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Posts Tagged ‘Folkestone Harbour’


Talk given to the Folkestone is a Library: The Power of Reading Together” event at the Quarterhouse in Folkestone on Thursday 7th May 2026.

Thank you, Sophie and the team for inviting me to talk this evening. I am thrilled to be associated with this exciting project.

I had contemplated showing a series of slides, but after 30 years of delivering Powerpoint and similar presentations, I thought I would stick to just talking to my subject this evening.

After all, if the King can talk for 37 minutes without visual aids, I’m sure I can manage 10.

………………………………….

I moved to Folkestone (not quite from London) almost 10 years ago and have watched its reputation as a major arts destination grow exponentially.

But I have always felt that literature was the poor relation in the local creative scene, despite the outstanding work done by Poets’ Corner, Write by the Sea and many other groups and individuals.

I started the walks in 2017, focusing initially on The Leas, Creative Quarter and the Harbour and Seafront.

In the following years I added tours of the East Cliff, West End, Bayle, Sandgate and even the Town Centre (as part of the Levelling Up initiative) as well as those themed on Art, Literature and the town’s rock and roll heritage.

I should take this opportunity to put in a plug for the next free rock and roll tour this coming Saturday as part of the Music in May programme. Join me at 10.30am in Noel’s Yard aka Market Square for 2 hours exploring the blue plaques, Wall of Fame and reliving concerts and other events related to those.

………………………………..

But back to the literary tours.

Prior to researching Folkestone’s literary history, I was certainly conscious of H.G. Wells’ close connection to the area, and being from Rochester, of Dickens’s affinity with the town (far greater I might add then Broadstairs with whom he is more often linked), but little else.

I subsequently learnt that not only has Folkestone been the birthplace of a host of writers, but for the past 183 years since the coming of the railway, it has welcomed many others en route to and from the Continent, some of whom have left their observations on the town.

On the tours you will encounter both.

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I didn’t realise, for instance, that one of my favourite writers, a Nobel Prize winner no less as well as the only one ever to play first class cricket, actually spent 2 weeks here in 1961. I suspect many of you know to whom I’m referring – but if you don’t, I’m not going to tell you now – you’ll need to come on a tour!

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So, what do the tours entail?

We meet at the Step Short Arch and weave our way through the town via Albion Villas, the parish church, the Bayle, Old High Street, Harbour and Harbour Station and along the seafront to the Zig Zag Path where we return to the Leas.

If nobody is looking, we might also sneak a peek at the Road of Remembrance! And if you have the stamina, we can walk through to Sandgate, where Wells lived for almost a decade, before returning to the starting point.

Along the route, we make regular stops where I read relevant extracts from writers associated with that particular location. The latest author count is 12, though I am always looking for additional material.

The reopening of the library, at least at its temporary home, in Sandgate Road on 26th of this month, will be a great help in that process.

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The tours take around three hours (more like four hours if we extend it via Sandgate), with a short break or two included, and cost just £10 per person.

Whilst I will be running many other tours over the summer, I have set aside a series of dates, initially in May and June, which are listed in a pack of handouts you can collect later this evening.

I have also negotiated a free tour for Creative Folkestone members on 12th June.

………………………………….

I’ll leave you with 3 short quotes that I cover on the tours to provide you with some flavour of what they entail.

The first is from Charles Dickens and describes the impact of the tides on Folkestone Harbour, and I think you’ll agree, he could have written it today.

I should first explain that Dickens christened Folkestone Pavilionstone in honour of the Royal Pavilion Hotel, which stood on the site now occupied by the Grand Burstin.

I wonder if, a hundred years or now, a famous writer will christen Folkestone “Burstinstone” in their work!

Dickens wrote: “We are a tidal harbour at Pavilionstone. At low water, we are a heap of mud, with an empty channel in it where a couple of men in big boots always shovel and scoop: with what exact object, I am unable to say.

At that time, all the stranded fishing-boats turn over on their sides, as if they were dead marine monsters; the colliers and other shipping stick disconsolate to the mud; the steamers look as if their white chimneys would never smoke more, and their red paddles never turn again, the green sea-slime and weed upon the rough stones at the entrance, seem records of obsolete high tides never more to flow; the flagstaff-halyards droop; the very little wooden lighthouse shrinks in the idle glare of the sun.

