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One of the most familiar figures in Folkestone town centre, with a shock of white hair sprouting out of his hat, and a bag of papers on his arm, is an octogenarian Irishman who reluctantly moved here in 1963 and never left.

The first time I met this man was shortly after I moved to the town in late 2016. I had decided to offer walking tours and was anxious to consult as many people as possible, not only to assess the interest in the project but also to tap into the experience of those who had previously done this.

The name that kept coming up as the best person to speak to was Eamonn Rooney, whom I was already aware of through buying some of his books on the history of the town.

But there was one snag – he was not the easiest person to track down as he was not on social media. But I managed to find him in his favourite coffee shop where he went every morning. He was sat in a corner of the restaurant with mug, pen, paper and books spread across the table.

And now, almost a decade later, I sat down with him again, in that very same cafe, on the eve of his 82nd birthday, to chat with him about his long association with Folkestone.

Born in Newry in 1944, spanning the counties of Armagh and Down, Eamonn was an average but lazy student. It was the influence of Mr O’Neill, his English teacher, and Mr McCourt, his Art teacher, that encouraged him to take his studies more seriously, though he was later told he “would never amount to anything” by the nuns who ran the school he attended in Belfast.

It was his parents who brought the name of Folkestone to his attention. So, in the spring of 1963, he took a trip, only intending to stay for a short while.

On arriving at Folkestone Central he was struck by the flower displays on roundabouts (after all, it was “Floral Folkestone”). He was impressed with The Leas (a “pleasant surprise”) and Kingsnorth Gardens (still a “hidden gem”).

His first encounter with a Folkestone “celebrity” occurred in the photocopy shop opposite Grace Hill Library. He started talking to American actress, singer (she starred in the long-running rock musical “Hair”), and mother of Mick Jagger’s son, Karis, Marsha Hunt, who was sending a fax (remember those?) to the USA. She said that she would never be able to remember his name, so christened him the “History Man”, and thereafter referred to him as that whenever they met, usually at the supermarket or Metropole jazz club.

On the recommendation of his brother who had just been demobbed from Shorncliffe, he took a summer job, but it was as a bus conductor that he first established himself in the town, and for which he is still fondly remembered. His route for 8 years primarily covered Cheriton, Morehall and the bus station and, as a result, the rest of the town remained largely an unknown quantity for him.

Time to buy a street map!

He had been told that Folkestone was primarily a Victorian town, so had “written off” the Bayle and the Old High Street as places of interest. But one day he met the watermills and windmills expert, C.P.Davies, whom he regards reverentially to this day as the preeminent local historian, who told him that there was “a lot of history” in Folkestone with a (buried) Roman Villa, significant Anglo-Saxon heritage, not to mention an extensive military history.

That was the moment when the “History Man” discovered his holy grail, starting a decades long love affair with the Heritage Room on the first floor of the Grace Hill Library. Eamonn was devastated when Davies retired shortly afterwards.

He also fondly remembers Amanda Oates of Shepway District Council who was responsible for organising events at the Lower Leas park Amphitheatre. Since she left, the facility has been sadly neglected.

The history research was all well and good, but he still had to earn a living. After being rejected by several Park Farm factories he was offered a job at FWM Plastics, followed by Silver Spring and Portex, for whom he worked for 15 years. It was during this time there that his writing career began with articles in the company’s Blue Line magazine and then the Portex and Folkestone camera clubs. And in 1985 he founded the local history society with Charles Whitney (chair), Alan Taylor and Peter Bamford.

In the early nineties, he took a three day a week job at the much lamented Martello No.3 visitor centre with an evening security role in the Leas Cliff Hall, followed by a winter job at the seafront car park. Between 1989 and 1996 he not only performed the role of town greeter but also delivered tours on behalf of the New Folkestone Society.

But it was in 1995 that the role for which most people remember him presented itself. Shepway Council had a vacancy at the Leas Lift, a position for which Eamonn’s undoubted customer facing skills made him ideally suited. When the council relinquished the lift in 2009, he was approached by the Folkestone Estate to take responsibility through a management agreement (CIC). With Terry Begent agreeing to handle all the business affairs, they formed a “dream team” until the lift closed in 2017, and it is a matter of great sadness to Eamonn that it remains closed (though, we hope, not for much longer).

Eamonn has more stories from his time as a tour guide than I have space for. One I particularly like is when he showed an American party into the British Lion pub, and as they were leaving, was asked “hey, buddy, aren’t we going to have what you Brits call a swift half before we go”? After the obligatory few drinks, Eamonn began to thank the group for joining the tour when the same guest enquired “hey, aren’t you going to finish the tour?”. Which, of course, like any self-respecting guide, he did.  

