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Posts Tagged ‘Tony Quarrington poet’


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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I sit in coffee shops, 

That’s what I do,

Sometimes outside, 

To take in the view.

There I write poems 

Or post updates online,

To let my friends know 

That I’m doing fine.

I might have a big breakfast

Or occasionally brunch,

And if I stay long enough,

It might stretch to lunch.

Cappuccino, no chocolate,

Is my customary drink,

But after two or three,

I can’t hear myself think.

So I revert to a pot

Of refreshing Earl Grey,

Instead of just leaving,

It allows me to stay.

I quite like the quiet,

But am up for a natter,

With anybody else

There for that matter.

If I’m using my laptop

Which is not that robust,

To keep it performing

A wall socket’s a must.

Django’s and Steep Street

Are my regular haunts,

Eleto and the Hideaway,

And Brown’s on my jaunts.

I love Bobbies too

In the old harbour station,

And the literate Lift Cafe

By the regeneration. 

There are a few others

I sometimes frequent,

But not conducive to writing,

So my time’s not well spent.

I sit in coffee shops, 

That’s what I do,

Sometimes outside, 

To take in the view.

,

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Seagull, seagull sitting on a roof,

Seagull, seagull, resting and aloof.

No care in the world, so it would seem,

Silent and still, as if in a dream.

Meanwhile, in the cafe down below,

A full English breakfast is on show.

In fifteen minutes, the meal is done,

Save for some toast and piece of bacon.

The customer pays and walks away

While the seagull contemplates his prey.

Before the server can clear the table first ,

The seagull has swiftly done his worst.

Cutlery and crockery deafeningly clattered,

Adjoining seats and tables ketchup splattered. 

Bacon and slice of toast gripped in his beak,

The gull retreats with triumphant shriek.

Soon peace and quiet return to the scene,

An Eggs Royale is ordered, all is serene.

But………….

Seagull, seagull sitting on a roof,

Seagull, seagull, resting and aloof.

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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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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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The situation as it stands
Is stay at home and wash your hands;
Shop only for essential needs
And exercise with dogs on leads;
Keep your distance, at least six feet,
And make no plans with friends to meet;
Do those jobs you have left for long,
Practice new skills or write a song;
Home school the children, if you can,
Sit in the garden, get a tan;
Spend more time in your living room,
Watch a film or connect on Zoom;
Do what works for you all the while,
But through this anxious time, still smile.

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With resident white mallard
On a seasonal sabbatical,
A newly arrived black cormorant
Struts and preens on the central island
Of Radnor Park’s fishing lake,
While ravenous pigeons wrestle
Over scarce, illicit bread stocks.

No more anglers cast silent floats
On the teeming duck infested waters;
No rods and bait filled baskets
Bestrew the narrow concrete path,
Forcing me to trudge through
The muddied grassy verge
As a pair of greedy gulls stamp
Feet to tantalise tender worms.

A limpid sun shines apologetically
Above the mock Tudor tea rooms;
Nurses from near minor injury unit
Snatch fag breaks on the corner
Where discarded dog ends,
And twigs from overhanging trees,
Entice the ducks into mistaking
Them for a flavoursome breakfast,
(The fags and twigs, not the nurses).

After a day when few people pass
To witness the birdlife bedlam,
Dusk descends on a noiseless scene,
And a serene moon declines
Over Cheriton Road rooftops;
And in the littered concrete shelter,
Where youths habitually congregate
To drink and smoke and lark about,
There is neither light nor sound,
No need here for an enforced curfew.

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As the dread death toll still rises,
The public debate turns to when
We can come out of this crisis,
Be granted to walk free again.

Experts speak of apex and curve,
Reaching one, flattening the other,
Before we even have the nerve
To our former world uncover.

If we relax restrictive rules
Of business law and social life,
Is it a recipe for fools
To circulate more viral strife?

Might social distance still be right
To minimise exchange of breath?
Will my plain croissant and flat white
Be worth the price of pain and death?

We must think carefully what’s best,
Heed the need for work and wealth,
Saunter in the summer sun blessed,
Only hand in hand with good health.

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When this is over,
Will we still display humility,
And value the simple things
We have, rather than strive
Aimlessly, shamelessly for more?

We can,
But will we?

When this is over,
Will we still show the respect,
Gratitude and appreciation
For those once unregarded folk
Who keep us safe and healthy?

We can,
But will we?

When this is over,
Will we still show empathy,
Tolerance and compassion,
Qualities mislaid in recent years,
For those less fortunate?

We can,
But will we?

When this is over,
Will we still relish nature’s gifts?
Listen to the thrilling birdsong,
Smell the spring blossom,
And nurture our fragile planet?

We can,
But will we?

When this is over,
Will we still view the world afresh,
And accept our true place in it,
As mutual partners, not masters,
And, by doing so, secure our future?

We can,
But will we?

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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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