But, the moment the tide begins to make, the Pavilionstone Harbour begins to revive. It feels the breeze of the rising water before the water comes, and begins to flutter and stir. When the little shallow waves creep in, barely overlapping one another, the vanes at the mastheads wake, and become agitated. As the tide rises, the fishing-boats get into good spirits and dance, the flagstaff hoists a bright red flag, the steamboat smokes, cranes creak, horses and carriages dangle in the air, stray passengers and luggage appear.”

And it goes on.

…………………………………….

The second comes from Kipps. the novel by H.G. Wells which references many locations in Folkestone and beyond. This particular piece describes Kipps’ exciting Sunday exploits:

“On Sundays he was obliged to go to church once, and commonly he went twice, for there was nothing else to do. He sat in the free seats at the back; he was too shy to sing, and not always clever enough to keep his place in the Prayer-book, and he rarely listened to the sermon.

In the intervals between services he walked about Folkestone with an air of looking for something. Folkestone was not so interesting on Sundays as on week-days, because the shops were shut; but on the other hand, there was a sort of confusing brilliance along the front of The Leas in the afternoon…….

He would sometimes walk up and down The Leas between twenty and thirty times after supper, desiring much the courage to speak to some other person in the multitude similarly employed. Almost invariably he ended his Sunday footsore”.

…………………………………….

The final extract is from the late Robert Morley, actor and raconteur, who is likely to be more familiar to those in the room, like myself, of a certain age.

Morley spent much of his childhood in Folkestone due to ill health where he was constantly wheeled around in his sailor suit in a bath chair.

He claimed that “if there’s one thing young people lack today….it is Folkestone standards. It may well be what’s wrong with the country. No child brought up as I was in Folkestone and Kensington Gardens ever felt the need of a psychiatrist”.

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Thank you.

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Waves sweep through railway arches

And Rip Tide and Isabella,

Sea Warrior and Connemara,

Long time inner basin residents,

Swing and sway

To a soaring seagull symphony.

Folkestone’s Marmite building too

Comes to life once more;

Buses from Runcorn, Rhyl and Redcar

Offload oversized congregations,

Suitcases outnumbered by

Disability impedimenta.

The quayside is converted

From pedestrian thoroughfare

To geriatric racetrack

As mobility scooters

Scatter unwary walkers,

While rickety zimmer frames

Clog up the wide, windowed doorway.

An elderly couple from Cleckheaton,

Weary and windswept from seafront stroll,

Stagger from harbour fish bar

To plant their tired torsos

On the refuge of roadside benches.

Weekend specials are back on the menu,

With almost every still standing Sixties star

Scheduled to perform in the coming months.

Inside, there’s not a spare seat

In the suffocating heat of the lounge bar;

Tables are laden with leftover sandwiches

And half empty glasses of gassy beer;

Debate lurches from Covid controls

To rabid rants about refugees,

Inflamed by hate-filled headlines

In the crumpled copies of the

Daily Mail and Daily Express

Left lying on abandoned chairs.

Another bus, bound for Margate,

Sandwich, Canterbury or Chatham,

Parks outside to await the sedentary rush

From couch to coach in thirty seconds;

Its passengers forsaking Folkestone

No sooner than they have arrived,

Only to return to eat and sleep tonight

Before escaping again to towns

No more deserving of their patronage.

Dover Docks and Cap Gris-Nez

Lurk somewhere beyond the growing gloom;

What catastrophes might be unfolding

On that slim, unstable stretch of water?

A headless chicken on Rocksalt’s roof

Reddens and revolves in sudden frenzy,

While in the ballroom along the road

A bingo caller hollers “two fat ladies”

To a sparse but satisfied audience.

As the sun punctually dips down

Beyond the Jelly Mould Pavilion,

The receding tide meanders 

Through the East Head gateway,

And the inner harbour boats

Collapse back on their sides.

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Ever since I started my walking tours in 2017, I had wanted to combine my passion for  literature with Folkestone and Sandgate’s rich tradition of welcoming eminent writers by visiting the locations they lived in and frequented. The temporary respite in pandemic lockdown restrictions allowed me to scratch that itch in September 2020.

One of the prerequisites of a good tour is to be blessed with fine weather, and this was the case today. An added bonus was the fact that most of the guests already knew each other, which with their mutual love of literature, contributed to a relaxed and enthusiastic atmosphere.

The number of guests was restricted due to the prevalence of the “rule of six”, though we did stretch the definition to mean six guests plus the tour guide, a minor infraction at a time when the beach and coastal park were regularly inundated with large groups of visitors. 

