Sunday 27th September 2026

Just over a week ago, a couple decided to set fire to the Hotel Grand Burstin in Folkestone.

A lot of the lower levels were badly damaged, and smoke and scorch marks could be seen outside.

Though we had not been. And enough time had passed, we thought, so that we were not vultures or something, so we could go to funky Folkestone, have a walk and take some pictures.

Being a Sunday, we could lay in the six, then once up, feed the cats, have coffee before leaving for the gym.

Where we both do 50 minutes, but whether it was cooler or we are a little fitter, not so humid, so not so sweaty.

I listened to the 606 podcast, broadcast on Friday, where most Citeh fans are in denial, but fans of other clubs are in a quiet rage.

Back out to the car, and away. Driving along the Alkham Valley, and into Folkestone down the old A20, then down Tram Road to the car park near the harbour.

I ambles over the crossing, then up the steps onto the old Harbour Branch, this was pretty much the only way as the road past the hotel is still closed, and has security restricting access.

From the old railway line, there was little obvious damage, until you looked closely at the entrance, where to the left of it, the damage is most severe.

Then around on the east side, fire had licked up the sides of the building, and smoke filled the stairway, the glass now black.

It is unclear how serious, if any, the damage is. Some people living nearby still can't return to their homes.

We walk on through the old station and beyond onto the harbour arm, but all eateries were still closed, opening at ten it seemed, still over an hour away.

So we turned round and walked back over to the harbour, back to the old level crossing, then back up the line to the steps, before returning to the car.

Back home then, through Capel and onto the A20 into Dover.

Traffic was light, so we cruised along Townwall Street, then up Jubilee Way to home.

But not before stopping at Westcliffe to look for more sloes. We got about another pound, some might have even been bullaces as they were so large.

We got back at half nine, time to have a brew and breakfast, before I got down to the serious business of preparing Sunday dinner.

Sunday dinner is roast beef, roast potatoes, Yorkshire puddings, steamed vegetables and lashings of gravy.

It requires planning, a timeline to keep to, so that I would dish up at half two, once Jen had arrived, and we could eat well.

Better than well.

And I cracked open the last bottle of red wine from our trip to France, a magnum of Bordeaux 2019, not a grand vin, but good enough.

None of us could finish our dinners, and after a long pause, Jools and Jen washed up, while I rested.

It was a total triumph.

We didn't eat again that day, and went to bed at eight, still full.