acquired in rainy London. Our room (#6) was on the second floor, with crimson chenille bed spreads, pink Victorian-printed wall papers of rose poesies, and Tiffany lamps. Thank God for the sachets containing lemon-flavored powder (paracetamol and cold medications) to be taken in a glass of hot water, bought from the local Boots Chemist Shop; the flu-like symptoms soon abated. After resting for half an hour, we hied off to see the surrounding area. The sun suddenly came out when we opened the door, and we took that as a good omen for the day. We followed the path leading to a beautiful green park and an ascending walk towards what seemed to be an old castle, which turned out to be the famous Dover Castle, a medieval fortress built by King Henry II around the 1800s. Dover is one of the historically strategic places that guards England. Situated in the southeastern tip of the country, and being the nearest city to Calais, France (and continental Europe) fortifications had been made several centuries ago to guard against invasion from the sea. The Dover Castle has been one such edifice, with walls as thick as 21 feet, it was said, to ward off enemy attacks. Some underground channels as long as three kilometers were also dug during WWII; Dover citizens hid there especially during the air bombings.
Dover Castle was built to repel enemy attacks from continental Europe
But war was the last thing on our minds as we wound our way around thick bushes and lush trees, the air sweet with birdsong. We were the only people around, it seemed, as we walked further inland. Before we knew it we were almost in front of the castle, its forbidding walls and ramparts looming in the sky. As we were looking at the stone walls a dark cloud suddenly hid the sun, and the temperature dipped. A strong wind came up, and we had to button up our jackets as it was starting to get very cold. We were out in the field in a very exposed position, so that when the rain started and became heavier by the minute, we were caught in a downpour so strong that even with our trusty umbrellas, our walking shoes and socks got soaked in a matter of minutes. We sturdily walked on, but with visibility almost nil with the strong rain, we decided to go back and take the heavenly omens to mean that it was not the day for us to explore the castle. When we reached the guest house though, after half an hour’s sloshing, the sun shone through again. Alex and I just had to laugh aloud: one really needed time to adjust to this strange weather! Undeterred by the morning’s rain, we decided to visit the cliffs after a light lunch of ham sandwiches and beer, and a short rest. The walk to the cliffs was away from the castle, although we still passed through thick, lush vegetation and forest-like areas. The air was redolent with the earthy smell of rain-soaked fields, and the birds were out again. It was an uphill, winding climb, and from time to time I had to stop and get my breath back after a series of coughing and sneezing fits. Suddenly the ground became flatter, and before we knew it, we were on top of one of the cliffs overlooking the Strait of Dover that connected with the English Channel. The wind was strong and we could have, it seemed, been easily swept up by the wicked gusts —out, out, and be slammed against the white cliffs, then hurled into the churning sea! We had to walk slowly along the carved trails around the cliffs before we reached a vantage point where we could stand still to savor the view.
The chalk cliffs of Dover are blindingly white on a sunny day.
The cliffs were glaringly white because of the limestone content, and the sheer precipices made us catch our breaths. The first lines from Matthew Arnold came back unbidden, although the setting in that poem was night time: The sea is calm tonight./ The tide is full, the moon lies fair/ Upon the straits; on the French coast the light/ gleams and is gone;…" The dark epiphany of that poem was a bit far-fetched that day though, because the sun was shining when we were there. Some of the cliffs were so tall and sharp, one could not help but imagine the Earl of Gloucester, old and blind, despondently asking his son Edgar to lead him into one of these cliffs so he could jump down. One of the sheerest cliffs thus was named Shakespeare Cliff, after this scene in King Lear. (“Come on, sir; here’s the place: stand still. How fearful/ and dizzy ‘tis to cast one’s eyes so low!... The fishermen that walk upon the beach/ appear like mice…") Walking around that area I couldn’t help but poke my finger against a part of the limestone wall, and found it chalky and powdery. Alex found abundant plant growth on the cliff walls themselves, and we later discovered that the plant was called samphire, a succulent herb that grew in the clefts of rocks facing the sea, and was eaten as a pickle. There was no one around, and it was so restful to be just there, standing on the grass overlooking the sea. Below us was the busy wharf of Dover, and for a long while we stood there watching the large ships docking, some leaving, with the heavy bars of the pier barrier going up and down allowing access to the docking area. (At a later time, Alex was to come back with his picnic basket containing a can of Pringles and beer, sit down on the edge of the cliff, and enjoy the scenery, while I took the afternoon off to rest. He found a modern-looking white-washed lighthouse in the area.) Walking home later we passed by the modest house of Matthew Arnold, the flowers in his garden in bloom, his famous poem printed beside the door.
The author pauses on a leafy pathway leading to Dover castle.
We passed by a food cart and bought Pukka Pie (beef and onion pie) and the equally famous British fish and chips, now no longer wrapped in newspapers − the food seller said the ink stained the fish and the fries, making them look unappetizing − but in clean newsprint. Both were piping hot, which we ate as we slowly wound our way home. We came back to the limestone cliffs the next day and explored the area further, and discovered that there were places for picnics and barbeques open to the public during summer. We were welcomed at the Natural Estates of England Trust offices, and learned that the Dover white cliffs were not only iconic; they were the first sights that homesick British mariners saw when they sailed home. The coffee shop offered a respite from our long, rambling walks. At the Longfield Guest House, we were introduced to the “Full English Breakfast" as our housekeeper Cora proudly called it. She asked us to come to the well-appointed breakfast room papered with pink roses and flowers at exactly 8 AM.
The full English breakfast has to be savored slowly, preferably in a cozy nook with a view of the garden.
Soon enough, she came out of the kitchen laden with her treasures: Two large plates, each containing a freshly fried egg, a large, gingery sausage, white kidney beans in tomato sauce, rashers of fried ham, a large stewed tomato, plus a huge pot of coffee, slices of toast with choices of jam, honey and butter, and a glass of orange juice. This was indeed not a hurried eat-and-go breakfast, but something to be slowly savored, as one looked out from the breakfast nook window and saw the shrubbery outside, the thick hedges and the small yellow flowers budding on the ground. Later we had time to look around the market place where fresh produce was sold. We got some apricots, nectarines and cherries, all welcomed by the body still feverish and slightly weak. A two-hour midday rest while listening to the local radio station did wonders, as the crisp British accents of the announcers made the hours fly by. Walking leisurely around Dover’s High Street in the late afternoon we found a red public phone booth and tried calling my mother, and indeed it felt a bit surreal speaking with her, describing the white cliffs in detail, while she in turn related the antics of her two pet cats at home in Mandaluyong. Still more surreal was dinner that night, at the Eight Bells Restaurant in the Town Centre. It was an Asian restaurant — did this say anything about our “homing pigeon" instincts, looking for food that was more familiar, to soothe the longing for home, wherever that may be? The place was quite full, and we were lucky to find seats for two immediately. Alex had the Malaysian Beef Rendang and I had Lamb Josh; both were in ample plates with steamed Bismati rice in light curry sauce, 2 crispy pappadoms, a large freshly-baked naan; beer for Alex and lemonade for me. We took a slower, longer route back to our lodgings that night, to allow our systems to digest the delicious food. The wind from the sea was still brisk, the stars were out, and it seemed, although Matthew Arnold said otherwise, the world certainly had joy, and love, and light; and surely certitude, and peace. - YA, GMA News
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