Eamonn finds it remarkable that the young teenager who left Northern Ireland with no immediate prospects should meet an array of prominent individuals in his adopted town over the next sixty years. In addition to Marsha Hunt, these included Lord Radnor himself at his Wiltshire castle, Eastenders actress, Michelle Collins, whom he met at a BBC Wales interview, and Prince Harry at the opening of the Step Short Arch on the centenary of the outbreak if the Great War on 4th August 2014.

Eamonn has utilised his research to publish many books and pamphlets on Folkestone’s history, both on his own and in collaboration with others, notably Alan Taylor and Terry Begent. Asked which he was most proud of, he cited the history of the Belgian refugees at the outbreak of the Great War and the illustrations and text he provided for   

John Rice’s Folkestone: A Photographic Record.

And the next? Probably Stuart Folkestone.

Whatever it might be, I for one will be buying it.

Happy Birthday Eamonn, may you have any more!

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How can they do that day after day.

Put themselves at risk in our defence,

Surrounded at work by death and decay,

Our gratitude their only recompense?

How can they do that day after day,

Spit in the face of those who only care,

By their thoughtless actions make others pay,

And extend the duration of this scare?

We see the best and worst of us expressed,

The selfless and the selfish show their hand

While many heed the call to do what’s right,

Some congregate, not caring that it’s banned.

But sacrifice and love must soon prevail’

For all our futures sake we dare not fail.

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Oh, where have you been, my blue-eyed son?
And where have you been, my darling young one?

I stumbled and I fell into a dozen large potholes
I slipped and I slid on a hillock of dog poo

I tripped and I got cut on steps to the harbour
I’ve been by the seashore where waves were a-lashin’

I’ve been stood by a tower whose paint was a-peelin’

And it’s a hard, it’s a hard
It’s a hard, it’s a hard
It’s a hard times in Folkestone.

Oh, what did you see, my blue-eyed son?
And what did you see, my darling young one?

I saw piles of old clothes in empty shop doorways

I saw neglected buildings with sharp, shattered windows

I saw roadworks and barriers on every street corner

I saw half-eaten hamburgers tossed in the gutter

I saw discarded needles in the narrow, dirty alley

And it’s a hard, it’s a hard
It’s a hard, and it’s a hard
It’s a hard times in Folkestone.

And what did you hear, my blue-eyed son?
And what did you hear, my darling young one?

I heard the sound of the seagulls circling the chip shops

I heard the whistling of wind around beachfront apartments

I heard teenagers speak with scanty vocabulary

I heard adults speak with swear words a-plenty

I heard a helicopter hovering above a small park

And it’s a hard, it’s a hard
It’s a hard, it’s a hard
It’s a hard times in Folkestone.

Oh, what did you meet, my blue-eyed son?
And who did you meet, my darling young one?

I met visitors staring at signs near the station

I met lines of sad people queuing up for free food

I met rough sleepers drunk in a garden of flowers

I met men passing white packets to children

I met women who asked if I wanted company

And it’s a hard, it’s a hard
It’s a hard, it’s a hard
It’s a hard times in Folkestone.

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The café door creaks open and a cheerless couple,

Thirty-five years together today, shuffle to an empty table.

Their order of two large one shot lattes,                                                        

And a slice of carrot cake with two teaspoons.

Is taken by the bright young female server.

Their coffees, which would earn a Neapolitan barista

Instant dismissal with their passable similarity to

The water in which the cups will later be washed,

Are delivered with another winning smile.

Husband and wife instantly reach for their smartphones

And settle into a prolonged and gloomy silence.

Not a word passes their lips, save for the occasional

Whisper to share the contents of an email

Or comment on a social media thread,

A sigh or nod the barely perceptible response.

They remain as wedded to their screens

As their thirteen year old grandchildren,

Whose own behaviour at the breakfast table

Incurs their disapproval and chastisement.

They leave the café as quietly as they arrived,

Avoiding the jaunty “thank you, see you soon”

From beside the espresso machine.

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Cool, cranky counsellor for seven decades,

Uncompromisingly honest and true,

Reluctant, slight but mighty mouthpiece

For our turbulent and troubled times.

Dishevelled, denim clad darling of Newport

Damned for declining work on the farm again,

And for demolishing and trampling on

The creaking doors of dull convention,

All before your first quarter century was done.

In two short years you changed the world

With that thin, wild mercury sound,

And poetry never more thrillingly

And controversially

Accompanied by electricity;

And then, mysteriously, you disappeared,

Resurfacing a backwoods family man

With new, but still astounding, songbook.

From basement jams and blood on the tracks,

Through rolling thunder and stadium tours,

I kept the faith;

And when a silver cross in San Diego

Drove you into the arms of Christ;

The onstage sermons may have grated,

But the venom and vengeful tone

Unleashed a sound of searing power.

Admitted Eighties drought and Wiggle Wiggle,

And blistering late nineties comeback

Came and went before a new century

Spawned reappraisals and new discoveries,

Sinatra tributes and mad Christmas album.