Meeting at the Step Short Arch on the eastern end of The Leas, pride of place for the first reading went to a Nobel Prize winner, Samuel Beckett. The Irish writer’s connection to Folkestone might not be well known to many residents, but in 1961 he had stayed at the Bristol Hotel, since demolished and replaced by No. 1 The Leas, as a condition of getting married to his long term lover, Suzanne Dechevaux-Dumesnil. 

I will spare the reader every precise detail of the itinerary, other than to report that we visited more than a dozen locations. These included The Bayle, Old High Street, Folkestone Harbour, Sunny Sands, Mermaid Beach, the Riviera and Radnor Cliff, returning to the Leas, with the final reading from Wilfred Owen at the Metropole. The recently opened Lift Cafe provided a welcome refreshment stop around half way through the tour.

At each location I read an extract from a writer linked to it. In addition to Beckett, the following were represented – H.G. Wells, Charles Dickens, Wilfred Owen, Carol Ann Duffy, Thomas Ingoldsby, Jocelyn Brooke and Henry Williamson. I even slipped in a handful of my own Folkestone inspired poems, though I envisage that the inclusion of more noted authors on subsequent tours will mean a reduced role for my efforts. 

It was a huge success, lasting four hours (with the aforementioned pitstop), concluding with a drink outside Keppel’s. As an additional souvenir of the day, I provided everyone with a printed booklet, entitled A Sort of Confusing Brilliance (a quote from Kipps by H.G. Wells), containing all the readings and biographical information. 

A second tour was promptly planned for October, but it fell foul to awful weather, and any chance of an alternative date was scuppered by the subsequent lockdown. But, in 2021 it will become part of the standard package of tours.

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From Danton Farm to harbour sluice gate,

The watercourse winds down towards the sea;

Now largely hidden from the public gaze,

It still has power to harm you and me.

Beside the metal footbridge at Broadmead,

It surfaces in Lower Radnor Park,

Where it glides and ambles beneath tall trees 

That screen the glinting sun and pierce the dark.

Empty crisp packets and chocolate wrappers

Lie wedged among the stream washed rocks,

Ivy draped grotto screams neglect, 

Moss stained stones and stagnant water mock.

But, vouchsafed by Victorian forebears,

It remains a quiet refuge from the race;

Where scurrying squirrels pursue their tails

And jackdaw and magpie compete for space.

Dog walkers trudge along the muddy track

That leads to paved Pavilion Road,

And one last glimpse of curving rivulet,

By fence at foot of Red Cow garden flowed.

No more the source of fresh water for the town,

No more the driving force for Foord Road mill,  

No more the home on planks for fishing folk,

Shoved underground a shopping need to fill.

From Tontine Street via Hatch coffee house

It meets returning tide by harbour wall;

A quiet end perhaps, but still pent up threat

In times of storm and flood that may yet fall.

Sweet Mill flow softly.

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Even the gulls are taking a morning off
As I drift around the deserted harbour;
The tide is out, the sky deep blue,
And the beach warm and yielding
Under my inappropriate footwear.

Amidst this light brown desert,
Brief rivulets of muddy water
Command me to take a run
And leap to reach the
Next patch of firm dry sand.

The railway viaduct now fenced off,
The Grand Burstin and Rocksalt
Both dark and sad and empty;
And the metal gates to the Harbour Arm,
Anticipated host to thousands
Over this warm Easter weekend,
Are firmly closed.

On a morning as delicious as this,
It would have been perfect
To stroll its two concrete tiers;
But the only tears today
Are for the sick and fearful
Imprisoned in homes and hospitals
Across an anxious but resolute land.

Bob’s seafood stall and Folkestone Trawlers
Plough lone furrows on the deserted Stade,
While a pair of deep wrinkled fishermen
Lean against the chain railing and reminisce
When fish was plentiful and the ferries full.

I bound another murky stream
And lean against the pink house;
Planted in self-isolation,
Its former lustre lost too,
With peeling paintwork and ponder the fate
Of the next Triennial, triumphantly announced
Barely a month, but another lifetime, ago.

I turn the corner of the East Head
Under the rock perched orange house,
That, unlike its pink neighbour,
Has had a reviving lick of paint;
Two young girls lift their skirts,
And paddle in the gentle, shallow waves
On the incessant, incoming tide;
I cannot avoid the uncharitable suspicion –
A sign of these strange and fretful times –
That, as they giggle and jostle each other,
They may not be from the same household.

I could stay here for hours yet,
Till the water washes over my shoes,
But an insistent call of nature,
Prosaic and not infrequent visitor
To this man of a certain age,
Summons me to return swiftly
To my home by the park.

