Tuesday 17th December 2024

So, here we are at Dover Priory again. This time before dawn, as the keen wind had brought frequent rain showers, and I had no desire to sit and huddle in a shelter on the sea front in such weather, watching dawn come up over the Channel.

So, instead, I got Jools to drop me off at the station and I head north, as the weather was less windy in the north of the country, and drier too.

I arrived, bought my ticket and just made it onto the waiting Javelin to whisk me north.

On the downside, leaving so early meant paying peak fare, so it goes.

The train filled up with the bleary eyed office workers and executives as we headed norther to that London, though I would be going no further north than Ebbsfleet.

With just a few seats remaining, I clambered off the train as it pulled into the old International Station. I guess I haven't been here since about 2017 when I used to have to go to Leuven for meetings with the customer.

I say old station, its less than twenty years old, all brutalist concrete, but this is where the High Speed meets the UK Victorian infrastructure, a few hundred yards further on the wires stop and we join the north Kent Line.

The escalator has been out of service for some weeks, still is broken, so I take the lift up to the concourse, past the now abandoned Eurostar entrance and check in desk. Out the doors, and up a wide flight of steps to the platforms built on the flyover.

I had four minutes before my train was due to take me the three miles to my destination.

I guess, were it not for a certain historical figure, fewer people would visit Gravesend that do now.

The town sits on the branks of the brown Rover Thames, several hundred metres wide at this point, opposite the Port of Tilbury in that Essex.

Once upon a time, pilots used to leave their station in the town to guide ships up the river to the Port of London, and I think still do, though few ships now go beyond Dartford.

Leading down to the river is a find old street, High Street, cobbled and lines with old shops and places to eat, drink and be merry. And at the bottom, between two pub, the river and the Essex bank of the river can be seen.

To get to High Street means walking through the modern part of the town, all 60s and 70s retail units and shops, at eight in the morning all closed and unlit.

I found a place to have breakfast, and so having ordered watched the numerous omnibuses leaving on the main road out of town for exotic places like Dartford, Northfleet and Ebbsfleet.

My fry up arrived, and entertained by the Danny Dyer soundalike behind me, I tuck in.

So, why was I here, in Gravesend?

Well, some legends, some stories are based on facts, real events, real people, and sometimes there is evidence that shows they really happened.

Pocahontas was a real person, but unlike in fairy tales or the movies, there is no happy ending.

Coming to England when she was only 22, married to John Rolfe, she was taken ill as their ship left London to return to Virginia, they put ashore at Gravesend, but she sadly died.

She was buried, so it is said, under the chancel of the church. That church burned down soon after, but as it was on the same site with the chancel in roughly the same place, a memorial tablet was erected, and it is there today.

There is also a statue in the graveyard, but isn't particularly attractive and possibly seems to be rather "wild west" than anything. But the statue is signposted from the station, through the town, so people must come to see it.

I mean, I did.

The other reason is that Kent is a large and varied county, I have not churchcrawled up here for over a decade, so I made arrangements for the church to be open, and here I was. Am.

Only, my early start, and even with an extended breakfast, I had two hours to kill.

I sat outside listening to podcasts, but got colder and colder. Until at just after half eleven, I sought warmth and refreshment in the tea shoppe on High Street.

I ordered a scone with a cup of tea, but what came was a cream tea. A pot of tea, milk, a large warm scone, a small pot of jam and a tub of clotted cream.

Now, there is some arguments whether the jam or cream goes on the scone first, growing up it was always jam first, which is the "Devon way", the "Cornish Way" is cream first.

Either way it is good.

And this was too.

Down to the waterside, where there were two still closed pubs, one looked like it might still be an actual pub, and beyond the now closed ferry terminal for the foot passenger only Gravesend Ferry which took foot passengers to the delights of Tilbury until the service ceased in March of this year.

The pier was open, but deserted.

It was time to go to the church, and I was greeted warmly by Jim, the Vicar, and Sue who was my substitute contact after Neil fell ill.

I was made to feel very welcome, and I spoke to most of the congregation who were then leaving the service.

So, after talking and shaking hands, I went round taking my shots. Jim also showed me where Pocahontas's memorial was, as I am never too sure whether it is good in view of people to approach the altar.

I get my shots and am done.

It is just before one, so I decide enough is enough and I would go home, and get there before dark.

The shopping area was busy, which is good to see, even if one woman viewed me with camera with suspicion.

I arrived at the station to find I had a three minute wait for a train to Ebbsfleet, and once then I walked to the International station where in 5 more minutes a train arrived to take me to Ashford.

Five minutes there, and the last train of the day took me via all stations to Dover. Outside, the same taxi driver as yesterday brought me home, dropping me off on Station Road, leaving me with a short walk back to Chez Jelltex.

The cats were happy with two handfuls of kitty kibbles, then went back to sleep, so I put the kettle on for a brew.

Jools was bringing home chips, so no dinner to prepare, just review my shots and listen to some music.

I put plates in the oven to warm, as otherwise the fried food goes coold too quick, and keep the kettle on a rolling brew, so that once Jools does arrive back, make the brews, dish up and carry it all through to the living room, all in a couple of minutes.

We have battered sausage each, as the fish seems to go soggy and limp, while the bangers are fresh and crispy.

After washing up and making brews, there was an evening of football, with three League Cup quarter finals to watch and/or listen to.

I drink wine as I listen, so that come half ten, I went to bed and slept straight through for eight hours.