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Archive for the ‘Personal’ Category


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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Three hours in a stuffy airport lounge

Is all the time I’ve spent with you,

An irritating blip on an autumn trip

To Atlanta’s tempestuous stew

On the day an English princess

Was laid to rest in shocked world’s view.

Home to Dylan and Lakota brave,

Iron mines, snow and natural ice,

Tonight, my tears flow long for you

Who have for your pride paid the price

By standing strong against the hate

Spreading love ‘gainst loaded dice.

If this madness should ever cease

I will, with you, come share that peace.  

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I have stood beside the crossroads

And massaged the liberty bell;

I have skied down lakeside mountains

And ridden rollercoaster hell;

I have peered into deep canyons  

And seen eagles in desert skies;

I have sat aboard the L train

And tried on cowboy boots for size;

I have walked across great bridges

And crawled up long, steepling streets;

I have held gators in my hand

And witnessed giant sporting feats.

No more will I do these again

While hate and cruelty maintain.

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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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It all comes down to those eyes.

It was a raw September afternoon in York as Covid-19 restrictions began to ease. Scouting for a warm coffee shop my attention was drawn to a familiar face in the Shambles Market. And there she was, in the front of a jam packed cardboard box of vinyl records calling to me across the years, her impossibly big brown eyes pinning me momentarily to the spot.

But first, a short history lesson.

As a proud baby boomer born in the early fifties, my music buying activity began with “singles” (45rpm), followed in my late teens with “long playing” vinyl (33rpm) records. With the advances in technology over the next thirty years, I “progressed”, like many of my contemporaries, to cassette tapes, courtesy of the then revolutionary Sony Walkman, and then compact discs (CDs).

The bulk of my vinyl collection (did we refer to it as “vinyl” then?) was voraciously snaffled up by predatory dealers lurking at boot fairs on Sunday mornings. Selling a box full of classic sixties and seventies albums was as much a thrill for me (in retrospect, a short-sighted one) as it was to the wily buyer.

A single box, containing an eclectic range of rock, folk and classical titles, remained, consigned to a succession of lofts as we moved home three times. The only purchases I made for the next twenty years were CDs, and the turntable gathered dust before being discarded altogether.

I had succumbed to the prevailing mantra that CDs offered a cleaner, more precise and, therefore, satisfying, sound. Even the vinyl comeback in the early years of the new millennium failed to convince me to abandon this approach.

The reason was primarily a matter of cost. I was not in a position to pay £30 for a new 180g pressing of an album I had bought fifty years previously for thirty shillings (£1.50!). And then there was the outlay that would be required on a new turntable to consider.

But as vinyl collection became increasingly fashionable again, I found myself pawing through boxes in the growing number of independent record shops and market stalls, joining in the arcane and, to some tastes, boring, conversations among boomers like myself that accompanied the pursuit.

But the likelihood of my leaving with an LP under my arm remained a slim one.

Until our eyes met as dusk descended over the Shambles Market.

I think it’s time I revealed the identity of the person whose eyes so transfixed me and drove me to a fateful decision.

None other than Linda Ronstadt, not only the most beautiful, but also the most versatile (country rock, Hispanic ballads, American standards, opera, the list goes on) singer of her generation. I was unable to resist buying her eponymous album (readers lacking a soul might suggest that I would have been better just cutting up the outer sleeve and framing it).

It still took a lengthy sermon from the guy manning the stall in the market to cement my conversion. Jackson Browne’s For Everyman and Van Morrison’s Hard Nose the Highway , each at an affordable price, sealed the deal. Within a week I had introduced them to a new, attractive yet moderately priced turntable.

And then the fun started……with a twist.

Cost continued to be a major factor in my purchasing strategy. But there was an even more important criterion – I would not, with occasional exceptions, buy an album that post dated the time I had previously stopped collecting vinyl.

To date, I have bought a little over a hundred albums in the four years since my Yorkshire epiphany, some “new” but the majority second hand from independent stores, fairs and market stalls, online retailers and charity shops, ranging in price from £1.99 to £35, most in the lower price range. I have rejected others if they looked as if they were damaged. Very few have disappointed.