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Consigned to cold cobbles and
An orange plastic table and chair,
I wait for the coveted inside spot;
Anything will do – armchair, table with chalks,
It need not even be my favourite window seat,
I can work my way towards that
If I stay here long enough;
Watching for the slightest movement inside,
Indicating an imminent departure,
I must still keep my eyes peeled for
Later arrivals spying my space,
I am comforted, however, in the knowledge
That the staff have my back in this.

I kill the time in earnest debate
With a passing trader over whether
He should shave his beard off or not,
Twin enemies of bare patch and grey
Are sowing doubt in his anguished mind.

At least the unremitting building work
On the winding street the non-PC Dickens
Dubbed the “crippled ladder”,
Is quelled for a short blissful spell;
And I can hear the Four Tops and Marvin Gaye
Providing a soulful accompaniment
To the constant musical chairs inside.

My small cappuccino emerges in time
To warm my gloveless hands and heart,
And fend prospective boarders off at the pass
Before they dare to claim my appointed place,
Wedged between counter and disabled loo;

A large family hovers and dithers with door ajar
Over whether to wait their turn, or seek out
Alternative, but never better, coffee shops;
An impassioned argument ensues on whether
The apple crumble cake with plum compote
Is sufficient enticement to make them stay.

It is.

Errol Brown croons of his belief in miracles,
And following my brief captivity on the street,
I am now inclined to agree with him.

Another stand of lemon, almond and polenta cake,
Today’s obligatory and luscious vegan option,
Is borne on high from the kitchen downstairs,
Like a triumphant Roman emperor,
Before the plebeian hordes salivating below.

A small, blonde girl in blue denim dungarees
Sits transfixed by Peppa Pig on her iPad,
While mum ransacks more than her rightful share
Of chocolate orange cake meant for her daughter;
And a chihuahua named Molly plants itself
On the only available chair.

But then, suddenly and with no warning,
The once overcrowded interior
Thins out mysteriously;
I can only speculate that the departing hordes
Are all rushing for the Love Train
That the joyous O’Jays now sing about
Above the diminishing chatter.

But a new batch of shivering hordes
Are soon shuffling through the half open door
To take their places in the lengthening queue.
The warm, cozy, civilised atmosphere,
Delays my planned perambulation
Of the gloomy, abandoned harbour.
So I order a second small cappuccino
And that last slice of…………
Blueberry and walnut cake!

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A fearless chick loiters with intent
By Bob’s whitewashed seafood stall,
Affecting to ignore the cartons of
Whelks and cockles and lobster tails
Dispensed a few short steps away,
But pouncing on any edible debris
Unwittingly or deliberately dropped
By thoughtless human passers by.

By Pent’s red brick sluice gate
They luxuriate in a bracing shower
In muddy, minute puddles left behind
By gone, at least for now, high water;
With half an eye in the direction
Of Chummy’s charitable staff who
Discard empty shells on stony ground.

Teetering on bare, oarless rowing boats,
Or perched on piles of greying wood
Wedged deep into the hardening mud,
They pass the interminable time
Till the small crafts stir and sway again
And the sun glints on the wind blown water.

A fretful throng starts to assemble
At the end of sloping Rocksalt jetty,
Squabbling over the best viewing spot
To wait in line for the painfully slow
Incoming tide to reappear;
In the meantime, scavenging for scraps
On the Stade’s concrete harbour floor,
Disdainfully dropping bottle tops,
Dog ends and paper coffee cups.

Shrieks and cries rise in intensity
As the prodigal, once truant waves
Flood through Folkestone’s golden gate,
Between the now closed off East Head
And war ravaged remnants of South Quay.

A frantic chick chases after its mother,
Letting out a constant stream of whistles,
Pleading for a morsel of fresh fish
Now washing over its grateful feet;
But the peevish parent pecks its bobbing head
And bids it bide its time a little longer.

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This is an adaptation, and considerable shortening, of a piece I wrote a couple of years ago.

 

Mermaid Beach at Dusk

On a night like this, the Cote d’Opale
Might as well be a thousand miles away.

It is a calm, quiet, otherworldly evening
After a dank, dreary December day;
Sky and sea present an ashen canvas.
Tonight it is impossible to tell
Where one ends and the other starts.

Despite slimy conditions underfoot,
I elect to descend from
The well-lit comfort of the Leas
To the chilly Channel seashore.

Barely a whisper from the surf tonight.
I cannot even hear Matthew Arnold’s
“Grating roar of pebbles
Which the waves draw back”,
So faint is nature’s melody this evening.