Through all your twists and turns

Of style, direction and belief,

And inveterate bloodymindedness,

Your integrity and talent has shone bright;

A body of work by aged twenty five

Enough alone for a lifetime’s legacy,

Yet you are the gift that keeps on giving,

Murder Most Foul but life most fair.

And then your voice, despised by many,

And, I’ll grant, an acquired taste,

From plaintive whine of ardent youth,

Through contented country croon

To veteran’s half spoken growl,

Child of a lifetime of heavy smoking

And punishing concert schedule,

Yet your phrasing remains unrivalled

In its clarity and passion.

No Oscars, Golden Globes,

Grammys or even Nobel Prize,

Will mean as much to you

As does the gratitude

Of the thousands of artists

Who have come after you

And cite you as a mentor.

Like Johnny Cash for you,

You are my north star and guiding light;

So, carry on being busy being born, Bob,

It’s still not dark yet;

We all gotta serve somebody I know,

And, for me, it’s you, my solace

In my hour of deepest need,

May you stay forever young

And your tour never end.

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To climb those hundred, hollow creaking stairs

And shuffle onto tiny wooden benches,

And listen to those around me,

With their home counties accents

And rude sense of entitlement,

Grumbled that their squashed up seats,

Even with their paid for padded cushions,

Aweayre too narrow, too cramped, too hard,

Too damned uncomfortable for their

Four hundred years evolved backsides.

To queue for what seems hours at the bar,

Jostled, muttered at, and splashed with beer

By every sweaty, tie-dyed passed by

Who left it late to heed the bathroom call;

And drenched again as hey return,

still attending to their open flies,

(No washing of hands here),

To catch the band’s favourite song of theirs

And muscle into my dancing space

Beneath the players on the stage.

To search, perchance to find

That cherished corner in the church

Of coffee, cake and ten thousand books.

Wherein I can plant myself for hours

And pen these verses or plan new work;

Only to find that a young family of four,

Day trippers from their wide eyed curiosity,

Have been patiently lurking all the while

At the end of the frantic, noisy counter.

Ready to claim the table that belongs to me.

To cram in the case that last best pair of shorts,

Only to find the balance tipped on the scales

Cursing the traffic on the motorway approach,

And then to be told of a delay of three hours;

To lose wifi, and thus your boarding pass,

At that most crucial moment beside the gate,

To spend eleven hours imprisoned in a box,

Wedged in by by the largest passenger on board,

And learn your entertainment system’s out of order

And your sole preferred meal option has run out.

All these, and a thousand other irritations

That filed our lives with strain and care,

I crave that they might yet soon return,

For every one I could now gladly bear.

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Sun smiles on puddles

Bacon sizzles on the grill

Voices soar from Kings.

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“I get your affection for sourdough bread and the Giants, but Muni? Are you crazy?”

I can hear any resident or informed visitor exclaim.

“The service is totally unreliable, the drivers insolent and a sizeable number of its customers are so weird, not to say unhygienic, that they’d fail the audition for any self-respecting freak show”.

Ah, but there’s the rub. It is the “all human life is there” quality that makes Muni or, to give it its official title, the San Francisco Municipal Transportation Agency, so endearing – provided, of course, that you’re not planning to be any place soon or are of a squeamish disposition.

But then – I don’t have to travel on it every day, though, on balance, I think I might, at least if only for the material it would provide for my writing.

As a child, I remember hearing from my tiny black and white television set that there were “eight million stories in the naked city”. I doubt there are many fewer accounts of life on Muni. Here are some of mine.

But I would never desert the Muni buses or the clanking F Streetcar service, both of which provide the perfect stage for San Franciscans to play out their anxieties or set the world to rights.

Few Muni journeys are uneventful, even when as time has gone on, a greater proportion of passengers have their noses pressed against a mobile phone screen.

On this occasion, however, we enjoyed one of those classic and not infrequent confrontations between driver and passenger.At Church and 18th on one occasion, a fearsome looking, heavily built and extravagantly inked gentleman boarded at the rear with his equally frightening American Staffordshire Bull Terrier. Now, the sign at the front of the bus declared that “any number of signal, service or guide dogs for the disabled are allowed to ride Muni free and unmuzzled”.

On the face of it, it appeared that this particularly member of the canine family was unlikely to fall into any of the above categories, hence the intervention from the brave driver, a slight, fifty something Chinaman, felt that this was not the case who hollered:

“Muzzle that dog at the back”.

“He’s a service dog”.

The driver was undaunted:

“Muzzle that dog at the back”.

To which the newly boarded passenger repeated in a gruffer tone:

He’s a service dog”.

This utterance was accompanied by several violent and obscene gestures which had the effect of diverting the attention of his fellow passengers momentarily from their digital companions.

