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Posts Tagged ‘The Leas’


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.

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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.

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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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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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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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Concrete and cranes now bestride the beach

Beneath Decimus Burton’s gracious Leas;

The shrieks of gulls and lapping waves,

Reassuring melodies of the seafront scene,

Are now drowned by the discordant notes 

Of drill and digger, hammer and pick.

Switchback and swimming pools,

Pier, putting green and amusement rides,

Once the joyous heart of local life,

All now just bittersweet memories,

Mourned on social media sites.

In their place, behind the boardwalk,

Another emblem of an earlier time,

A new, brighter world is taking shape 

On shell and shifting shingle ground.  

The red and white cars of the lift

Lie almost side by side, stalled 

And halfway up the dormant track,

Impatient for the flats to rise

And hasten their own resurrection. 

I loiter outside the waiting room,

Now popular pitstop on the promenade,

With a vegan sausage roll in my hand

And dust in my cappuccino.

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Walking on the Leas has the same appeal
As ever it did when Alice Keppel strolled
Its green sward with her philandering king.

But this morning, there’s an unfamiliar feel,
The world has changed, grown frail and dull and cold,
Though the blue sky screams out the start of Spring.

The peace along the path seems so surreal,
People keeping their distance, young and old,
As waves crash beneath and the small birds sing.

Nature mocks mankind’s poor attempts to heal,
Bright sunshine sends the wind and rain on hold,
Our latest disobedience our last fling.

Enjoy the sun, stay as long as you can,
You may get ill, but also get a tan.

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Woke up this morning,
Got the Folkestone lockdown blues;
Woke up this morning,
Got the Folkestone lockdown blues;
Craving a full English breakfast
But no place left for me to choose.

Went strolling along the Leas,
For my approved exercise;
Went strolling along the Leas,
For my approved exercise;
Looking for my ten o’clock coffee fix,
But no place open, I tell no lies. .

Went shopping for a toilet roll,
Just one would do for now, no more;
Went shopping for a toilet roll,
Just one would do for now, no more;
Searching high and low around the town,
But not a single sheet in any store.

So I think I’d better stay home now,
As the politicians instruct me to;
So I think I’d better stay home now,
As the politicians instruct me to;
I’ve got eggs, bacon and coffee there,
But for toilet rolls I’ll just make do.

Woke up this morning,
Got the Folkestone lockdown blues;
Woke up this morning,
Got the Folkestone lockdown blues;
Craving a full English breakfast
But no place left for me to choose.

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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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Perambulators and parasols parade
On new mown and manicured lawn
Designed by Decimus Burton,
From polo field and pasture hewn.

“Finest marine promenade in the world”,
The guidebook effusively lays claim;
Hard to argue on this glorious morn
When sea and sky look just the same.

The guests arrive by lift and carriage,
Depending on their wealth and style
To acclaim a marvel of the modern age,
A red brick vision to make them smile.

Crowds congregate on Madeira Walk,
Path forged from latest cliff slide,
While builder Baker, spurned by Metropole
Admires his handiwork with rightful pride.

The band plays a medley of popular tunes,
From jazz, music hall and ragtime,
Like When We Were Two Little Boys,
And In the Good Old Summertime.

Albert Burvill, in new blue uniform,
Sends packing gatecrashers from the town,
Craving a peek at the rich folk’s party,
Now turned away by copper’s frown.

But they will get their chance another day
To press their noses to the Monkey Cage,
And watch their King among his court
Feast and roar on this most public stage.

Metropole management looks on
At the rival Radnor vowed not to build,
Contemplating legal action
Against violation of its private field.

Pavilion, Burlington, Majestic,
Metropole and now the Grand,
Fashionable Folkestone is all the rage
At harbour and on cliff top land.

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Rare town of Radnor and Rotunda,
Rowland’s rock shop and remembrance;
Even on this cold February morning
You have the power to enchant;
Strange Cargo’s Luckiest Place on Earth
Is not confined to the Central station.
Newly planted winter flowers,
Primrose and snowdrop, cyclamen and crocus,
Defy the bitter wind and freezing hail
On stately Leas and Kingsnorth Gardens.

Mouldering Martello wall,
Bonaparte’s mighty adversary,
Squints out across the grey blue sea,
Searching for our Cap Griz Nezbour;
While the cliffs, slowly, surreptitiously
Slide into the stirring sea below,
Where foreign fossil hunters trip
Among the seaweed and precarious rocks,
Exposed by low tide’s obligatory return.