Across town, an artwork springs to mind,
Above Tontine Street’s old post office
Proclaims that heaven is a place
Where nothing ever happens.

Because nothing is happening tonight
In this desolate speck of paradise.

But then, everything is happening.

To the east, the lighthouse blinks
Through the thick, enfolding gloom;
A tuneless, abandoned church bell
Hangs silently suspended above
Where once stood rotunda, swimming pool,
Boating lake and fairground rides.

A dalmatian puppy snuffles among
The seaweed encrusted pebbles
On the dark shoreline, while its
Fretful owner punctures the peace
With impassioned and fruitless pleas
To follow her back across the beach,
To the refuge of her Range Rover.

A lone fisherman sets out his stall
For what appears a long night ahead,
Reminding me of all night sessions
With my teddy boy uncle fifty years ago,
On the shingle beach at Dungeness.

I wonder now why I ever went,
I was never interested in fishing!

Pastel hued beach chalets are now
Padlocked up for the winter,
Along with the Mermaids Cafe Bar,
Welcome pit stop on the promenade
From Folkestone to its upstart neighbours,
Sandgate, Seabrook and “posh” Hythe.

I defy anyone to assert that they
Do not like to be “beside the seaside”;
And I look forward to a first full summer
Season in my coastal home next year.

However, it is at moments like this,
With the cold, dark sea alone for company,
When enjoyment is such a feeble word
To evoke the effect of this magical place;
I can only equate it to a profound love,
Both infatuation and long term comfort.

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From centuries of slog and slime,
From Pent and Channel battered,
A sleepy, careworn fishing village
Today becomes a town that matters.

Herring, mackerel, crabs and sole
Now make their way to Billingsgate,
And fetch a price not seen before
The railway raised flat Folkestone’s fate.

Sun, with constant bedfellow, breeze,
Smiles on the arrival of the first class fares,
While locals rush to harbour viewing points
From auction sheds that plied their wares.

The first wave of “down from Londoners”
Steps from gleaming horse drawn coach
That brought them from a makeshift station
In lieu of soon to be rail track approach.

A boisterous band blares out the latest hits
Of Wagner, Chopin, Strauss and Liszt,
As crinolined ladies, with handbags and fans,
Tease gentlemen whose advances they resist.

Steam powered Water Witch, focal point
Of this auspicious day, adjoins the quay,
And nervous passengers clamber aboard
In clothes unsuited for a swelling sea.

But the water’s calm and the crossing smooth
As guns and flags bid travellers adieu,
In three hours, on Boulogne’s teeming dock,
An even louder band greets guests and crew.

Now, La Marsellaise and God save the Queen
Salute the excited but exhausted crowd,
A necessary triumph for entente cordiale,
Two towns so far, but now so near, made proud.

In Folkestone, normal service is resumed,
Men mend nets and women cook and clean,
Habitual chores for o’er a thousand years,
Yet a smaller, faster, world can now be seen.

 

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(10 am, Steep Street Coffee House)
Only two people,
It’s ninety degrees out there,
I’m an OAP
And I don’t need the money.

I really can’t be arsed;
I think I’ll just order
Another pot of Earl Grey.

(checking phone)
Please let there be a new message
Saying they can’t make it.
I do wish their car would break down,
Or they can’t find the bottom of the Old High Street
Where we are scheduled to meet.
Or – wash my mouth – one of them is taken ill.

Damn……no messages.

What’s wrong with me?
I whinge and whine
About people not turning up,
And then when I get bookings
I can’t be bothered!

But wait a minute.

I’m a pro,
I can’t let them down.

And it’s time,
I can’t get out of this.

Right…..deep breaths,
Big smile.
Let’s do this.

Sigh.

(Three hours later, back in Steep Street Coffee House, knackered and sunburnt)

Well, that was great!
What a nice couple,
Showed a real interest,
Even laughed at my lame jokes.

So what do I do now?

Well, that’s obvious,
A beer and a toasted sandwich.

But then what?
The day is still young.
Go home, flake out
And watch some crap tv?

Or stumble into a bar
For another beer?

Wander round the harbour?
Oh no, I’ve just done that.

Promote the next tour?
No it’s too soon.

Throw myself off the East Head?
Now that would be reckless.

Jump around in Chummy’s fountain?
No, I might get arrested for that.

No, what I need to do is another tour.

Now.

I wonder if I can find another couple.

No, I can’t be arsed.

Beer it is then.

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