Of course, everyone has heard of Louis Bleriot and his flight. And so to mark the centenary, Dover council saw fit to organise a celebration of sorts, and that was to take place on the day of the centenary.
What they did fail to do was to plan in time and so not have any decent air displays, host the main part of the celebrations in a private school where people could be charged £10 to enter the grounds. And then have a celebration meal somewhere out of private eye where local politicians could mix with the great and good chomping away at a meal costing £250 plus drinks.
We didn't go.
The fly past began at nine in the morning, and after a few scattered microlights flew over from France a whole lot of nothing happened for a few hours. A lone Spitfire flew over, and mid-afternoon a Lancaster swooped down. At seven, the Red Arrows flew over in formation.
And left again.
No display.
And at a quarter past ten there was a fireworks display; but we were home and although tried to spot the fireworks above the cliffs, saw nothing and so went to bed.
Rock and roll.
That is the official celebrations; here's how we spent the day..........
I awoke Saturday morning, literally bouncing out of bed and fed the cats, put the coffee machine on and made ready for the full day ahead. There was no putting it off, and so we were heading towards Tesco sometime before half seven, and with our list we ran round throwing stuff we thought we needed. And back home in time for breakfast, put the shopping away and be ready for going back out, this time into the crowds, by nine.
We decided to head to the National Trust place on the white cliffs and walk down the path into the town if we felt the need to see what the fair or fete or whatever it was being called.
There were still lots of parking places, and we got a prime slot and walked to the edge of the cliffs to see what was going on/
A whole lot of nothing.
Or nothing unusual. Being the start of school holidays, the port was packed and the queues were out back onto the A20, but we were above all that, and the tannoy announcements had a sort of surreal nature to them. Ferries hurried back and forth, and were loaded and unloaded. Other early arrivees had brought picnics, tables, kitchen sinks and the such.
A few tiny planes stuttered across the channel; we walked down to the prom and where the action was. Or wasn't.
As is usual, the fair or fete was filled witht he usual tat; a stall selling nothing but water pistols. Sorry two stalls selling nothing but water pistols. Inflatable nuclear bombers; yup, we had those. And all the other stuff; donut stalls, ice cream vans, tea stalls, fish and chips, kiss me quick, inflatable slides. Oh, there was everything.
We stopped and had a bacon butty with a cuppa and watched the world go by. I took pictures and was happy.
We walked to the end of the prom and then turned round and walked back. Up the steps and back to the car.
We went home. for lunch.
A Spitfire flew over.
Grrrrr.
We decided to go to a quiet bit of the cliffs nearby where we would have a great view of any aircraft flying along the cliffs.
As we drove to the cliffs, the Lancaster flew over sounding all big and impressive.
We looked at the boughs of threes and imagined what it looked like.
On the cliffs, we had a great view.
Of sky and clouds. The wind blew and we got chilly. We tried to read The Times, but the wind made it hard. We silently agreed to go home, and a seaplane did aerobatics over us as we walked back to the car.
I cooked steak whilst Jools went to a chippie for chips, and we had a splendid dinner and afterwards we sat outside as an unseen plane did aerobatics somewhere. On the dot of seven, the Red Arrows and their French counterparts did a play past and kept on going. We were disappointed; we can only imagine how sad the children were at waiting all day for a 20 second view of nine aircraft heading home.
I poured some more wine.
At ten fifteen the fireworks started, but from our back room we could see nothing; and so we went to bed.
Sunday, we had a banquet of things to choose to do; but we chose to go for a ramble. That it began and ended in our own village meant we really should have gone on it. And in the end we enjoyed it, and found some unexplored and quiet parts of the village. Met some new people and walked along the cliffs some.
After lunch we went to a village fete about 5 miles out of Dover at a village called Coldred; there were cars, tractors, animals, stalls, beer tents and the usual there. I took loads of pictures and we had a great time. How much better it seemed organised, and how much better it was for being low key.
Having bought half a cow, we had only eaten half the steaks the night before. I made beef Wellington for Sunday night, and a veritable triumph it turned out to be.
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