At this point, the driver discreetly and wisely withdraw from the confrontation and the back of the bus breathed a collective sign of relief. One young man, judging that it might still be in his best interests to befriend the man, summoned up the courage to enquire of the victor:

“What are his (the dog’s) skills?”

“Seizure alert” was the blunt response.

“Oh I get ya”.

I doubt he did, but it seemed imprudent to prolong the conversation, and this was a sound withdrawal strategy.

Nobody was going to gainsay that, although it did provoke a seemingly measured discussion about the value of muzzling dogs on Muni. Fortunately, the debate had not reached the stage where the dog’s party piece would be put to the test before we disembarked at 29th Street and the climb back to our Bernal Heights cottage.

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Picture the scene – one of the checkouts at Morrisons supermarket on Cheriton Road in the late summer of 2018.

I have placed my shopping on the conveyor belt along with my walking tour embossed satchel.

As the middle aged woman on the till begins to ring through my fresh tagliatelle, packet of arrabbiata sauce and bottle of Montepulciano d’Abruzzo – enough to begin with to raise her eyebrows at – she spies my bright red bag.

The conversation goes like this.

Woman (sniffily)

Folkestone Walking Tours – hmmm. What’s that mean?

Me (enthusiastically)

I deliver walking tours of Folkestone.

Woman (inquisitively)

Oh. You’re from Folkestone then, are you?

Me (informatively)

No, I moved here two years ago.

Woman (aggressively)

I’ve lived here all my life. What makes you think you know all about it then?

Me (pleasantly if defensively)

I certainly don’t. But I love Folkestone, having spent my holidays here as a child. And I want to share that with visitors and others,

I’ve also done a lot of research and talked to many people who are lifelong residents.

Woman (distrustfully)

Well, it doesn’t sound right to me.

Me (helpfully)

Perhaps you could come on one of my tours and see for yourself? You’d be very welcome.

Woman (irritatingly)

That’s not my sort of thing. Besides, I can’t walk very far.

I bag my Italian feast for two, pay and make my excuses.

I should finish by making it clear that I had nothing to do with the fire that raged through the building a couple of months later.

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Many of our trips to San Francisco have coincided (intentionally) with the free Hardly Strictly Bluegrass festival in Golden Gate Park over the first, invariably warm, weekend of October.

There have been a number of high spots over recent years with regular performances in particular from Steve Earle (with a guest appearance from Bob Weir of the Grateful Dead), Emmylou Harris (who traditionally closes the festival), Jack Casady and Jorma Kaukonen, guitar gods from Jefferson Airplane, the Neville Brothers, John Prine, Robert Plant, the Blind Boys of Alabama and Moonalice who performed a set of songs penned by the then recently deceased Robert Hunter, principal lyricist for the Grateful Dead.

The atmosphere could not be further from the corporate, money-driven ethos of Glastonbury and similar events and fitting that San Francisco where, along with other Californian venues, the concept of free outdoor rock festivals effectively originated in the late sixties.

But the highlight for me came in 2019 with Judy Collins. But before that I need to take you back twelve months to San Rafael in Marin County. A store owner friend of mine in Folkestone asked if I could deliver a note to Phil Lesh, the former Grateful Dead bass player, at his performance/dining venue at Terrapin Crossroads (sadly now closed, though the music lives on).

Not only was I able to deliver the note, which stated that she had adored him since the Europe ’72 tour, successfully but I also had the opportunity of a few minutes chat with the great man, who signed a postcard of his own for me to pass on to her on my return.

So pleased was my friend that I had succeeded in achieving a task that might not unreasonably have been perceived as unlikely – after all, Phil didn’t rap with random British guys in his bar every day – that she set me an even more challenging task twelve months later.

It appears that she had been as besotted with Judy Collins’s music for more than half a century as she had been with Phil Lesh’s music over the same period of time. So she asked me to deliver a letter from her to Judy on the afternoon that she was performing.

Now walking across a barroom floor to request a quick chat with a music superstar is a piece of cake compared to gaining access to another legendary artist in the middle of one of the world’s largest parks and when there are tens of thousands of other people in close proximity.

The afternoon arrived, and as the appointed time for Judy’s set approached, I gingerly made my way to the front of the stage – there did not appear to be an obvious place to go “backstage” – I was accosted, firmly but politely, by a burly African-American gentleman who may have been thinking I was getting a little too close.

I explained my predicament – which, even to my own mind, seemed a bit odd. He listened carefully and took the letter from me without making any promises. I did not hold out much hope for a positive response, but around five minutes later he returned in a similarly measured way and informed me that “Miss Collins has received the note”.

My joy would have been unconfined had Judy referred to it whilst she was on stage, but she did not. She did, however, sing Both Sides Now to me – well, me and many others – on my birthday.

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