I have striven to resist becoming a vinyl bore but there is no question in my mind that it has a warmth and spirit that is largely absent from the more clinical, “perfect” alternatives. Some surface noise only adds to the enhanced atmosphere.

And I have overcome my propensity to whinge whenever I have to get up every twenty minutes to turn the disc over!

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It was midday and the stores on Haight Street were drowsily coming to life under a warming sun. A gaggle of skateboarders, ageing “heads”, dogs and guitars waited at the lights at Stanyan to cross over to Hippie Hill for an afternoon of music, marijuana and merriment.

We had just enjoyed a sumptuous lunch of chicken pesto, Greek chicken wraps and hummus plate at the Blue Front Café, (sadly, one of the many eateries that has subsequently closed), and were entering a brightly coloured establishment which had historically divested us of our holiday dollars more than any other over the previous two decades.

As we planted ourselves in the rear of the store to look for any new tie-dye shirts from Liquid Blue, the silence was broken by a chirpy Californian female voice.

“Hey, you guys, let me explain the layout in here for you. At this end you will find the Grateful Dead t-shirts, organised by size, while over here are my own designs…….”

It was clear that the woman was going to continue with this well-rehearsed speech for some time, and, of course, she was only trying to be helpful. But I have an aversion to being what I perceive as “stalked” in stores by staff when all I want to do is look for myself and ask questions if I have a need.

So, I interrupted her rather abruptly – for which I have since apologised on many occasions – explaining that for nearly twenty years we had been rummaging through her colourful stock, and left laden with t-shirts, dresses, badges, stickers and other paraphernalia.

Rather than being deterred by my rude riposte, she squealed at the news, thanking us for our custom (not service – that is generally reserved for the military) and asking us where we were from, a perfectly reasonable icebreaker if one were really needed. I explained that we were from England, that I had revered the Dead since the late sixties and had visited the store many times before. This triggered a discussion about our mutual love for the music and the city.

I mentioned that we were heading for the Great American Music Hall that evening to see Dark Star Orchestra, the band formed in Chicago that had been replicating entire Dead shows since 1997. Alicia, as she was called, was thrilled to hear and said “we’re going too, do you wanna hang out?” By “we” she had included her partner, Jerry (no, not that one) who was, at the time, the long term owner of the store.

Despite the presumption (at least to British ears) in the question we instantly accepted the offer, and as we left with Casey Jones and Alice in Wonderland tees, arranged to meet in the line outside the venue at 6pm.

Disembarking the 47 Muni, rather uncharitably dubbed by my wife the “stinky bus”, at Van Ness and O’Farrell, we strode excitedly along the two blocks to join a mercifully short line at the venue. Dead concerts past were recalled as the air reeked of pot and a lone, long haired man patrolled the street with a barely legible, but at least grammatically correct, “I need a miracle” message scrawled on a scrap of cardboard with a Sharpie.

Alicia and Jerry joined us ten minutes later and we made our way to the upper floor where we had booked tables, allowing a prime position leaning on the railing that overlooked the stage below. We could not have had a better view as we christened our new tie-dye outfits. The ticket price had included a meal from a limited menu. With Californian and English choices on offer, we all opted for the latter – fish and chips (the American version of several small fish pieces rather than the single, larger British version).

This was the second time we had seen Dark Star Orchestra, the first having been at the House of Blues in Las Vegas on the eve of my sixtieth birthday two years earlier, when they had played a show from the early nineties which my wife had struggled to embrace, leading her to abandon the show midway through the second set halfway through a characteristically lengthy Eyes of the World jam in favour of the penny slot machines on the Mandalay Bay casino floor. 

She had still not, at this stage, been fully converted to the Dead’s music, despite the fact that I had tried for thirty years to convince her of their greatness. She did, however, enjoy many of the earlier, shorter songs like Sugar Magnolia, Uncle John’s Band, Box of Rain and her favourite, Bertha.

I had been hoping that, being in San Francisco, they might play a Fillmore (West) concert on this evening, perhaps even from the run featured on the Live Dead album from 1969. And that, with some minor adaptations, is exactly what we got. I was beside myself, and my wife was happy too.

