Being Over-ambitious

It all seemed such a good idea. I had aready in the past coupld of weeks walked to Dover and then walked Dover to Folkestone; so why not combine them and walk from the house into Folkestone? The total distance was something like 15 miles, and included hikes up and down cliffs, angry sheep and spring squalls. But, what the hell, it should be easy, right?

So at half nince I pulled on my boots, tightened my belt another notch and headed out the door into bright spring sunshine. I called in the village shop for some frozen puff pastry; not for an unusual snack, but I planned to make a new recipe that night; chicory and Stilton tart and lets be honest, puff pastry isn't easy to make. Anyway, it would defrost on the walk. What could go wrong?One thing I don't like about St Margarets-at-Cliffe is that it does have ideas above its station. It does like to think itself as posh; thats before we moved of course. But the way to the cliffs and South Foreland Lighthouse is along Soth Foreland Road, which proclaims itself to be a private road. In that light just how much passing trade those who own the house up for letting were going to get at being so unfriendly.

So, I strode off past the slightly grand houses with slight sea views which cost up to £250,000 more than a normal house in the area. If they've got the money why not?



But soon I was going through the scubland and woodland to the lighthouse and where I knew the views would be stunning. THere is a narrow path beside the lighthouse, and that opens out onto the wide clifftop which heads off south west in the direction of Dover.



The light was stunning, as the spring sunshine cast wonderful colours and shapes over the country; and way down below ferries crossed the 23 miles to Calias just out of view in the haze.



I dodged the crowds and car parks at the Nation Trust's White Cliffs Experience higher above the path, and looked down on the busy ferry terminal and docks way down below.

Sadly to get back to the cliffs to the south of Dover means walking right through the town.But this was good as black rainclouds gathered, and as the rain fell i dived into a sandwich shop for a chicken tikka sub with salad and a large Americano. And right on cue as I finished lunch the sun came out.

The longest climb of the day is out of Dover up Shakespeare Cliff whch rises like a chalky wave over the Englaish Channel. The footpath goes right along the edge of the cliff, with a sheer drop down to rocks and the sea below. Wonderful views of Dover Harbour and to the cliffs beyond did make the climb worthwhile. In all, on the cliffs, I passed just four people, which made for plenty of time to think about life and the journey I made to get here from being a simple giblet stuffer back in Suffolk 25 years ago.



Near to Folkestone I chose the path down onto the beach along a stretch called The Warren. The path is not well maintained, and very steep with rotten steps to climb down. My old knees were not happy about it, but soon enough I was down and walking along beside the sea with the white cliffs dazzling white in the sunshine against the deep blue sky.



At the end of the beach, there was no clear path up to the golf course accross which the I knew the way into Folkestone was. I follwed a series of paths until once particular steep one ended in a bramble thicket with me all covered in scratches and ripped clothes.And then the rain came again.

I called Jools and after stopping laughing she told me to go back on the beack to the fot of a steep climb and there would be a path.

Promise.

So, once again through the brmables and rusty barbed wire I climbed down and sure enough there was a path. It was at this point my legs realy began to grumble, and those last few steps up to the 9th green were the hardest.

Jools said she would leave at four to come and collect me; but I thought I would walk a little way into town to find a pub. It all looked a little unpromsing for a while, and then I saw a huge white painted place called The Coach house, only to find it was closed for repainting. However, opposite was The Raglan, a tiny bar in which the counter took half the space, but a fine range of beers and spirits. I felt I earned the pint of Stella and in three gulps it was gone. Jools rang, she was outside.

Back home I cooked the halved chicory heads in caramlised butter before putting them in the pastry covered in Stilton and cooking for 25 minutes. It really was another triumph, even if I say so myself.

And then me and my legs settled on the sofa for a night of Radcliffe and Maconie on the radio and watching the Liverpool game on TV whilst being covered in cats.

Bliss.