Opening Day still six weeks ahead, the
Harbour Arm remains a magical spot;
“Gormley” winks across the harbour entrance
At doughty mermaid on dog-filled Sunny Sands;
Cormorants, gulls and a solitary fisherman,
Usurping the space where chairs and tables
For champagne drinkers will soon occupy,
Complete this noiseless, bracing scene.

Pieces of art, products of a reimagined town,
Embellish our streets and promenades,
Making honorary Folkestone folk of
Tuttofuoco, Coley and Tracey Emin,
Wallinger, Ruth Ewan and Yoko Ono.
The Living Advent Calendar and Pride,
Triennial, Charivari and Book Festival,
All further proof of energy and wit
That far exceeds its scale and reputation.

Food town no less than Art town,
Bridge breakfasts, Brew freakshakes,
And Beano’s griddled sandwiches
Tantalise my morning tastebuds;
While Marley’s and the Cliffe, Rocksalt and Shayda’s,
Bloom’s, Luben’s, El Diamante and Conchita’s,
To name but just a tempting few,
Contend for my evening custom.

More than half a century your admirer,
Even through the tired, toiling times;
Recently reunited in joy and wonder,
I feel blessed to account you now my lover.

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That staple of coastal living,
The pre-dawn chorus
Of ducks and gulls,
Of pigeons and crows,
And a single menacing magpie,
Echoes across a misty Radnor Park.

Untimely ripped from a fractured slumber,
I prepare for my morning ritual
Of checking if the sea is still there
And that this is not all a dream.

Caught in a leaf storm along Castle Hill Avenue
Joni in my ears telling me
She doesn’t know where she stands,
And there it is, that ever, never changing view!
Dunkirk and Dungeness
Wink from across the water.

The Leas is rife with life this morning
Walkers, joggers, mobility scooters,
Teenagers with learning difficulties
On escorted pilgrimages around town,
From each and every one
A “good morning” or “isn’t it beautiful?”.

This is such a friendly town.

Vacant, whispering benches
Call out across the century,
Remembrance of courage and sacrifice
That allow me to wallow
In this stunning spectacle today.

As the sun begins to burn,
Parched dogs yank at leads
And stop to lap at the cool water
Filling the empty margarine boxes
Left outside the Leas Cliff Hall.

Below, on windswept Mermaid Beach,
Young children sprint into the sea,
Mindless of the pebble and shingle
That scrape and bruise their fragile feet;
But soon they head for the refuge of towels,
New victims of the unforgiving Channel chill.

Across town, on the old, cobbled street,
Where art and cake have usurped rock,
A triumvirate of weary sprucers,
Unheralded heroes of this dirty old town,
Trudge past the The Quarter Masters store
Trailing bags of indeterminate bulk.

Young men, slaves to their primal needs,
Cajole reluctant wives and girlfriends
Into lunch at Big Boys Burger;
Buggies resignedly hauled over the threshhold
Wake the sleeping child within,
Soon to shatter the peace of other diners

At the foot of the winding hill,
Gleeful children squeal with ecstasy
As the newly repaired fountains,
Wedged between pub and seafood stall,
Erupt in thrilling power shower.

Gulls squawk and squabble
Over the crab and seafood remnants
Lobbed periodically from Chummy’s staff,
Before resuming their ablutions
In inner harbour pools
Left by the receding tide.

A single gull plants itself on a table behind Bob’s
And pleads silently for a bite of my crab sandwich,
Or the family’s chips on the next bench;
A staring contest ensues as I begin to eat,
Not daring to avert my eyes for one second.

I try to rationalise with my insistent guest,
Explaining that feeding it would be cruel
But it seems unconvinced
And resumes its glare.

As I finish the last mouthful and fold the wrapping
It flaps its wings and screeches its disappointment,
Before scooting perilously past my left ear
In pursuit of more sympathetic diners.

On Sunny Sands, oblivious of mermaid stare
Dogs scamper breathlessly after balls
Hurled by owners, equally relieved
At their release from summer banishment.

I head for Steep Street,
Swiftly become my second home,
To capture this all in print;
Renewed self-confidence, even nerve
To write this down and share with you,
Another thing to thank Folkestone for,
Or is that blame?

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