Mid way through the first set they announced that they were being joined by a special guest – Grateful Dead rhythm guitarist Bob Weir! He jammed with the band on St. Stephen and sang one of his signature cowboy songs, Me and My Uncle. The following year Bob similarly “gate crashed” Steve Earle’s set at Hardly Strictly Bluegrass in 2016. And more than a decade later, during which he had headlined Dead and Company, Wolf Brothers and countless other musical projects, and at the age of seventy eight, he shows little sign of putting himself out to pasture.

Sam Cutler, former manager of both the Dead and the Rolling Stones, spoke to the audience between sets when, naturally, I bought a t-shirt from the merchandise table, an item of clothing I reprised to lead guitarist Jeff Matson’s delight at the band’s concert at Shepherd’s Bush Empire in London in September 2022.

The concert continued past midnight. It had been a special evening, we had bonded with Alicia and Jerry, forging a friendship that continued to flourish and which led to us staying at their home with them in Petaluma on a number of occasions, attending concerts, Giants and 49ers games and meals together as well as them (separately) visiting the UK and all of us, including their two children, Aiden (Alicia’s by a previous marriage) and Ely (their own son) meeting up subsequently in Chicago.

As the Covid-19 pandemic caused a hiatus in our physical connection, we met up on Zoom on a weekly basis as they prepared to go for a morning cycle and we cooked our Sunday dinner! We even danced to favourite Dead songs when the conversation, as it did rarely, lagged.

The story of our relationship has subsequently taken several dramatic and unexpected turns, which I will address on another occasion.

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Sun smiles on puddles

Bacon sizzles on the grill

Voices soar from Kings.

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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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St Charles Place or posh Pall Mall,
Vermont Avenue or Euston Road?
Pancakes and waffles or Eggs Royale?
Depends I guess on your own post code.

Kentucky Avenue or The Strand,
Park Place apartments or Park Lane?
Theatre on Broadway or West End?
Luxury living or fancy hotel chain?

Reading Road or Kings Cross Station,
Ventnor Avenue or Coventry Street?
Which is the pride of their home nation?
I’d wager they both smell just as sweet.

Atlantic Avenue or Leicester Square,
Marvin Gardens or Piccadilly?
Would you wish to shop here or there?
Or am I being just plain silly?

The game’s the same either side of the pond
Full of guile and cunning, and just plain greed,
Which is why I am hopeless and cannot respond,
I much prefer Scrabble I have to concede.

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I am pleased to announce that my first collection of poetry, Tickled by the Turning Tide: The Folkestone Poems will be published on 6th April 2023.

When I was first taken on holiday by my parents to Folkestone at the age of ten, I could never have thought that, more than half a century later, I would not only return to the town to live but be publishing a book of poetry inspired by it.

All thirty three verses reflect my adopted coastal home, covering key moments in the town’s history, from its fishing heritage to its role as a port of embarkation for war, and from its period as a fashionable seaside resort, which welcomed royalty and writers, to its decline and subsequent regeneration as an art and dining destination.

I also explore aspects of modern living in a town that is changing rapidly.

Since I moved here with my wife in 2016, I have not only written and performed my poetry in a variety of locations, including coffee houses, bars and even on the steep, cobbled Old High Street, but also created and run a successful series of literary evenings, initially as a lockdown solution but still going strong after three years, and delivered award winning walking tours of the local area.

The official launch will take place at Folklore on Tuesday 11th April 2023 at 7pm, at which I will be signing copies and reading a handful of the poems.

I will also be delivering more readings at the Steep Street Coffee House on Thursday 4th May in the coming weeks in addition to running walking tours on 22nd and 26th April to promote the collection.

The book will retail at £10.99 in the UK (USA £12.99) but, for the first two months, I will be offering it at the discount price of £8. For those living in and around Folkestone, I will be happy to deliver or arrange collection. I will also be delighted to sign the book (for those wanting its value to diminish immediately!).

It will also be available for sale from 1st May  at the Folkestone Bookshop, Town Hall/Musuem, Steep Street Coffee House and The Great British Shop on the Old High Street. I am currently negotiating with other outlets to do the same. If you have any questions in the meantime or wish to purchase a copy once it is available, please either message me on one of my social media platforms or email me at tonyquarrington@msn.com.

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